But Darla’s not so lucky on the next go-round. Every time she gets the ball, her block, who’s hefty and all arms, has her completely covered.
Each time I’m right in there, waiting. “Pass it, Darla, I’m open!” I yell, hands waving, feet ready to bolt.
“Pass it to Maggie!” Lucy yells. She’s up front as well but shadowed by a girl who blocks all escape routes. Darla scowls at me, then Lucy.
“Pass it, Darla,” booms Coach Williams.
“I’m open,” I yell pointlessly, realizing that Darla has no intention of passing. Ever.
Instead, she dribbles up and attempts a shot. The bullish guard intercepts the ball, charges to our basket, and smashes it in.
“Score!” roars Fort Washington’s cheering section. Heavy groans rumble from the Ambler bleachers.
This pattern continues until halftime—Darla trying to shoot, even though she’s blocked, while I’m wide open, shifting my legs like an impatient grasshopper. Fort Washington sinks basket after basket. Coach Williams starts to lose his cool. His face grows beet red and he paces up and down the sideline. By halftime the score is Fort Washington 18, Ambler 3.
We circle around the water jug and try to catch our breath.
“Darla,” Coach Williams groans, “you’ve got a team here. Take advantage of it. Maggie was open many times. We know you’re a good player, but even a great player can’t do it all.”
Darla looks mad, but she doesn’t say anything.
Coach Williams makes notations in his books. “Maggie, I want you to switch with Darla. Lucy, back in on small forward.”
“The coach is incompetent,” Darla mutters as we jog to our spots.
“How so?” I ask, tucking in my sweaty jersey.
“He should know you’re not supposed to switch the players’ positions in midgame. That’s amateur. The coach at my old school would never do that.”
I’m tempted to blurt out that not passing to your teammates is amateur, too, but I decide it’s better to keep my mouth shut and not egg her on.
The ball goes into play. I’ve caught it! I dribble down the court, the bullish Fort Washington guard mirroring my steps. I pivot and bounce-pass to Lucy over the guard’s sturdy left knee. Lucy passes back to me, under the guard’s right elbow—just as I planned. The hoop’s right over me, but I don’t have a chance. This guard’s got me cloaked. Must try. Can’t give up.
“Shoot, Maggie!” Lucy yells.
I have to prove my stuff, focus on the basket. If Gingerbread can focus every ounce of strength into recovery, so can I. Gingerbread, this one’s for you. I toss with all my might, over the guard, and the shot sinks in. “BASKET!” The Ambler crowd jumps for joy. The score’s now Fort Washington 18, Ambler 5. Just about everyone but Darla slaps me on the back. “Awesome! Way to go!”
“Great teamwork, Maggie!” Coach Williams shouts.
Darla sidles up and whispers, “Just beginner’s luck, Shorty.”
Yeah, right, I’ve only been playing this game ever since I could lift a ball!
But the next time I attempt my bounce-pass to Lucy, the Fort Washington guard steals it, races to the basket, and scores. Somehow, my touch is clumsier, slower. Somehow, the Fort Washington guard’s touch is greased, totally on target. Five times the burly guard sinks it in, to resounding cheers from Fort Washington—and the next thing I know, the game’s over and we’ve lost.
“Sorry I couldn’t come to cheer you on. Had to help someone in my math class,” Sunita explains as we walk to the lunchroom. “How did the game go yesterday afternoon?”
I smell hamburgers and fries, normally my favorite, but I’ve lost my appetite since yesterday’s embarrassing loss. “Not so great, Sunita. I only scored two baskets.”
“Two baskets—that’s wonderful!” Sunita pats my arm.
“Yeah, but I fumbled the rest. I don’t know what came over me. Fort Washington smeared us.” I sigh. “Maybe it had to do with Darla saying my baskets were just beginner’s luck.” I drop my backpack at our regular table, grab a tray, and get in line.
“Sounds like she psyched you out,” Sunita replies. She chooses salad, a bag of spicy peanuts, and fruit juice.
I’ve managed two bites of burger and a sip of OJ when Brenna comes bounding over. “Hola, amigas!” She unzips her cooler and unwraps sliced green peppers, a pita sandwich with sprouts and hummus, and a carrot soda. Yuck. Way too healthy! Brenna’s the only one among us who still brings her lunch to school. She claims the cafeteria food is full of hydrogenated oils, sodium nitrate, and food coloring. Whatever. I’ll take school burgers and fries any day.
“I had so much fun in Costa Rica. We hung out with giant sea turtles and learned about their yearly egg-laying ritual on the beach!” Brenna grins. “I didn’t miss Ambler one bit—except for Dr. Mac’s Place and you guys. Fill me in, please.” She takes a bite of pita and chews. Sprouts poke out of her mouth like new seedlings.
“We had quite an afternoon the day before yesterday,” I start. “First of all, Gran recruited a new volunteer—Taryn Barbosa from our old elementary school. She’s only in fifth grade.” I roll my eyes.
“She is a bit young, but Dr. Mac says that Taryn’s great on the clinic phone,” Sunita says, pouring spicy nuts in her palm and crunching a mouthful. Sunita is so diplomatic.
I tell Brenna all about Gingerbread, her stress fractures and nasty cuts, how she almost stopped breathing during surgery, and what a relief it is that she’s starting to pull through it all. “The weird thing was, her owner, Roselyn, wouldn’t tell us where she lived or even give her last name. Roselyn seemed nervous about something, don’t you think, Sunita?” She nods.
Brenna turns to say hello to Darla, who’s carrying her lunch tray past our table. “Hey, Darla, come sit with us.” Brenna waves her over. Darla spots me and hesitates. “Come on, Darla, don’t be shy.” Brenna pulls out a seat.
Darla, shy? You’ve got to be kidding!
Darla sits and opens her milk carton, looking uncomfortable.
“We’re lab partners,” Brenna explains. “Maggie, Darla, Sunita, have you all met?”
“Darla and I are both on the basketball team,” I say stiffly. Darla offers a half-smile.
“Hello,” Sunita says. She glances at Darla with curiosity, having heard my tale of woe.
“So go on, Maggie,” Brenna urges. “Tell me more about the greyhound.”
I’d rather not have Darla knowing all about Dr. Mac’s Place, but Brenna’s putting me on the spot, so I have no choice. “Gran said it looked like the greyhound had a racing injury. We asked Roselyn if Gingerbread was a racing dog. She got nervous again but said she had no idea.”
“Greyhounds are cool,” Darla says, flipping back her blond ponytail. “I have a retired racing greyhound named Hoops. He’s the best dog in the whole world.”
“Great,” I reply halfheartedly.
“Do racing dogs make good pets?” Sunita asks. “It seems like they’d be kind of hyper.”
Darla takes a gulp of milk, then continues. “They’re actually very gentle, but there are certain things you have to know about retired racing dogs.”
“Like what?” asks Sunita.
Darla gestures with her hands as she speaks. “They often have no experience with streets or with staying close to their owners, so until they’re retrained, their owners can’t let them run free. Hoops used to run off. We had to retrain him little by little.”
“Hoops—cute name,” Brenna chirps.
“Thanks,” Darla says. “Hoops is a champ at catching passes.”
“Could he sink this?” I ball up my napkin and toss it into the nearest trash can, way over by the lunchroom door. “Score!”
Sunita and Brenna clap, but Darla’s expression sours.
Sunita smiles patiently. She knows I don’t act like a jerk unless I’m uncomfortable.
Riiiinngg. Saved by the bell! I jump out of my seat, never so thrilled to race off to my English class. Who knows, maybe I’ll
even be inspired to join the discussion of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. “Catch you girls later.”
Chapter Five
On Saturday morning, Gingerbread’s still feverish, but her temp’s down a degree and her foreleg is less swollen. I’ve given her as much TLC as I can while making sure she gets tons of rest and sleep. Fletcher’s been going out with me and Sherlock, my basset hound, for brief walks, bundled in a warm coat. The vaporizer and antibiotics have made his coughing fits manageable, and he’s starting to act like his old self again.
There’s no more snowfall, but it’s absolutely freezing. All our windows have icicles and starry frost formations. There’s a foot of hardpack, and if Podge’s surgery wasn’t scheduled for this afternoon I’d be racing down Pine Needle Hill on my sled with all the other kids in the neighborhood. All, that is, except David, who offered to shovel the walk up to the clinic. He really is a pretty good guy.
I open the clinic door to see how he’s doing. A blast of cold freezes the lining of my nose. David is shoveling his way up the clinic stairs.
“Can I help?” I offer.
“Your timing is perfect. I’m almost done.” He pulls his gloves off and blows on his red fingers. “Actually, you could salt it down.”
“Sure. You should get inside. Looks like you’re working on a case of frostbite.” I open the bag of rock salt and scoop some up in an old coffee can.
“Can’t. I gotta scoot. Mr. Quinn’s expecting me.” David puts his gloves back on and hops on his bike. He works two afternoons a week at Quinn’s Stables in exchange for riding lessons. He’s as crazy about horses as I am about dogs.
As I shake salt in zigzags over the icy cement steps, a gold SUV speeds up the drive. A stout woman in fur boots and a dress coat steps out, clutching a bloody towel and crying, “Emergency!” Whatever she’s got in there must be in bad shape.
I hold the door open. “Come right in.” I escort her toward the Herriot Room.
Gran looks up as we enter. “I’m Dr. MacKenzie. What can we do for you?”
“I’m Mrs. West,” the woman says. Her voice sounds shaky, as if she’s trying not to cry. “My little kitten, Missy, got attacked by my neighbor’s dog. He bit her badly.”
“Let’s have a look.” Gran helps Mrs. West lay the towel gently on the examining table and open it. We all gasp. A young kitten, once white-furred, is now red-furred. Her head leans sideways, blood pumping from a wound in her neck. Gran quickly grabs some gauze and applies pressure.
Poor kitty. Dread creeps through me.
“I had to pry that greyhound’s jaws off poor Missy. It was just horrible.” Mrs. West blinks back tears.
A greyhound did this? Darla said greyhounds were gentle.
Gran presses her intercom. “Taryn, would you bring me a new chart? Also, tell Brenna to prepare the recovery room and be ready for us. Maggie, prepare for surgery, please.”
I scramble into scrubs and wash with antibacterial soap.
“Can you save Missy?” Mrs. West’s unsteady voice cracks.
“We’ll do the best we can. I’ll know more after we treat her for shock and stop this bleeding. Has she had her rabies shots?” Gran asks.
“Yes. All her inoculations.”
“That’s good. These bites are deep. We’ll leave them open and treat for infection, but the wound on her neck has a major vessel torn and some muscle damage that will need immediate attention,” Gran cautions. She administers a painkiller, then cleans Missy’s shoulder area and inserts an I.V. with electrolytes for shock. Next, Gran collects some blood to type it, in case Missy needs a transfusion later.
Taryn records info on the chart as I dictate: “Missy, white female cat, four months old, multiple puncture wounds, loss of blood resulting from muscle tear and lacerated vessel. Patient in shock.” Taryn seems to be keeping her cool at her first sight of gore—not bad for a beginner.
“Thanks, Taryn,” Gran says. “Just set the chart on the counter, then show Mrs. West to the waiting room and cover the phone.”
“Sure, Dr. Mac.” Taryn escorts Mrs. West out.
“Maggie, we’ll need clippers, antiseptic wash, a suture pack, and bandage material,” Gran says as she hooks up Missy to the heart monitor. My own heart beats double-time. There’s an awful lot of blood. I’m glad that Sunita’s not here. She loves cats so much, she’d be terribly upset.
Gran shaves the kitten around all bite areas. There’s the deep one on her neck and another on her back. She gently checks Missy’s frail body, including her neck. “No broken bones.” The kitten hardly makes a sound. I clean each injury with antiseptic and continue to apply pressure with gauze to the neck wound to reduce blood loss. As with Gingerbread, Gran decides not to put Missy under general anesthesia because she’s too weak. Instead, Gran injects local anesthetic. Once the area is numb, she slowly removes the gauze and spots the pumping vessel. She uses hemostats to clamp the vessel shut.
“Now that I’ve stopped the bleeding,” Gran says, “I can suture the torn muscle in place and then close the skin with a final layer of stitches.” When Gran’s finished, we clean up and bandage the wound.
“Missy has lost a significant amount of blood,” Gran says. “Maggie, go find Socrates. He’s the same blood type as Missy.”
I run into Gran’s office and find Socrates in his usual place—sitting in the middle of the desk on top of all Gran’s papers. I pick him up quickly and take him to Gran. Socrates may have an attitude, but he knows when Gran means business. The swish of his tail is the only indication that he’s less than happy to give blood. I hold him still while Gran draws blood from his neck with a special syringe that keeps the blood from clotting. Gran slowly administers the life-saving cells through Missy’s I.V. catheter.
We watch the blips on the heart monitor, uneven and faint. Gran looks as solemn as I feel.
I whisper softly in Missy’s ear. “Sweet thing, try to pull through.” The kitten’s ribs shudder in and out.
Gran pages Brenna to bring Missy to the recovery room. She sighs and removes her gloves. “Maggie, let’s debrief Mrs. West.”
In the waiting room, we explain to Mrs. West what we’ve done.
“Then she’s going to be OK, Dr. MacKenzie?” Mrs. West looks doubtful.
“Time will tell, but there may be internal injuries we don’t know about yet. Some animals can handle major trauma like that, but others…well, we’ll hope for the best.” Gran gazes at Mrs. West. “You say your kitten was bitten by your neighbor’s greyhound?”
“Yes.” She nods. “That dog came racing into our yard and attacked Missy for no good reason. Missy must have climbed out of her box in the garage and wandered onto the lawn. That woman next door does not know how to control her dogs! They’re always getting out of their pens. Just last week there was still another dog, whining and limping around.”
“What’s your neighbor’s name?” I ask. Gran shoots me a quizzical look but doesn’t say anything.
“Roselyn. Roselyn Drescher.” Mrs. West shakes her head. “I don’t know her very well. She keeps to herself.”
Roselyn? How many Roselyns with greyhounds could there be in Ambler? “The dog that was limping, was it a reddish color?” I ask.
“Why yes, I think so.” Mrs. West smooths the wrinkles from her dress. “Why?”
“The dog and owner sound similar to a client who came in here a few days ago,” I reply.
Mrs. West’s mouth curves downward into a frown. “If anything happens to Missy…”
Brenna bursts into the waiting room, her eyes red and teary. “Dr. Mac?”
“Yes, Brenna?” Gran turns.
“We lost Missy. Her heartbeat just stopped.”
Mrs. West explodes into sobs. “My Missy!”
Each time we lose an animal, my heart breaks. I can’t help picturing that little kitten in the greyhound’s jaws.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. West,” Gran says gently. “We did all we could. Would you like to bring Missy’s body home with you?
”
Mrs. West nods, then looks at us with quiet anger. “Those dogs are dangerous. I’m going to demand that the one who killed my Missy be put to sleep, or I’ll sue.”
When she’s finally out the door with the kitten’s tiny body wrapped in a towel, I turn to Gran in the waiting room. “There are no bad dogs, only bad owners—right, Gran? Maybe that greyhound had a reason for what he did. I hear they’re very gentle dogs.” I can’t believe I’m actually quoting Darla, as if she were some big expert. “Let’s talk to Roselyn. There’s something odd going on, and I want to find out what it is.”
Gran nods wearily. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll ask Dr. Gabe to cover, and Brenna’s here, too. Taryn, can you stay a while longer? Dr. Gabe may need your help.”
“You bet.” Taryn beams. I swear, she’s like an overeager puppy dog. Annoyance pricks at me. I go to get my coat.
Chapter Six
Isn’t this Mrs. West’s road?” I point to a street sign off to our right. What if it’s not the same Roselyn who brought in Gingerbread? If it is, will she be angry we tracked her down? My heart skips a beat as Gran turns onto the hilly road.
“Maggie, remember, there are always two sides to a story.” Gran looks over her glasses at me.
“Of course, Gran.” I nod.
Gran parks in front of number 23, a smaller house than the rest, with an overgrown lawn and scrubby pines lining the porch. A whirligig twirls in the wind by the walkway. Looking closer, I see it’s a wooden dog with spinning legs.
We walk up to the porch. I gather my nerve and press the bell. Dogs bark from behind the house—two or three distinct yaps. The curtain slides back an inch, a lock clicks, and the door opens. Sure enough, it is the same Roselyn—same short hair and big green eyes in a nervous face.
“Hello, Roselyn,” Gran says.
Roselyn looks from Gran to me. Finally she asks, “Is Gingerbread all right, Dr. MacKenzie?”
“Gingerbread’s pulling through fine,” Gran answers.
End of the Race #12 Page 3