“Wh-what are you doing here?” I demanded, my vocal cords reactivating. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Robot,” he muttered from behind his hands.
“You’re a robot?”
“No-o. The name’s Robot. Robert actually, but me mates call me Robot. I’m Christine’s chap.”
“You’re . . . Christine’s boyfriend?” I stumbled, my brain slowly sputtering back to life.
“Yes,” he said irritably. “Charmed, I’m sure. Now could you please shut the bloody blinds?”
I yanked on the opposite cord and the blinds swished shut.
“Thank you,” he said with a sigh. “You must be Christine’s flatmate.” He lowered his hands, revealing a long, pale face—unusually pale for Texas in June. His features appeared to have been sculpted from marshmallow: deep-set brown eyes like two finger pokes, a thin tweak of a nose, and a pinch of a chin that was trying manfully to sport a soul-patch goatee, but instead came across as a smudge of potting soil. His white skin was offset dramatically by spiky black hair and sideburns, as well as his rumpled dark T-shirt and jeans. But he was cute, in a skinny, sloppy, creature-of-the-night sort of way.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Christine said I was snoring,” he said, sitting up and scratching his scalp with both hands, making his hair defy gravity even more. “She made me come out here.”
I shook my head. “Uh . . . not what I meant. I mean, why are you in Austin? Don’t you live in San Antonio?”
“Yeah, I crash there most nights. But when Christine told me about this new flat, I thought I’d come check out the scene awhile. You know, try to score some gigs for the band.” He smiled at me as he said this—not taunting, but rather smugly, as if he thought I’d be squealing and wetting my undies over this news. “My band’s New Bile. You heard of us?”
He rattled off the question offhandedly but watched my reaction closely. I could tell he was waiting hungrily for my starstruck reaction—as if that were the blood his vampire body thrived on.
“Yeah,” I said, somewhat squeaky with delight in spite of myself. All last year the cool kids at school were talking about these retro-punk guys called New Bile who were packing the clubs. Unfortunately, my mom would never let me go to one of their shows. “My boyfriend is a major fan,” I added. His smile stretched further. My reply was acceptable.
My boyfriend? I wondered. Why didn’t I tell the truth? Why not say ex-boyfriend? Was it a slip of the tongue? Or was I trying to make myself seem more sought-after and attractive? As attractive as a girl with morning eye gunk and a cartoon cat on her chest can be.
Robot stretched his arms and propped his feet, covered in dingy, moldy-looking socks, on the rickety coffee table. I had just opened my mouth to tell him to be careful of the furniture, that we could lose our deposits if we break anything, when I saw him lunge toward a leather jacket draped on one of the armchairs and pull out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from one of the pockets. He saw me watching him and pointed the box toward me. “Fancy one?”
“Uh . . . no thanks. Um . . . we’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Says who?”
“Says our landlady.”
He let out a snort. “Don’t see the old bag around here,” he mumbled, the words slightly garbled from the cigarette perched between his lips. He fished a metal Zippo lighter out of his pants pocket and lit the end. Then he leaned back and rested his arms along the back of the sofa. I eyed the cigarette smoldering between the first two fingers of his right hand, envisioning tiny burn holes in the upholstery.
“Feel free to have a seat, love,” he said, gesturing to the striped chair. He let out a cackle that turned into a hacking cough.
A hot jet of anger burbled up inside me. Who the hell was this ponce to tell me when to sit in my living room? This place was supposed to belong to me—the new me. It was supposed to be about late-night talks with my new roomie while we painted our toenails burnt orange, or eating takeout Chinese while I read from a ten-pound college textbook. It was supposed to be about leftover pizza for breakfast, having American Pie DVD marathons, and rating the frat boys passing beneath the balcony. It was not supposed to include some MTV reject digging into our couch like a hermit crab.
I sucked in my breath, ready to tell Robot to take his bloody feet off our bloody furniture and put out his bloody stinkarette.
Yet . . . Christine had obviously invited him here. And I couldn’t piss off Christine. If I did she could sabotage things with my mom whenever she called. Then I’d be packed off to San Marcos and my lame excuse of a life faster than you could say “Cheerio, old chap!”
My anger subsided until I could only stand there chewing my nails, hyperaware of the stubble on my legs and the layer of grease on my face.
At that moment the phone rang. I quickly snatched it up, grateful for the distraction, only to hear my mom’s voice on the other end say, “Katie, do you realize you forgot your skin ointment?”
I shut my eyes and made a tiny whimpering noise in my throat. “Hi, Mom.”
“I can’t believe you left this behind! What if you start getting that rash again?”
Man alive. I get one minor outbreak of eczema on my elbow and now she thinks I’m ointment-dependent. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”
“You know, you might want to look into a highly recommended doctor someplace near you. That way if anything goes wrong, you’ll know where to go. In fact,” her voice went up an octave, “you could call Aaron and see if he knows anyone. He had a really good friend for a while who was studying to be a doctor. They were very close. I’m sure he would know . . .”
My hearing failed. My brain went AWOL. I just couldn’t take her without caffeine. As I forced myself to remain upright I noticed Christine emerge from her room. She was wearing black boxer shorts and a white tank with the word Goal! in purple block letters across the chest, and her hair stuck out in all directions. She stumbled crookedly down the hallway and crawled on top of Robot, who was once again stretched along the couch. I felt a squeezing sensation behind my ribs as I watched them snuggle up together.
“. . . And you might want to get a standing prescription in case you get bad menstrual cramps again. . . .”
Robot whispered something to Christine and she let out a shriek of laughter.
“What was that?” Mom asked suddenly. “Was that Christine?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, cupping the receiver in case she accidentally overheard Robot’s voice. “She must be watching TV or something.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“What?”
“You heard me, sweetheart. Let me speak to your roommate. I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”
My chest grew tighter. So she was really going to go through with this? My word wasn’t enough for her? I briefly considered complaining, and then realized it was a lost cause. Once Mom decided something, no amount of begging, battling or skillful debate would make her change her mind.
“Fine,” I grouched. I took a step toward the sofa. “My mom wants to talk to you,” I said, focusing on the dark-haired scalp I assumed was Christine’s.
She struggled to a sitting position, followed by Robot. Both looked annoyed and slightly bewildered.
“Really,” I said, holding up the phone.
Christine looked momentarily put out. Then she turned and pressed a finger to Robot’s lips. “Stifle,” I heard her mutter. Pushing her long, raven hair over her shoulders, she reached out and snatched the phone from my hand. “Yes, Mrs. McAllister?” she said, morphing into her goody-goody persona. Her face went placid and her voice turned sticky sweet, as if she’d just gargled with molasses. “Yes, ma’am. . . . Of course. . . . No, ma’am. No problems at all. . . . Oh, no. We would never do that. . . . Yes, ma’am . . . Right. . . . I understand. . . . You too. . . . Goodbye!”
She handed the receiver to me and rolled her eyes.
“Thanks,” I said,
flashing her an apologetic look.
As she snuggled back up to Robot, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Mom?”
“Well, it’s good to hear you are behaving yourself so far. Your father sends his love. You take care, sweetie. I’ll call back soon.”
I don’t doubt it. “Bye.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Robot asked as soon as I hung up.
“Her mom is making me spy on her,” Christine explained. “She calls me to make sure Katie has been a good girl.”
“She calls you?” Robot let out a roar of laughter. “That’s a good one!”
“Hey!” Christine thumped him playfully on the arm, but she was laughing too.
Feeling thoroughly stupid, I had no choice but to laugh along with them. I supposed it was a bizarre situation—but it wasn’t that funny. I mean, Mom was only doing this because she cared about me. What was wrong with that?
“God! How can you stand it?” Christine went on. “Do you have to check in with her, like, twelve times a day?” She pantomimed holding a phone to her ear and said in a meek little voice, “Mother, should I turn left or right? Do I want strawberry or chocolate? Should I breathe in or out?” She cackled at her own joke, Robot guffawing along with her.
My eyes teared up a little. She had no right to make fun of me that way. It wasn’t my fault my mom was doing this. I didn’t ask for it.
But it’s not like you ever ask Mom to stop either, came a voice from inside me.
I stood there in a daze, feeling simultaneously mad, hurt and ashamed. I’d always known my mom was a little much. But until that moment I’d never really thought I might have some part in it—by going along with it all the time.
“I guess I should be glad my mom and dad never call,” Christine went on. “Which reminds me, I need to check my messages.” She leaped off the couch and fished a sleek BlackBerry out of her leather bag.
Her movement seemed to dislodge my emotional clog and snap me out of my trance. “I’m going to take a shower,” I announced, to no one in particular.
“Alright, love,” Robot said, flopping back against the cushions and shutting his eyes. “But don’t use all the hot water. I’m next.”
I wrinkled up my nose and headed for the bathroom. Just as I was turning the corner, Christine let out a little scream. “Oh my God!” she said, pointing to her cell. “He’s here! She’s here! They’ve got one for me!”
“One what?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.
“My wiener dog!” she exclaimed. “I just got an e-mail from the rescue league! And the dog’s a red one—just like I wanted!” She grabbed Robot’s shoulder and started shaking him. “Get up! You’ve got to come to the pound with me!”
“Christine! It’s the sodding crack of dawn!” he whined.
“It’s almost nine-thirty!”
“But I’m totally knackered, love. You know we had a late gig.”
“Don’t be such a wanker! I was up late too, you know!”
“But you weren’t on stage.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine! I’ll get someone else.”
I knew what would happen even before she swiveled around to face me, her eyes as big and round as beer coasters.
“Katie,” she began in her syrupy sweet voice.
“But I really need to take a shower,” I said, gesturing to my matted hair and stubbly legs.
“You can do that when we get back. Please? If I take too long, someone else will beat me to him!”
Do I look as if I care? I grumbled inwardly, still mad at her for laughing at me. But even as I thought this, I could feel my posture wilting in defeat. Christine noticed too. A triumphant grin began wriggling across her face. “Oh, okay,” I heard myself say. But Christine had already grabbed my arm and was pulling me toward my bedroom.
“Hurry and get dressed,” she ordered. “I’ll meet you at the door in five minutes.”
So there I was on my first morning of freedom. Instead of sipping coffee on the balcony after a record-long hot shower, I was caffeine-free and yanking on old sweats so I could accompany Christine to an animal shelter.
The last thing I saw before heading out of the apartment with Christine was steam snaking around the bathroom door. Robot’s voice, singing a classic Green Day tune, echoed from within.
“Crap! You are freaking kidding me! How can he be gone already?”
Christine had transformed again. Two minutes before, she had been all schoolgirl charm and impeccable manners. Now an angry, messy-haired banshee stood in her place, yelling at a bespectacled woman at the reception counter.
“I’m sorry. The dog left just half an hour ago with someone else. They called yesterday evening right after we posted the e-mail.”
“But that’s not fair! I just got the message this morning! I can’t help it if I had plans last night. I have a life!”
The woman smiled without curling up the sides of her mouth, making it look as if she were baring her teeth at Christine. “If you like, I can do a search of other nearby shelters to see if any dachshunds have been brought in recently. Sometimes they don’t get on the rescue league’s network.”
“Yes. Do that.”
“It might take a while,” she said. I could tell she was hoping Christine might worry it would take up too much of her “life.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Christine said. She looked over at me. “That’s not a problem, is it, Katie?”
Yes. I’m hungry and in dire need of shampoo and a cup of coffee. “No. No problem. I’ll just have a look around.”
The irritated woman led Christine into a glass-walled office and shut the door. I felt like a dweeb on display just standing there with nothing to do, so I wandered down the corridor where the dogs were kept. With each step the soundscape of barks, grunts and whimpers grew louder, and the combined smell of kibble and animal dander became nearly overwhelming.
A middle-aged man holding a clipboard stood near the far end of the corridor. He nodded at me. “If you see one that interests you, let me know.”
“Thanks but . . .” I paused, unsure how to say that I really wasn’t interested in adopting a homeless pet, that I was just killing time while my roommate had me trapped there. After all, the guy probably put years of his life into saving these animals and probably wouldn’t take kindly to window-shoppers like me. “I’m sort of in a temporary living situation right now. So I’m looking around to just, you know, get a feel of what sort of dog I want to adopt when I head home this fall.”
He gave a perfunctory nod and turned back toward his clipboard, clearly sorry he’d even spoken to me.
No need to tell him your life story, you spaz!
I slowly ambled down the corridor, peering into the Plexiglas stalls at all the different animals. For some reason I’d expected the kennels to resemble a bleak dungeon—like the scene in The Lady and the Tramp. But this place wasn’t that bad at all. The dogs all looked healthy and well-cared for. They had mats and blankets and big bowls of food and water. And yet, it still made me sad. There were so many of them. Row after row, stall after stall, dogs of all shapes, sizes and colors. My eyes blurred trying to look at them all.
Just as the depression was starting to set in, I caught sight of a little face out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw a dog sitting quietly at the front of his stall, studying me as if I were the one on display.
He was medium-sized with longish black, white and brown fur. His ears were raised, the left one flopping forward at the tip as if it were too heavy. His fur parted down the length of his snout and hung down like a giant mustache beneath his round, black-button nose. But what struck me the most were his eyes. Big and round and dark, with two streaks of light brown fur hanging over each one like eyebrows. He cocked his head and stared at me intently, looking sad or worried. Worried about me?
I’d never seen a dog like him before. And yet, there was something jarringly familiar about him—something that made my mind wheel backward. . . .
Big brown eyes . . . messy, floppy hair . . . a kindly look of concern . . .
“Seamus,” I said softly.
Suddenly the dog rose up on his haunches and placed his front paws against the glass, his tail a wagging blur. It seemed to me that his mouth curled into a smile.
“Seamus?” I said again. I knew it wasn’t Seamus— not my Seamus. But for whatever reason, this dog responded to the name. I stared into his dark, soulful eyes, and he kept on gazing back as if terribly concerned for me.
A warm, snuggly feeling swept through me. I wanted so badly to hold him, to take him home and feed him and take care of him forever and ever. But I knew I couldn’t. Mom would flip out if I got a dog. A decision this big required her input at every step. Hell, she’d probably want to pick it out herself. She’d insist I forget about this guy and instead talk me into some perfect, fluffy poser dog. Or something more practical like a gi-normous watchdog that would attack any guy who came near me—except Aaron, of course. Not that it mattered. She’d never allow me to have a dog to begin with.
As I turned to walk away, the dog started whining. I spun back around and looked at him.
Then again . . . there was no reason why we couldn’t have a dog. No one in my family was allergic, and we had a big backyard. And why shouldn’t I be able to pick out the one I wanted? I’d be the one taking care of him. It wasn’t like I would be bringing home a camel, or a great white shark or a guy like Robot. It was just a little dog. What was the big deal anyway?
I was tired of consulting Mom on every little thing. Robot and Christine were right. I was practically an adult and I was still letting my mom run my life!
No more. I was going to make this decision myself. And if Mom didn’t like it, tough! It would serve her right for not trusting me.
“I’d like to reserve this one,” I heard myself call out to the man, who was still flipping pages and taking down notes.
He glanced over, somewhat taken aback after having written me off as a browser. Sticking the clipboard under his arm, he walked over and studied the tag on Seamus’s kennel.
Alpha Dog Page 5