Checked

by Cynthia Kadohata

* * *

  ON THE WAY home, the sky’s as blue as it used to be—the fire’s still going, but it’s down to four thousand acres, and it’s way past where we live. You can hardly even smell it in the air anymore. Dad comments on how that’s the way life is—something huge happens, and then it passes. Your life turns upside down, and then it rights itself. But after he says this, he’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Usually. I guess some stuff is final. It doesn’t pass.” He thinks more and says, “Time passes no matter what.” He gets like that sometimes, philosophical. He’s not like that a lot. He’s mostly just interested in sports, but sometimes he likes to think heavy stuff. I wonder what my science teacher would have to say about Dad’s comment. I don’t know anything about physics, but is it true that time passes no matter what? Every so often, I like having these heavy thoughts too, like just lying around with Sinbad, thinking stuff. I wonder if someone would pay me someday to be a philosopher. Is that a thing?

  At home, we eat a bunch of peanut butter sandwiches. I walk Sinbad, take a shower, and then, in the interest of always doing my homework at the last minute, I screw around until almost nine before starting my paper on Dad. I do a little extra research, think about other things my dad has told me over the years, and write my report.

  My Dad’s a Cop

  By Conor MacRae

  My dad’s a cop. You’d think with all the stuff going on today, like all the anticop sentiment, that he might feel something about all the hate. But I’ve asked him about it in the past, and he says he just does his job as well as he can. One of the things about my dad is he says he’s not a leader-type personality. He’s a leader in situations on the streets, but not like in offices or like in changing the world or politics. Most cops are like that. The officers I’ve met are good people, not necessarily nice people. Do you see the difference? They would die for you, a total stranger, but they’re not always going to smile at you if they’re not in the mood. So you have police officers, and you have people who commit actual crimes. And then you have couples calling 911 because they’re fighting, and one of them is waving a gun around. You have drunk guys holing up in houses, claiming they have a bomb. You have a really lot of small stuff, where people call because their neighbor trespassed, or just because they’re mad at their neighbor over stuff you’d think two grown-ups could settle between themselves. You’d be surprised how often people get mad at each other. And every once in a while you get super-ridiculous stuff. My dad once had to go to a house because a woman reported that three days in a row she’d found a random stuffed-animal shark in her driveway. I don’t think that mystery ever got solved. So then you go there, and usually it’s routine, though sometimes something totally insane happens in a situation that seemed routine ten seconds earlier. Like you could go on a call because there’s a stuffed shark in somebody’s driveway, and the next thing you know someone’s firing a gun at you. It’s that crazy. Other times you get there, and there’s a really awful person involved, like so awful you don’t even want to know about it. So my dad had been a cop for seven years and been shot at, kicked, punched, knifed. People tried to steal his gun. And like the huge, big majority of cops, he’s never fired his gun in the line of duty. A lot of cops like the power of holding a gun, but they don’t like firing it. They know firing their gun can destroy both someone else’s as well as their own lives. My dad once said that he thinks if you shoot a suspect three seconds too soon, it’s not justifiable, but 1.5 seconds is okay. So you basically have 1.5 seconds to decide if you need to shoot someone who might kill you. At the same time, he doesn’t judge cops who shoot at that three-second mark. He’s just talking about what he tells himself. But he got sick of working patrol. Some good cops stay on patrol, but some quit. Dad transferred to traffic. He thought he could have a better life and get away from sad and bad stuff more if he worked in traffic. Now it seems like he mostly deals with rude people, except for maybe once a year when someone attacks him. I’m glad he’s in traffic now. And that’s the story of my dad the cop.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  MR. FALCO SAUNTERS and stomps and paces up and down the front of the classroom, always in motion. “Your family is the key to. Who. You. Are.”

  A girl raises her hand. “Is that true even though I’m adopted?”

  “Absolutely, it’s true, but maybe in your case it’s a little more complicated. But the family you know, day by day, is the biggest influence on your life. That’s why I had you write about them. You write about them to understand them, to express yourself, to know yourself. And, just as importantly, you choose them to write about because some of your most meaningful work will be about them. Got it? Everyone understand?”

  Everyone nods, and he says, “Good. I’ll go over your papers and mail them to you at home in a couple of weeks. Have a nice summer.”

  Dad picks me up at four thirty, and we eat chicken sandwiches he’s made before taking off for Garland. When we get there, I dress in a rush ’cause I’m so nervous about another pre-tryout clinic.

  Coach Dusan, who’s going to coach the peewee AAAs, doesn’t even show up for the clinic because of a family emergency. It turns out I don’t play so good, so Coach not being there works out fine. Three skaters get past me and score. I hope none of the assistant coaches tells Dusan, but I doubt they will. Even if they do, this is still a pre-tryout clinic. The actual tryout is the only thing that matters. Still, my confidence falls a couple of levels, and when we get home, all I want to do is hang with Sinbad and hope he cheers me up.

  In my room, Sinbad turns over on his back and waves his legs like a bug that can’t turn over. He does this so I’ll rub his stomach. He literally does this about twenty times a day. Usually I’ll give him a good scratch, but if I’m busy, I have to ignore him. He just keeps hopefully lying like a bug. Now I sit cross-legged next to him. He has a couple of fatty tumors that I don’t like, but his vet aspirated them and checked the fluid under the microscope and says they’re nothing. But then I scratch behind his upper back leg, and it seems swollen. It’s probably nothing, but I text my dad, even though he’s in the next room. He texts back that I should make an appointment at the vet. When I turned ten, I told Dad I wanted to be in total charge of Sinbad, and he said fine, so it’s always me who talks to the vet.

  I call Dr. Andris, and it turns out that swelling in this part of the leg is considered important enough that they say they can get me in right away; they keep late hours three days a week. So I take some cash out of my at-home stash and put a leash on Sinbad, and Dad drives me to the vet. It takes about seven minutes, and when we arrive, there are several people in the small waiting room with cat carriers. Dr. Andris is the best vet ever, but to keep his prices low, he runs a basic operation. There’s nothing much in the waiting room except old wooden chairs and throwaway magazines—a bunch of coupon booklets and about twenty copies of some paper called Aquariums: Everything You Need to Know. Sinbad is doing his half-whine, half-howl thing on account of all the cats.

  I’m dripping sweat—it’s hot tonight, but not that hot. I lean back and close my eyes, thinking about Sinbad’s leg. It’s not super swollen—it’s probably nothing. When they call us in, I push Sinbad onto the scale: ninety-two pounds, so a little under his usual. I can hear all the dogs in the hospital portion in back, howling and barking. Dr. Andris comes in. He’s this handsome guy who’s great with animals and bad with people. He’s so handsome he looks just like a photograph. And he seems like he’s in total communion with animals, but he doesn’t make much eye contact with humans, like he’s incredibly shy.

  “So what is he here for?” Dr. Andris asks while looking at Sinbad.

  “His back left leg seems swollen.”

  Dr. Andris nods. “How much does he weigh?”

  “Ninety-two.”

  He writes that down, while I unleash Sinbad. Then Dr. Andris lifts Sinbad onto the exam table. First he expertly moves his hands all over Sinbad, feeling for anything unusual. Then he checks S
inbad’s teeth. “Teeth are looking good. You still brushing them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He pets Sinbad a couple of times. “Beautiful dog.” He leans his nose toward Sinbad and says in a high voice, “You’re a beautiful dog.” Then he sighs and turns to Sinbad’s leg. He nods, frowns, stops frowning. “Popliteal lymph node. I guess we’ll need to aspirate?” he says like he’s asking me.

  “Okay.”

  He taps his lips with two fingers. “How long has it been this way?”

  “I just discovered it today.”

  He finally makes full eye contact. “Okay. Is that it?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Dr. Andris sticks a small needle into Sinbad’s lymph node, then withdraws the needle and leaves the room. He returns in ten minutes and says without looking at me, “Doesn’t look like a fatty tumor, unfortunately. I guess we’ll have to biopsy?”

  I pause, then say, “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He asks what he asked earlier: “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” I say, coming alive and leashing Sinbad.

  Dr. Andris kind of shuffles out of the room, like he doesn’t want to be noticed, which just makes him more noticeable.

  I sit in the waiting room until they get Sinbad’s chart, and then make an appointment to have the biopsy done. “So how much will it cost?” I ask. I even handle Sinbad’s vet bills myself. This was my idea too, so I could feel like he was totally mine.

  “Well,” says the receptionist. “Let’s see . . . four hundred. Did you want us to brush his teeth or clip his nails while he’s under?”

  “I already brush his teeth, but how much would it cost to do his nails?”

  “Ten dollars.”

  I feel relieved about the price. I’ve always gotten a dollar a week for each year old I am, so I currently get eleven dollars a week for an allowance. I have about five hundred fifty saved, so I’m loaded. I look around, but Dad must have stepped outside.

  When I get outside, he’s looking up at the setting sun like he’s trying to blind himself. He lays his arm around my shoulders. “It’ll be fine,” he says, but I can tell by the way he says it that he doesn’t believe it. That’s why he’s trying to blind himself.

  I don’t answer, just look at the sidewalk for a second. Then when we get home, I remember how I stared at the wall when I was kid, and that’s just what I feel like doing now. So I sit in front of a wall in my room and just stare at it for a long time.

  • • •

  When we drop Sinbad off at the vet’s in the morning, he looks at me with surprise. Last year when I made AA, we went out of town twice for tournaments, so we’ve been apart before. But it’s hard. I can hear him whining as I go out the door.

  Dad drops me off at school with my bike—it’s already third period. That’s my music class. We sing show tunes, which I don’t have a strong feeling about one way or another. Some of the kids love it, though—there’re three girls and a boy who live for this class. Lunch, history, math, study hall. Then back on my bike for home—Dad has texted me that he’s going to be late, but that he’s contacted our two neighbors. When Aunt Mo started working during the week again, Dad and I went up and down the street knocking on every door in our neighborhood, getting to know everyone. We exchanged phone numbers with about twenty different neighbors, so I could call them if something happened. Dad also installed a security system. Canyon Country is safe, though, plus Sinbad loses his mind whenever a stranger comes to the door. Dad also gave me pepper spray to keep by my bed. I’m not supposed to tell anyone that, ’cause it’s illegal for kids under sixteen to possess pepper spray in California. I also carry it with me when I walk Sinbad at night. The woman who lives next door is a stay-at-home mom, and on the other side the grandfather lives with the family, and he’s home all day. At first, being alone, I would get scared and just hang out with the woman next door. But her three kids are under five, and I have to keep a close watch on Sinbad around them. This got pretty stressful.

  I have several friends whose parents started to let them stay by themselves for short periods once they turned twelve, and other friends whose parents won’t do that yet. When my grandparents were growing up, they said you could go to school by yourself when you turned six. Different world today.

  Basically, Dad and I both do what we have to do. Dad’s gotta work, and sometimes I gotta be alone. Except with Sinbad, I’m literally never alone . . . except today I am. As soon as I’m home, I check that all the doors are dead-bolted. I place the pepper spray near the computer mouse.

  Then I go to my computer and read about lymph nodes and chemotherapy for dogs and find out that if Sinbad has cancer, it’s going to cost thousands of dollars. I’m pretty sure we don’t have thousands of dollars, so there’s only one option: he just can’t have cancer. One of our neighbors had a dog with mouth cancer who was given seven months to live unless he had five thousand dollars of treatment. The neighbor couldn’t afford treatment, and his dog ended up living for five more years, until he was thirteen. So there’s also that.

  I’ve never actually added up all the stick time and skating lessons I take, but wouldn’t it add up to thousands of dollars? I go on Excel and type in all my training fees and team costs and airfare and equipment . . . What else? Hotels for tournaments. After I’ve got all the numbers in a column, I can’t figure out how to make Excel add them up. So I do it the old-fashioned way instead. It comes out to $15,300 a year!! I check my addition—same answer. I stare at the numbers. My mind is black, total darkness. Time passes.

  The house seems so empty without Sinbad that I can hardly stand it. I try staring at the wall, but that’s not working today. I go for a walk, clutching my pepper spray. But I get only a short way up the burned-out path before I feel lonely and turn back. So I work with the medicine ball until I collapse to the ground. Fatigue is good; it’s one of my favorite things, that exhausted haze that I get into sometimes when I work out too much.

  When Dad arrives home, he sets off the security alarm, ’cause he didn’t realize I had it on. It’s even louder than when your fire alarm accidentally goes off! It kind of shakes us up.

  At ten p.m., a vet tech calls and says the surgery earlier went fine. “He’s a champ,” she says. “We could actually release him now if you can get here right away before we close.”

  For a second I get excited, but Dad’s already asleep, so I say, “We can’t do it.” I feel kind of embarrassed but add, “Can you tell him I love him?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  Dogs are super amazing—like some of them know you’re about to get home even before you get there. They’re psychic. So I know that Sinbad knows I’m lying here thinking about him, and I know he’s thinking about me. So basically, kind of, everything’s okay.

  • • •

  The next day is early dismissal, and the last day of school. We visit our new homerooms at the junior high next door. Our new teacher talks about how each year is tougher as you get older—better but tougher. His name’s Mr. Stoller. He’s famous for being tough, and unfortunately, I’ll also have him for history. Tough seems great for coaches, but I don’t really like tough teachers, so I’m kind of disappointed. For teachers, I like inspiring. He says anyone who talks during his classes will be sent to the office. Also that homeroom includes “character building.” As he turns to the blackboard and starts writing, I look at the guy next to me, and we kind of roll our eyes. A book drops to the floor, probably deliberately. Mr. Stoller has written I. Will. Make. You. Work. Hard. To. Achieve. Your. Potential.

  He has us go around the room and introduce ourselves, even though we all know each other. I get a little nervous—don’t really like talking in front of people. When it’s my turn, I say, “Conor MacRae. I play hockey. My dad’s a cop. I have a Doberman named Sinbad.” I think for a moment. “Sinbad’s at the vet.” Then I sit down.

  When school’s over, I don’t get that free feeling I usually get on the las
t day of school. I just think about how I need to make it through a lesson with Ivan so we can go pick up Sinbad. A bunch of us are outside waiting for our parents when a guy starts yelling at another guy. They’re older than me. Some of the kids get excited about the prospect of a fight. But my dad’s a cop, so I know if any punches are thrown, I gotta break it up, especially ’cause one guy’s a lot bigger and could basically destroy the other guy. I hover nearby, feeling the adrenaline flood through me. It’s pure stress—I can hear a soft buzzing in my ears. There’s a lot of yelling and then a little shoving, which some of the kids laugh at. The smaller kid starts crying. I guess this is my moment. I step up and the big guy goes, “Ohhhhhh,” like he’s excited to fight me.

  I think of a fight I saw Dad break up once and do what he did. I hold up my palms to show I mean no harm. Then I rub my face like I remember Dad did. I say what he did: “I can’t let you fight.” When he said that, the man thought about it and backed down.

  The big kid suddenly pushes me with both hands. I flounder backward but get my balance right away and surge forward, shoving him as hard as I can. When he falls to the ground, I stand with my fists in front of me, squeezed so tight it almost hurts. My fists are quivering—I guess I’m scared. The guy pushes himself up, but slowly, suspiciously. He’s bigger than me, but not that much bigger, and I’m positive I’m stronger. He shows his palms, shrugs. “You’re not the one I have a problem with,” he says, then picks his books off the ground and walks toward the parking lot.

  The little guy runs away without saying anything, and everyone moves off. I don’t actually know any of these kids—most of them are older. As they leave, one of them says, “That’s the hockey kid.”

  So I just stand there by myself, the adrenaline draining immediately so that I feel exhausted. I don’t think I’m going to be able to do Ivan, but I know I have to, ’cause at this point we’ll need to pay for the lesson whether I take it or not.