Junkyard Dog
Monique Polak
orca currents
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2009 Monique Polak
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Polak, Monique
Junkyard dog / written by Monique Polak.
(Orca currents)
ISBN 978-1-55469-156-2 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-55469-155-5 (pbk.)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents
PS8631.O43J85 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-902828-X
Summary: At his new job taking care of guard dogs, Justin discovers that
the working dogs are being mistreated.
First published in the United States, 2009
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009928217
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada
through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by Elena Clamen
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.
12 11 10 09 • 4 3 2 1
For Stephen Lighter,
irresistible mischief-maker.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Acknowledgments
chapter one
Everyone else just calls him Dog. I call him Smokey. Not out loud, of course. Customers aren’t supposed to talk to him. He’s a German shepherd. He’s mostly black with some tan. His muzzle is the color of smoke. There are matted clumps on his back coat. He looks like he needs a good brushing.
The sales clerk doesn’t bother saying “hi” or “what can I get you?” His name is Pete. It says so in curly letters on his shirt pocket. Pete knows I never buy the stuff other people come in here for—soft drinks, cigarettes, a dozen eggs. I don’t shop in convenience stores. There’s no way I’d spend two bucks on a carton of milk. I only come in to drop off empties.
And to see Smokey.
I have a shopping cart, the kind old people use for groceries. I found it on the curb by our apartment. One wheel wobbles, so the cart lists a little to the right, but it’s still good for hauling empties. Today, my cart is loaded with plastic bags, each one overflowing with empties.
Pete leans over the counter to grab the bags. From the way he uses only his fingertips, you’d think he was afraid of catching cooties. That bothers me. I may not be dressed fancy, in a blue blazer like the prep-school boys, but I don’t have cooties. Of course, I don’t say anything. I need Pete.
The beer bottles make a clinking noise. There are sixty-six of them and two dozen plastic soft-drink bottles in all. Monday is recycling day, and you’d be surprised how many people put refundable bottles in their blue boxes. It helps, too, that people party on the weekend. Ten of those beer bottles are Dad’s. And that was just Friday night.
“One, two…” Pete always counts the bottles, even when I tell him how many there are. I figure he’d trust me by now, but he doesn’t. I fiddle with my baseball cap, pulling it down so it covers more of my forehead.
Pete scoops up the last bag and heads for the metal basket where they keep empties. That’s when I make my move.
First I take a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching.
No one is.
I have to be quick. Pete will only be busy for a couple of minutes.
I reach into the front pocket of my jeans. I wrapped the chunk of hamburger in plastic. I found the meat where I collect bottles in our apartment building—the garbage room downstairs, next to the garage.
I knew as soon as I smelled it that the meat was still good. I thought about Smokey straightaway. All he eats is kibble. There’s an economy-size bag of it behind the counter.
Smokey is lying on the floor underneath the cash register. His head is resting between his front legs, but I feel his sad brown eyes watching me. He is trying to decide if I mean trouble.
When I come closer, the hair on his neck stands up, and a low warning growl comes from deep in his chest. His lips curl, and I can see his teeth. They’re old and yellow, and his gums look swollen. But his legs are strong and muscular.
I peel off the plastic and toss him the hamburger. His eyes follow the chunk of meat as it makes a quick arc in the air, then lands at his front paws. He looks at me again, then over at Pete, who is still rearranging bottles. Smokey gobbles down the piece of hamburger.
He lowers his head and gives me another look. I wish I had more hamburger.
The bell on the door jingles when Mrs. MacAlear, the old lady who lives in the apartment next to ours, comes in. She nods when she sees me. Then she opens her purse and takes out a sheet of paper, waving it in the air like a flag.
“I understand you people have a photocopy machine in here. I need a copy, please,” she says in a too-loud voice.
Pete looks up from the metal basket. “Machine’s out of order.”
Mrs. MacAlear marches up to the counter. “What’s that you said? You ordered what?”
“I said the machine’s out of order.” Pete moves closer to Mrs. MacAlear and raises his voice. “We called the technician, but he still hasn’t shown up.”
“In my day,” Mrs. MacAlear says, “that sort of thing didn’t happen.”
In her day, photocopy machines hadn’t been invented.
Pete is back at the cash, counting out my money. “Seven dollars and eighty cents,” he says without looking at me.
Mrs. MacAlear smiles when she spots Smokey. “Well hello, boy,” she says as if they are old friends.
“Ma’am,” Pete says. I notice he looks at her when he speaks. “It’s best not to talk to the dog.”
“Why ever not? I used to have a German shepherd just like this one. Only mine was a little better groomed. Gustav. He was a fine—” She stops in midsentence. “Oh,” she says, sliding the paper back into her purse, “I see.”
Pete nods. “That’s right. This here’s a working dog.”
For a second, Mrs. MacAlear shuts her eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because she feels bad for Smokey—or if she misses Gustav.
“Might you know of another place where I could make a photocopy?” Mrs. MacAlear asks. She takes another look at Smokey and shakes her head.
“There’s an office supply store down the block.” Then Pete looks over at me. “What are you still doing here, kid?” He says i
t like I’m a fly he wants to swat.
“Uh,” I say, tucking the change into my back pocket, “I was just leaving.”
I want to say bye to Smokey, but I know I can’t. So I say so in my head—the way I say most things.
chapter two
I’m at the bathroom mirror, adjusting my baseball cap. If I tilt it a little to the right, but not too much, it covers all the bald spots. They’ve gotten worse lately. At first there was just thinning, but now there are a few spots the size of quarters where there’s no hair at all. Those spots seem to be getting bigger. I try not to think about it, but it’s hard. If I were a fifty-year-old guy going bald, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I’m not even fourteen yet.
“Have you seen my bank card?” Dad calls from the other room.
“Nope, I haven’t seen it.”
Dad is not listening. He is rummaging through a drawer and swearing. “Where the hell is it?” I hear him throwing stuff. That jangling sound must be his keys. He must’ve just thrown them against the wall. My body bristles. I hate when Dad loses it.
When Dad storms by the bathroom, I’m still adjusting my cap. “That hair business is all her fault. Imagine a woman abandoning her kid like that. I mean, you’re no angel, Justin. But still. It’s no wonder you’re going bald. Now where’d that damn card get to?”
Dad blames Mom for the trouble with my hair. I don’t know if it’s true, or if he just likes blaming her for stuff.
There, the spots are all covered. But Dad won’t let me leave till I help him find the bank card. I hope this isn’t going to make me late for school.
“Somebody could empty out my bank account,” Dad mutters. I don’t say what I am thinking: that somebody already has emptied out his account. Him. It takes a while, but in the end, I find the card under Dad’s side of the pullout bed. The card is covered with dust bunnies.
Dad wipes the card clean. “You need to do a better job on the mopping,” he says.
“Justin.” Mrs. Thompson looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. “Did you get a late slip?”
“Um, ma’am, do I have to?”
Three late slips and they call your parents. Or in my case, my dad. Last time he made such a fuss the principal threw him out of the building.
“Let me tell you, Justin, I’m way smarter than that principal of yours,” Dad said afterward. “You think he ever wrote a PhD thesis?” Dad did his PhD on Canadian history. Before I was born, he had a job teaching at the university, only it didn’t last. Dad says it was because everyone in his department was an idiot. I figure it might have had something to do with Dad. He doesn’t like it when people disagree with him.
Mrs. Thompson gives me a tight-lipped smile. “All right then, Justin. But next time, you’ll have to get a late slip. And take off that baseball cap. This isn’t a ballpark.”
I know from the way she’s looking at me, her eyes practically burning a hole through my cap, there’s no use objecting.
Most of the teachers know about my hair, so they let me wear my cap in class. But Mrs. Thompson is new.
I can feel my cheeks heating up. I take a deep breath and lift the cap off my head. There. I did it.
Someone snickers.
If only I could disappear right now.
“Ooh,” a girl calls out. “Gross!”
Mrs. Thompson sucks in her cheeks, and for a second I feel sorry for her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. “Now, now, Carleen,” Mrs. Thompson says, her voice higher than usual. “Let’s get back to our fractions.”
I try to concentrate on the fractions Mrs. Thompson is writing on the board, but it’s hard.
I can’t blame Carleen for calling out “Gross!” My head looks gross to me too.
I’m dividing ninety-six by three when Mrs. Thompson taps my shoulder. “You can put your cap back on if you’d like,” she whispers.
I take the cap out of my desk and slip it on.
When I look back at my exercise book, I notice a yellow smiley-face sticker that wasn’t there a minute ago. Where’d it come from? Not Mrs. Thompson. I’d have noticed if it was her.
I turn to my right. The girl sitting there is named Amanda Iverson. Amanda has green eyes and wavy red hair. She smells good, like vanilla cake. When she catches me looking at her, she smiles.
I point at the sticker on my book.
Amanda shrugs. But I spot the packet of smiley stickers under her math book. Maybe Amanda doesn’t mind bald guys.
chapter three
I only have three empties that I found after school. It’s not much of a haul. Pete will roll his eyes when I cash in three bottles. Dad will be disappointed I didn’t bring home more money. But at least I get to see Smokey before I go back to the apartment.
The convenience store is crowded. Some private-school boys are at the counter, buying licorice and chocolate bars. One pulls a fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket.
“What’s up, Dog?” another of the private-school boys calls out.
Pete doesn’t say anything about not talking to Smokey.
“That’s no dog,” another boy says. He’s shorter than the others. “That’s a sorry excuse for an animal. He’s older than my great-grampa.”
His friends laugh. My shoulders tense up. They shouldn’t be talking to Smokey like that.
The kid who paid with the fifty leans so far over the counter I can see the soles of his shoes. “Eat any crooks today?” he asks Smokey.
Even if Smokey doesn’t understand the boys’ words, he understands their tone. He knows they’re being mean and that they’re mocking him. But something tells me Pete isn’t going to make them stop.
“Have any robbers with your kibble, you sorry excuse for an animal?” the kid asks.
His friends nudge each other and laugh some more.
From where I am, I can’t see Smokey, but I hear him growl. It’s a strange growl. Lower and more hoarse than you’d expect from a dog his size.
“Back off, will ya?” Pete finally says to the boy.
You go, Pete, I think, when something at the other end of the store—near the long row of freezers—comes crashing to the floor. The store window rattles.
I jump. Loud noises spook me. They remind me of what happens when Dad loses it.
Everyone turns to look—Pete, the private-school boys, me. Maybe it’s a trick—a way to distract Pete and empty the cash when he isn’t looking. Just because these kids are rich doesn’t mean they’re angels. I’ve seen them stuff bags of chips into their backpacks when Pete’s back is turned.
“What the hell is going on back there?” Pete shouts.
There’s no one by the freezers. On hot days, kids hang out there to cool off, but Popsicle weather’s been over in Montreal for a couple of weeks now. I hear something rolling on the floor. It’s a can of wax beans. My shoulders relax.
“Something must’ve fallen over,” I call out.
A crate of bean cans has tumbled over. Some of the cans have come loose. I pick up the one in front of me.
“Dog!” I hear Pete say. “It’s okay. Stay.”
The noise must have upset Smokey too. After all, he’s a guard dog.
One of the private-school boys grabs hold of his buddy’s arm. “Let’s get outta here,” he says. “See the fangs on that monster? And the way his ears are sticking up?”
I don’t like him calling Smokey a monster. If Smokey’s baring his fangs, it’s because he’s on the alert.
I head for the cash. I feel like Smokey needs me. Like I understand him in a way no one else here does.
Another crate crashes to the floor. This one makes even more noise. But I’m less jumpy, because now at least I know where the sound is coming from. I hear shuffling behind the counter.
“Stay, Dog,” Pete says. Smokey wants to get out. He wants to know what’s happening at the back. It’s what he’s trained to do. Look for trouble.
The private-school boys rush out, blocking the entrance to the store. “I’ll bet you an
ything that monster has rabies,” one says.
“What I want to know,” his friend says, “is why that dog doesn’t bark. What good’s a guard dog that can’t bark?”
It’s true. Smokey didn’t bark. Now that I think of it, I’ve never heard him bark. Growl, yes, but not bark. Not once. It’s weird how I never thought about it before.
I’m at the end of the aisle that leads to the cash register. I bend my head so I can see Smokey. The boys were right—his ears are sticking up, like he can hear something we can’t.
“Don’t get too close,” Pete hisses.
But it’s too late.
I’m too close. When Smokey bites my hand, it happens in slow motion. I see his sharp yellow fangs sink into the flesh between the bottom of my thumb and my pointer finger.
My hand hurts like crazy, and now there’s blood on the tile floor.
But I’m not thinking about the blood or how much my hand hurts. I’m thinking about Smokey. If he wasn’t upset, he’d never have bitten me. No way.
I crouch down. The guard hairs on Smokey’s back are raised. I don’t look him in the eye. Something tells me that would upset him again. Something also tells me Smokey’s not angry. He’s just scared.
“It’s okay, Smokey,” I say, extending my other hand.
“You all right, kid?” Pete sounds nervous— as if he’s afraid he might lose his job. “Want me to call your mom or something?”
“I’m all right.”
I reach out to stroke Smokey under his chin. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched him. His fur feels good under my fingers.
I don’t bother telling Pete I don’t have a mom—or how if I do, I don’t know where she’s gone to.
Pete’s relieved I don’t want him to call anyone. I know, because he doesn’t tell me to stop petting Smokey.
He’s handing me Kleenex to stop the bleeding when someone else comes into the store.
“Thank god you’re here!” Pete says. “Dog lost it just now. He bit this kid.”
The man Pete is talking to is wearing navy blue coveralls. “How ya doing, kid?” he asks, leaning over to inspect my hand.
Junkyard Dog Page 1