Alpha Dog

by Jennifer Ziegler

  Luckily we finished unpacking the booze at that point and Christine announced it was time for a break. She mixed up a couple of drinks, some sort of juice with a little bit of rum, and we sat down in the living room—me on the big flowered sofa and Christine in the harvest gold armchair.

  “Okay, questions,” she said, setting her drink on the coffee table. “Where do you go to school? Who do you hang out with? And what do you do for fun?”

  I swished my drink and watched the ice cubes whirl around the glass. I was used to these sorts of inquiries—these half-cloaked attempts to figure out my worth as a human being. In my circle, they were more along the lines of “Who’s your boyfriend and what does he drive?” I could answer the question of my school, but not the others. Mainly because I didn’t know anymore.

  I must have taken too long to answer because Christine made a little exasperated noise. “Man, I should have made coffee instead. Are you stoned or something?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh no. Don’t tell me. You miss your boyfriend, right?”

  I stared at her in alarm. “What makes you say that? Why do you think I have a boyfriend?”

  “Please. Pretty trendies like you always have boyfriends. It’s like those Barbie sets where you get two for the price of one. You date all through high school and college. Then you get married. You quit teaching to raise the kids, and you all live happily ever after in a big plastic dream home with your painted smiles, perfect hair, and expensive tans.”

  My eyes narrowed in a stern glare. What a judgmental bitch! How could she make so many cynical assumptions after knowing me only half an hour? But I was also a little spooked. She’d just described my dad and mom to the last detail—except for the tanning part. Mom was too terrified of wrinkles and cancer. “Well, you’re wrong! Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. I was so eager to shoot down her theory, I sounded almost boastful. “I used to, but he dumped me. Just yesterday, in fact . . . On my birthday . . .” My voice died away. Once again my insides felt swollen and bruised.

  “Man, I’m sorry.” Christine’s smug expression dropped from her face. “What a loser.”

  “Yeah,” I said tentatively. I wasn’t sure if she meant Chuck or me.

  For the first time since she arrived, Christine seemed speechless. I decided to take the focus off me and ask her a few questions.

  “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “We’ve been going out for about a year now. He’s older. Just graduated.”

  She softened as she talked about him, like any other girl who’s crushing majorly over someone—just like I probably used to. She tried to hide it, but it was there. In the glow of her eyes and the unconscious way she smoothed her hair. I felt a stab of envy.

  “Where’d you meet him?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.

  “At a club in San Antonio. He’s in a band.”

  Figures, I thought, taking a long swig of my drink. She seemed like the clubbing type.

  “Do you play an instrument too?” I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

  She shook her head. “I love music, but I’m not good at it. I’m in theater.”

  “You’re definitely good at that,” I said. “You had my mom and Mrs. Krantz totally fooled. Me too. I thought you’d be making me say grace anytime I grabbed a potato chip.”

  She started laughing. “It really helps when dealing with adults.”

  “I imagine.”

  Christine sat back in the chair and pushed a few strands of hair out of her face. “Hey, um . . . I know I was kind of bitchy before, but I didn’t mean it. I tend to do that sometimes. I don’t really know why.”

  I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “You know what?” she said, lifting her glass toward me. “I think it’s going to work out, you and I living together. Here’s to blowing our parents off and having fun.”

  “To fun,” I echoed.

  We clinked our glasses together and Christine downed the rest of her drink in one gulp.

  “All right,” she said, slamming her glass down on the coffee table. “I call dibs on the biggest closet.”

  I followed her down to her car (a restored candy-apple red Karmann Ghia) and helped her carry the rest of her bags and boxes into the creaky service elevator, onto the landing, and down the hall to her room. Christine took the north bedroom, since it had the bigger closet and was farther away from the noise of the living room. I didn’t really care. My east-facing bedroom had the better view. If I stood in the far left corner of my window and got on the tips of my toes, I could see the top of the UT Tower peeking up over the giant live oak tree across the street.

  Christine asked me to keep her company while she unpacked. Maybe it was the rum, or maybe I was tipsy just being away from Mom, but for some reason, I really liked Christine a lot—even though she’d been kind of mean to me before. Christine was someone who probably never got dumped, and never would. She was far too savvy to ever get blindsided the way I had been. I found myself really wanting her to like me. If nothing else, I figured I could study her over the summer and pick up pointers on how to win Chuck back. Or, more realistically, how to win back my reputation.

  “So what’s with your mom?” Christine asked as she tossed a pair of what could only be described as army boots into the floor of her closet. “Why is she on your ass so much? Do you have a history of holding up liquor stores or something?”

  “You’d think,” I mumbled, staring down at my ragged nails—another one of Mom’s favorite nagging topics. “It’s just that she’s a big go-getter and my dad is super successful and I’m not all that special.”

  Christine looked at me in disbelief. “Come on. You’re a total yuppie princess.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m no good at that super achievement stuff. Dad says I’m too much of a thinker and Mom thinks I’m lazy—either that or purposefully rebelling just to make her mad.”

  “You mean you aren’t?” Christine raised her eyebrows. “Hell, I do that all the time to my dad. I figure it’s our basic right.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that it wasn’t pure teenage rebellion that made me go against my mom’s plans for me. Truth was, I knew I’d fail at them. I was too klutzy and cynical for the beauty pageants, too shy for the speeches and protests. And I had no leadership qualities whatsoever. In our entire family, probably only Grandma Hattie, who had a tendency to go places in her slippers and still thought Nixon was President, was a bigger embarrassment to Mom.

  I watched Christine hang up an itty-bitty dress that seemed to be made out of black rubber. The girl even had her own unique style. Obviously, she’d only worn the church mouse ensemble in order to make a strong first impression on Mrs. Krantz. The real Christine, I could see, was more retro punk meets shabby chic meets urban cool.

  “Okay. I’m done,” she announced as she set a three-tiered chrome makeup case on the wooden dresser. “Let’s unpack your stuff.”

  After watching her unload her vintage dresses, hard-core rock tees, and loads of black leather you-name-its, my own clothes seemed horribly boring and safe (especially the ruffly underwear from Grandma, which I tossed into a dark corner of the closet floor when Christine wasn’t looking). I was kind of embarrassed and kept shoving things into drawers and onto hangers at a frenzied pace, so I wasn’t really paying attention when I pulled out the Scooby Doo alarm clock from the bottom of the box.

  “Is that a clock?” she asked from her cross-legged position on my mattress.

  I looked down, surprised to see Scooby’s goofy face in my grasp. “Uh . . . yeah.”

  Christine rose up onto her knees and held out her hands. “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” As I gave it to her, my mind raced to come up with some sort of excuse as to why I had a cartoon character alarm clock. Let’s see. . . . She already knew I didn’t have any younger siblings. She’d never believe it was a f
amily heirloom. . . .

  “This is cool,” she said, turning it around. “Makes sense you would have it. You look just like Daphne,” she added, handing it back to me. “I absolutely love dogs. You want to see my collection?”

  “Sure!” I exclaimed, happy to throw the focus off me.

  She hopped off the bed and headed back to her room, returning with one of the cardboard boxes. I watched as she pulled back the flaps and began lifting out wiener dogs, one by one. There were several small stuffed ones, a couple of dachshund-shaped pillows, a pair of dachshund oven mitts, a few framed photos of dachshunds wearing costumes, a dachshund finger puppet, and a giant beach towel with a big blown-up photo of a dachshund’s face and the words Lord of the Wiens written in bold across the bottom.

  “I even have some wiener dog earrings,” Christine added. “And look at this.” She lifted her skirt to reveal a tattoo of a dachshund on her upper thigh.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “You really like wiener dogs.”

  “Always have. In fact, I’m going to adopt a real one while I’m here. Mrs. Krantz already wrote a letter saying it was okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.” She smiled sappily. “After all, she thinks I’m super-responsible.”

  “And your dad doesn’t mind?”

  “Sure he does. But I’ve got it all planned,” she said smugly. “I’ll just tell him I got a dog and I won’t come home unless I can bring it with me.” She sat down on the mattress, glanced at the Scooby clock, and then sprang back up again. “Oh, crap. Is that clock right?”

  I stared down at my wristwatch. “Yeah. It’s almost twelve.”

  “Aw, hell. I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend for lunch.”

  I watched as she tossed her wiener dogs back into the box and hoisted it onto her hip. I recognized that focused excitement. She was a girl with a purpose—a girl with a boyfriend—and nothing else mattered at the moment. I used to be just like that.

  “So, hey. Um. You want to grab some dinner later or something?” I asked as she turned toward the door.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. But maybe we can hang out some more when I get back. Okay?”

  “Sounds cool,” I said.

  But she was already out the door.

  I’m sitting on the grass overlooking a windswept shoreline. Seamus is there beside me. He pulls me up against him, his broad shoulder making the perfect cradle for my head. As I nestle against his sweater, he strokes his fingers through my hair. I feel so safe, so happy. After a while I lift my face toward his and stare into his copper-brown eyes. My hands reach up and begin tracing the familiar terrain of his face—his perfectly carved cheek-bones, wide jaw, pencil-point cleft in his chin. Seamus clasps each of my hands in his and kisses them softly. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. The earth spins faster. Animated cherubs frolic and sing! Eventually, we pull apart. Seamus smiles down at me, his black curls framing his features like a fuzzy dark halo. Leaning forward, he opens his mouth and says . . .

  “Jellyfishing!”

  “Huh?” I jerked awake and found myself stretched out on the couch with a Hot Pockets sandwich wrapper on my chest. The condo was completely dark except for the TV, which was blaring an old SpongeBob Square- Pants episode. It took me a moment to realize where I was and what was happening.

  I hit the Lower Volume button on the remote control and sat up, rubbing my eyes until the image of Seamus fragmented and dissolved. Strange that I was dreaming about him again. Was it because Chuck dumped me? Was my poor, mangled ego trying to repair itself by focusing on a better guy? A guy cobbled together from bits of memory?

  Then again, who else did I have? All day long as I’d unpacked and shopped for groceries, it hit me at intervals just how alone I was. No boyfriend, no friends, no group to hang out with. I’d managed to keep busy and shrug it off, assuring myself that I could put it all behind me, that Christine and I would hang out later, and that would help me forget. Only, here it was almost ten-thirty and Christine still hadn’t returned—probably still in the arms of what’s-his-name.

  Now, in the stillness of the condo, the pathetic-ness that was my life hit me like never before. I lay back down and hugged a ruffly throw pillow to my chest, surrendering myself to self-pity. I missed Chuck. I missed having his arm around me, the spicy scent of his deodorant, and the sound of his rumbly voice over the phone. More than anything I missed that relationship feeling—the sense of being part of something beyond just me.

  Now I was just me. And frankly, I wasn’t enjoying my company all that much.

  The sound of knocking startled me. Someone was at the door. Christine? Chuck? Seamus? My imagination was still in overdrive. I heaved myself off the sofa, trudged to the front door and opened it. Mrs. Krantz was standing in the hallway holding Mrs. B to her chest.

  “Katie, dear!” she said. “How are you girls doing? Are you finding everything you need?”

  “Yes. Thanks,” I said, hoping my disappointment wasn’t too obvious.

  She leaned sideways and peered past me into the apartment. “It sure is dark. Where is Christine?”

  “She’s out.”

  Mrs. Krantz’s eyes widened in alarm and she stared down at her watch. “She’s gone out? At this hour?”

  I suddenly realized I was about to destroy Christine’s carefully constructed alter ego. “Uh, no,” I said quickly. “What I meant was, she’s out like a light. She’s already asleep.”

  Mrs. B narrowed her amber eyes at me in an accusing sort of way. Can she tell I’m lying? Am I that obvious?

  Mrs. Krantz gave a birdlike titter into her left hand. “I see. Well then, we won’t keep you. Mrs. B and I just wanted to check on you and say goodbye. We’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning and won’t be back until Sunday evening.”

  “Thanks, but don’t worry about us,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will.” She reached out and patted my wrist where I held fast to the doorknob. “I’m so glad we were able to work things out with your mother.”

  “Me too.” Again, maybe it was just my guilty conscience, but Mrs. B seemed to flash me another death stare.

  “You girls have a good time together!” Mrs. Krantz sang out. “See you when I get back.” She gave a little wave and tottered back toward her condo.

  “Have a good trip!” I shut the door and leaned against it, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Have a good time together? Yeah, right. Christine obviously wasn’t too interested in hanging out with me.

  I switched off the TV set, headed into my room and fired up my laptop to check e-mail. Most of it was boring stuff—the booster club newsletter and a message from Mom reminding me to program Austin emergency numbers into my cell phone. Of course, there was absolutely nothing from Chuck or my friends. No one cared.

  For a long moment I just sat there, fighting the urge to scream or cry or toss the laptop into the street. And then . . . I looked around and smiled.

  At least I was here. Thousands of people who had no idea who the heck Chuck was or that he shoved my ego through a shredder. No fake friends clucking false sympathy to my face and then laughing behind my back. No mom around to tell me what to do every minute of the day. And no one who thought of me as Laura McAllister’s far-less-brilliant daughter.

  It almost seemed too dreamlike. I wouldn’t have even blinked if some megaphone-wielding director stepped out of the wings yelling, “ Cut! That’s a wrap! You! Go back to your lame reality!”

  The fact was, I was getting a fresh start. And I was going to make the most of it.

  3

  Scooby woke me up at nine the next morning. The fricking thing sounded like it was having an electronic panic attack. “(Click.) BEEEEEEP! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!” It blared at close to 147 decibels. I was on the floor practically convulsing in disoriented terror, swiping aimlessly at the clock and hoping to get it to stop. But the big-nosed Scooby face just
stared back as if mocking me. Finally I managed to knock the thing into the waste bin where it took on an eerie, tinny echo. I shoved my pillow on top of it to muffle the sound, stuck in my hand and fished around until I eventually hit a switch that shut it off.

  At that point I felt as if I’d just drunk nine cups of coffee, so I decided to go ahead and start my day.

  I headed out into the living room. Rays of sunlight were squeezing around the cheesy fabric blinds that covered the patio doors. Everything was still and quiet. And then I remembered: I really was here—on my own. Away from all things high school and all things Chuck. My heartbeat slowed and a giddy, excited feeling spread through my limbs. The condo suddenly seemed to me the most beautiful spot on earth. I was in love with its grizzled gray carpet and chipped, pea soup green counters. The tacky 1980s furniture looked like priceless heirlooms. Even the clouds of dust swirling in the sunbeams added a magical, sparkly quality—like a live-action fairy movie.

  I took a deep breath of musty air and walked over to open the blinds, hoping to spend some time quietly admiring the view before Christine woke up. I yanked down on the plastic chain and the blinds zipped apart, stirring up tiny eddies of grime.

  “Oh, be a love and shut those bloody things, will you?” came a voice from behind me.

  I let out a little yelp and whirled around, the skirt of my nightgown catching up with me a second later.

  A figure was lying on the sofa surrounded by stuffed wiener dogs—a guy wearing dark clothes. I couldn’t see his face, though, since he was shielding it with his hands.

  There is a strange guy on our couch! a voice shouted inside my head.

  “Seriously, love, it’s a bloomin’ supernova out there!” he said, sitting up.

  A strange British guy is on our couch, my mind went on, and you’re just standing there like a dumb ass in your Hello Kitty nightie!

  What to do? Should I scream? Run away? Grab a weapon? Offer him hot tea?