Fight for Life

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  Brenna puts her hands on her hips. “Timeout!” she calls. “What’s going on?”

  “Everything! Gran has banned me from the clinic until my grades come up. I live here, but I can’t work here. I have to write a stupid report or I’ll flunk social studies. What’s worse, there’s a guy running a puppy mill around here somewhere. Who knows how many puppies need to be rescued. And oh yeah, I almost forgot, my starstruck cousin from New York is coming to stay with us for a while. Gran is expecting me to wait on her hand and foot. Yippee.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot.” She sits cross-legged on the floor. “The report is the easiest thing to fix. Work hard and you’ll get a good grade. Then Dr. Mac will let you back in the clinic.”

  “You don’t get it. Even when I work hard, I get Ds and Fs.” I can feel my face turning red. “School is what I have to sit through until I can come back home. I could study twenty-four hours a day and I would still fail. I am not a good student. I know it. My teachers know it. I wish Gran would just accept it and leave me alone.”

  We both stare at the same spot on the floor for a minute.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not your fault. Here.” I grab a piece of paper and quickly jot down some numbers. “This is what you need to feed the boarders.”

  Before Brenna can say anything, David and Sunita walk in with Gran close behind. She has a “to do” list for each of them. David has to scrub the boarding kennels, and Sunita can watch Gran operate the autoclave, the machine that sterilizes Gran’s instruments.

  “All right. Let’s get to work, everybody,” Gran says. “Maggie—in the house.”

  From the look in her eye, I know better than to argue. I turn and leave without saying a word.

  Banished, that’s what I am.

  I set up my homework at the kitchen table, and then spend the next two hours doing everything but homework. I turn on ESPN, but there’s a golf tournament on. Boring. I try to play ball with Sherlock. He falls asleep. I stretch out on the couch and try to sleep, but thoughts of all the sick pups in the clinic and the puppy mill keep my eyes wide open.

  Finally, just as I’m ready to settle down and study, the front doorbell rings. I open it and find a girl with long blond hair standing on the door-step and a taxi pulling out of the driveway.

  “Hi, Maggie! It’s me, Zoe!”

  Chapter Ten

  Gran heats up some frozen lasagna and opens a can of corn for dinner—a normal meal for us. Zoe starts to make a face when she sees what’s on her plate, but then she claims that lasagna is her favorite food. I can tell she hates it. She eats the corn one kernel at a time and mashes the lasagna into paste while she fills Gran in on her “wonderful” life in New York City.

  “I went to a private school that has the worst uniforms on the planet, but I did get to go on good field trips. We went skiing once. In Switzerland.”

  I look across the table at Gran. Who ever heard of a school taking kids to Switzerland? Gran shakes her head slightly to signal me to keep quiet.

  “What I really like to do is to visit Mom when she’s filming at the television studio,” Zoe continues. “Everybody on the set knows me and says hi to me. You wouldn’t believe how many autographs I have!”

  “Do you have a pet?” I ask.

  “We lived in a penthouse where pets weren’t allowed. Animals are cute to look at, but they’re kind of messy. Do you have any sparkling water?”

  I get up and pour a glass of water from the tap. “Sorry, this is it.”

  She puts it down without taking a sip. “Mom says there are more kinds of sparkling water in Los Angeles than you can count. I can’t wait to get out there.”

  “Your mom sounded excited about the new job,” Gran says.

  Zoe drops her fork and lays her hand on her cheek. “I know! Isn’t it amazing?” she says, eyes wide. “She’s been waiting for this break for years. A sitcom is just one step away from a major movie deal, you know.”

  I nod as if I really understand what she’s saying. Zoe hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw her. She’s bubbly, perky, and too dramatic. Her clothes look like they came off a magazine cover. Her hair has a little of the MacKenzie red in it, but it’s a lot lighter than mine. She thinks animals are messy. She does not have one single freckle. How can we be related?

  Gran lets Zoe talk on and on and on and on until I think I’m hearing bees buzzing. I clear the table and excuse myself. “Homework,” I say, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Later, when Gran shows Zoe to the bedroom next to mine, I press my ear against the wall to hear what they are saying. Gran is laughing, but I can’t make out the words. When was the last time Gran laughed with me?

  I bet Zoe gets straight As.

  If Gran is going to be so busy with Zoe, then this is a great time to sneak into the clinic and check the pups. I tiptoe down without a sound.

  Shelby and Inky are fast asleep in their pen. The collies’ tummies are rounder, and it seems like they all have normal temperatures. But poor little Dinky is back on an I.V. drip. I read his chart. He still isn’t eating or drinking.

  I can hear Mitzy barking in her kennel. I wonder if Brenna took her for a walk. She has lots of energy and needs exercise.

  One of the collies wakes up and licks my hand. “You want me to stay with you?” I ask him. He gives me a big yawn and blinks his eyes. I think he’s the pup who had diarrhea all over Sunita. “You need a name, little guy. What should it be? Oops? No, that’s no good. Lucky? No way.”

  The pup makes a little noise and a big smell.

  “Whew! That stinks! I know what to call you—Beans. You know, ‘Beans, beans, the musical fruit . . . ’” David will get it, even if Gran doesn’t.

  Beans nibbles on my thumb. I am falling in love. Who could harm such a cute, innocent thing? It makes me so angry that this guy is out there making money off these helpless pups. I’ve got to track him down, with or without Gran’s help.

  Gran and Zoe walk in. Uh-oh. I’m caught. Gran raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t yell at me. We are both on our best behavior in front of our guest.

  “It’s adorable!” squeals Zoe in a high-pitched voice guaranteed to make dogs howl. She runs over to Beans, picks him up without supporting his bottom, and lays him over her shoulder. Before Gran or I can say anything, Beans has another accident all over her very fashionable lime green shirt.

  “Ewwww! Gross!” Zoe shrieks.

  I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

  Zoe dumps Beans in the pen and runs out of the room with Gran right behind her.

  I check the puppy to make sure he isn’t hurt. He has this puzzled look in his eyes, as if he’s wondering what he did to deserve that kind of treatment.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “She should know better. Pick up a puppy, a sick puppy, and you never know what’s going to happen.”

  A few minutes later, Gran comes in as I’m cleaning up the mess.

  “Are you sure we’re related to her?” I ask.

  “Get upstairs and finish your homework,” Gran snaps. “It wasn’t nice of you to stand there and laugh at her. She has a lot to get used to.”

  “But the look on her face was funny.”

  “I’m very disappointed in you. Go to your room.”

  I don’t get it. Usually Gran has no patience with people who turn up their noses at a little puppy poop. But now she has no patience with me.

  I slam the door that divides the kitchen from the clinic and storm back up the steps.

  Sherlock wakes up from a nap when I slam the door to my room and flop on my bed. He jumps onto the bed and waddles toward me.

  “Go away,” I grumble, pushing him to the other side of the bed.

  He climbs onto my pillow and licks my face.

  “Stop it! You have bad breath!”

  Sherlock understands me. He always knows how to get me out of a bad mood.

  He sits up and turns his baggy eyes toward my desk where my books are pi
led up.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Start the extra-credit report.”

  I drag myself into my chair and open my notebook. Let’s see, I have to explain how laws are made in my report. Ms. Griffith told me to connect it to a topic that interests me. So I try to find a way to sneak in information about basketball, but it’s hopeless. As far as I can tell, the Pennsylvania state legislature hasn’t passed any laws about hoops.

  I look at the clock. Gran is still down in the clinic. She’s been down there over an hour. Something must be wrong.

  “I’m not supposed to go down there,” I tell Sherlock. He lifts his head off my pillow. “But I don’t think that applies if there’s an emergency. Let’s go and see if Gran needs help.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gran has Mitzy, the airhead Airedale, stretched out on the table in the operating room. She whimpers as Gran gently prods her stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure yet. She was acting antsy, couldn’t settle down or stop barking.” Gran listens to Mitzy’s stomach with her stethoscope and feels her abdomen with her hands. “She’s got some air in her stomach, and probably lots of food. How much did you tell Brenna to feed her?”

  “Exactly what we always feed her. I even wrote it down. You don’t think the puppies brought in an infection and Mitzy got it, do you?”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  Gran and I turn around. Zoe is standing by the door. She has changed into a black sweatshirt.

  “Mitzy here has a bellyache,” Gran says.

  “It might be bloat,” I say.

  “Could be, but she’s not in that much pain,” says Gran. “Bloat is when a dog gets too much food and air in its stomach. Sometimes the stomach twists, and it can be very dangerous,” she explains to Zoe. “That’s why I want to keep an eye on her. Maggie, help me get her down. We’ll put her in the recovery room. I’ll take an X-ray if it gets any worse.”

  Zoe follows us to the recovery room. She kneels by the puppy pen as we struggle with Mitzy. Now, of course, Mitzy wants to sit. She doesn’t want to go into the cage.

  “Let me try something,” I say. “Mitzy, lie down.”

  “Don’t be silly, Maggie. We don’t want her to lie down,” Gran says. “We want her in the cage.”

  “It worked yesterday. She gets things mixed up. Mitzy, come on, honey, lie down!”

  Mitzy gives me a mournful look, then steps into the cage. Gran fusses over her, getting her settled in comfortably. I sneak a look at Zoe. She’s leaning over the puppy pen. She’s not picking up any of the puppies, but she’s petting them gently.

  I stay with Mitzy for a minute, stroking her nose. “Don’t worry, Dr. Gran will help. You’ll feel better in the morning, just hang in there.” Mitzy thumps her tail once.

  Suddenly Zoe gasps and makes a funny noise in her throat. I ignore her. Gran shouldn’t let her in the clinic if she’s going to keep freaking out about little things. I rub behind Mitzy’s ears. “Instead of teaching you how to sit, maybe we’ll just go for a short walk tomorrow. Does that sound good?”

  Zoe gasps again. Gran looks up from the notes she’s writing. “Zoe?”

  I turn around. Zoe bites her lip. I scramble over to the puppy pen. Zoe points to Dinky.

  “It—it’s not breathing,” she says. Dinky is very, very still.

  Gran is next to us in a flash. She quickly checks Dinky for signs of breathing and a heartbeat.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “He’s gone, Maggie.”

  Bounce. Bounce. Swish.

  Bounce. Bounce. Swish.

  Shooting baskets in the driveway always helps me feel better, even when it’s late at night. Especially when it’s late at night.

  Bounce. Bounce. Thunk. The ball clangs off the rim and rolls into the shadows. Darn. Now I won’t find it until the morning.

  “You didn’t bend your knees enough,” Gran says as she steps out of the darkness holding the ball. “Watch.” She dribbles once, bends her knees deeply, and shoots. The ball bounces off the top of the backboard and lands at my feet. No basket.

  “You pushed it,” I say. “Use your wrist and follow through.” I pass the ball to her. “Try again.”

  She dribbles twice and arcs the ball perfectly into the net.

  “Not bad,” I joke. “For a grandmother.”

  “Let’s see you do it.”

  I grab the ball and back up until I’m at the three-point line. I shoot. Air ball. It doesn’t even get near the net.

  “I’m going in,” I say. “I can’t do anything right.”

  “Stay,” Gran says. “I think we need to talk.”

  “About what?” I pick up the ball.

  “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  I shoot from right under the basket. The ball goes in. “It’s been a horrible couple of days.”

  “I’m sorry Dinky died. He was the sickest of all the pups.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You’re angry at me because I’m letting the other kids volunteer.”

  I don’t answer. Instead I make a layup.

  “You’re angry at me because you’re grounded.”

  I dribble behind my back and make a jump shot.

  “I bet you’re angry about Zoe, too.”

  I shoot too hard and the ball bounces over to Gran. She holds it. “Talk to me, Maggie.”

  “It feels like I don’t live here anymore,” I say with a sigh. “There are all these—these people everywhere, and you’re mad about school, and my teacher thinks I’m not trying when I really am. It’s been so busy, we haven’t been able to talk, and I’m really, really upset about the puppies. Can’t we just forget that test? I’ll do better on the next one, I promise. Tell the kids you don’t need them, give Zoe a ticket to L.A., and help me find the puppy mill.” I try to steal the ball from her, but she holds on tight.

  We stand for a second, both of us clutching the ball. Then Gran lets go.

  “You’re right,” she says. “It’s been such a zoo around here I haven’t had a chance to think about what all this means to you. Tell you what. We’ll keep the kids around until the puppies are healthy and your extra-credit report is done.”

  “But—” I begin. Gran raises a finger.

  “But nothing. You have to do the report. The faster you do it, the faster you’re back in the clinic. Maybe one of the kids could help you. They’re all pretty nice.”

  “Ummm.”

  “OK, Maggie. Once the report is in and the puppies recover, the other kids go home. Happy?”

  “What about Zoe?”

  Gran’s jaw tightens. “Rose and I talked this evening. We decided it would be best for her to stay until school gets out.”

  “But that’s nearly three months! I thought it would be, like, three weeks.”

  “So did Zoe. But she’s putting a good face on it.” Gran smiles. “She says maybe she’ll train one of our animals to be a movie star.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “She seems determined. Reminds me of you in that way.”

  I dribble back out to the three-point line. “OK. I do the report and the clinic goes back to normal. I’ll be nice to Zoe, and she’ll go away, in a while. What about the puppy mill?”

  “I’ll call the sheriff and give him the information we have, but I doubt it will be high on his list.”

  “We’ll find the creep. I know it,” I say, then turn toward the basket. “She shoots!” I release the ball and it swishes through the net. Perfect. “She scores!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I wake up feeling better. By the time I get dressed, I have a plan. I know how I’m going to find the puppy mill. The trick is to get Gran to the farmer’s market.

  When I go downstairs, Zoe is already in the kitchen looking in the pantry.

  “Don’t you guys eat around here?” she asks. “You don’t even have any flour. If you had flour, we
could make pancakes. Ethel taught me how. Of course, you don’t have any maple syrup, but we could have put jam on them . . .” She stands lost in thought, looking at a box of Cheerios. I take the box and pour myself a bowl.

  “Gran isn’t much of a cook. I can’t remember her ever making pancakes. We eat a lot of take-out.” That doesn’t sound good. “We’ll probably go to the store today.”

  Zoe puts a piece of bread in the toaster and opens the spice cabinet. Be nice, I tell myself. Make conversation.

  “Who is Ethel?” I ask.

  She taps her fingernail on the counter. “Our housekeeper.”

  “Your cleaning lady taught you how to cook?”

  “She wasn’t a cleaning lady, she was a housekeeper. She ran the house—cooked for us, made sure mom got up in time to get to the studio, helped me with my homework. Ethel was the best.”

  “Is she in L.A. with your mother?”

  “No. Ethel moved back to New Hampshire to take care of her sick brother.” Zoe takes a plastic jar of cinnamon out of the cupboard and looks at the date on the bottom. “This is almost as old as I am! Ugh!” She tosses it into the garbage with a shiver. “Do you ever order in breakfast?”

  “Did somebody say breakfast?” Gran asks, coming into the kitchen from the clinic.

  “Not unless you call toast ‘breakfast,’” Zoe says as she wrinkles her nose. “Something’s burning.”

  I leap across the kitchen and pop up the toast.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to tell you about the toaster. You have to watch it every second or it turns your toast into charcoal.” I lift the charred bread out with my fingertips. “Like this.”

  “I’ll make you a piece,” Gran says. “Just let me wash my hands first.” She rolls up her sleeves and turns on the faucet, then squirts liquid soap on her hands and scrubs so hard that lather drips into the sink.

  “How are Mitzy and the puppies?” I ask Gran.

  “Everybody came through the night safely. Mitzy’s stomachache is gone, but I want her to have very small meals today.” Gran rinses the soap off her hands and dries them on a hand towel decorated with bloodhounds.