Alone at 90 Foot (11 page)

When we returned two weeks later, peace had been restored. Mrs. Grewal danced with a smile on her face. Mr. Jones smoked happily. My grandma read her book, with three others stacked in a pile beside her. At one o'clock, the physical therapist came in. They did their exercises without any complaints. They followed their routine. They all seemed content. They were sick and old.

I'm not. And I sure am getting tired of Rudy Lantz, Mr. Bartell and my same dull face.

June 9th

Dad and Jenn took me out to buy a puppy last night. She's sleeping on my lap as I write. She is so adorable you just can't believe it. She's a basset hound, she's twelve weeks old and her name is — guess what? — Emily. Jenn helped me with that. Her ears are so long, she trips over them when she walks. She takes a step, trips on her ear, does a somersault and starts again. I'm allowed to keep her kennel in my room, as long as she sleeps in it during the night. I couldn't make her last night. She looked way
too neglected with her sad eyes and nose sticking out between the bars. I let her curl up next to me on the bed. I mean, seeing as it was her first night away from her mother. As if I don't know what that feels like that.

It was quite a surprise. I was just coming in from a walk in the canyon. Dad and Jenn were sitting at the kitchen table. They had these looks on their faces like they knew something I didn't know. Not something bad, but like something they wanted to tell me, but they were going to have some fun with it first. By playing it real cool. You know the kind of humor, kind of feeble.

“So, what's up?” asked Dad when I came in the door.

“Nothin',” I said. I dropped my backpack on the floor next to the refrigerator. I looked at Dad. Then over at Jenn. They both had these big smiley eyes. “What
is
up?”

“How was your walk in the park?”

Dad won't call it the canyon. He won't even hint that it's anything other than this green playing field, where, unless you're playing some contact sport, you could not possibly get hurt. He hates me going down there. He tried to forbid me at first. We had this big argument when it finally came out that he was afraid I might do what Mom did. We both ended up crying when I told him I had a little
more common sense than that.

“It was alright. Mrs. Marshall's still looking for Krissy.” I poured myself a glass of juice. “She's got hip waders on and she's stumbling down the creek, trying to peer through the water. But she's not looking for Krissy's body. Just Krissy's pink sweater. She's absolutely convinced Krissy's still alive.”

As I answered his question, the smile in Dad's eyes faded. “How do you know what she's thinking?”

I shrugged. “I asked her. The thing is, her eyes are so bloodshot, everything she sees must be through a haze of pink. Everything must look like Krissy's sweater.” I finished my juice. “So, what's up?”

Dad took a minute to tear himself from what I had said. He reconfigured his smile. “As you know, Pam, I'm not too crazy about you walking in the park all alone.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad, haven't we been through all that? I'm not going to do anything stu — “

Dad interrupted me by holding his hand up for silence. “So, we're going to get you a companion.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of companion? Some bald Mr. Clean to walk five steps behind me with his thick arms crossed wherever I go? Some ... some — “ See, I was kind of ticked off because Dad says these things sometimes that really mean, in his
not-so-subtle way, that he doesn't trust me. And I wish he'd quit it, because it's really insulting. Well, and okay, maybe just once in a while it's my fault. Maybe once or twice I've jumped to conclusions. But if it weren't for his attitude, I wouldn't get so stressed out.

Jenn wasn't sure if she should giggle or not. Mainly because she doesn't know about Dad and his attitude yet, and why I was all hyped up.

Dad just glared at me, waiting for my seizure to blow over. “No, I was thinking more like a dog.”

It took me only a second to forgive him. “Really? A dog?”

“Really,” said Dad. His smile returned. “Jenn knows a good breeder in Richmond. What do you think?”

I had wanted a dog for a long time, and Dad knew it. I had asked for one many times. I'd asked for a kitten, a hampster. I'd even said, “Well, okay then, how about a white rat?”

To which Dad had made this face like he had worms in his mouth. “A rat?!”

“Some people think they're good pets.”

“Yeah, weird people,” said Dad.

It wasn't that Dad didn't like animals. The problem was Dad's old collie, B.B., who died when I was three. Dad had had him since he was a teenager. He told me he was the smartest dog there ever was. He
had a sixth sense. All Dad had to do was think of something he needed and B.B. would show up with whatever it was. Like the time Dad was standing on a ladder, fixing the siding on our house. A story I've heard about a hundred zillion times in my life. Dad realized he'd left the hammer in the basement. He started to climb down. Sitting on the ground at the base of the ladder was B.B., with the hammer in his mouth. Dad knew he couldn't replace B.B. So he wouldn't even try.

“When can we go?”

“How about right now?”

And that's how I acquired Emily. I could tell right away she was the creative one of the litter. She figured out how to squeak the toy football I gave her faster than any of the other pups. And she was curious, but not pushy, just cautious. I gave all the puppies a treat. Emily sniffed hers, but she watched her brothers and sisters eat before eating it herself. I picked her up. When she licked my cheek, I just knew she was the right one. Then Dad took her, and she licked his cheek. “Yup,” he said.

Everyone's a sucker for a pup.

Wait until I tell you about taking her for a walk in the canyon after school today. Actually, it was more of a carry. I just wanted to show her around. I carried her to where the wooden bridge crosses the creek. I stayed away from Ninety Foot. I thought
the roar of the water might scare her to death. Like I said before, it can be pretty terrifying for someone who's not used to it. Even if you
are
used to it, for the first few minutes it always reminds you of how puny you really are.

We'd walked down to the creek and were on our way back up again. I was carrying her up the ten billion steps from the bottom of the gorge to the world above. She can't handle steps yet. Up or down.

Anyway, guess who's leaning against the railing at the top, talking to a couple of friends? I'll give you a hint. I was all hot and sweaty and out of breath, my hair looked like it had been styled by a lightning strike and I was wearing total grunge clothes in case Emily peed on me. It was Matt Leighton, of course. Leaning there, all calm and cool, with shoulders gorgeously stooped. And one very wicked smile.

I couldn't exactly turn around. So I continued to huff and puff up the steps, like some kind of squinty mollusk finding its way out of the dark. I thought it best to keep my head down and talk to Emily. He might not notice me slither right by. It didn't work. I was almost at the top when I saw him make a sign to his friends and move away from them. He was waiting on the top step.

“Those are killer steps,” he said. “Here, let me
take your puppy while you catch your breath.”

I was so shocked to hear him speak to me, I didn't mean to, but I clutched Emily tighter to my chest.

“It's okay. I like dogs.” He smiled as I let him have Emily.

His grin took what little breath I had left completely away. Say something. Quick, Pam, you doorknob. I dug out this memory of him playing with Mr. Spinelli's German shepherd, Lupus.

“I know what you like,” I wheezed in this hoarse voice like some kind of telephone pervert. “I mean, I know you like dogs.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know?” Interested, he pet Emily.

“I saw you.” I felt so stupid. He probably thought I'd been following him around. “I mean, I passed you on the street and saw you playing with Mr. Spinelli's dog.” My breath had returned. Matt seemed quite satisfied with my answer.

“Ahh, yeah, well, you'd have to be heartless not to give him a little attention. He's such a nice dog.” He gave Emily a squeeze.

Oh, to be Emily in your arms, Matt Leighton. To be held against that amazing bod.

“What's his name?”

“Lupus.”

“Hey, Lupus,” he stroked Emily's chin, “you've
got the same name as Spinelli's dog.”

“Oh, no — he's Emily. I mean, he's a she. She's Emily. I thought you were still talking about Lupus. You know, Mr. Spinelli's dog. Because, I mean, since we'd been talking about him, just like — “ Oh, this is good. Keep blundering on, Pam. I'm sure he's really impressed by now.

Matt was laughing. He spoke to Emily. “Tell her not to sweat it, Emily. Know what? I like your name. It's musical.” He looked at me. “What's yours?”

“Mine?” I punched my finger to my chest. Matt studied my face. He studied the woods behind me. He looked over one, then the other shoulder. He glanced to his left, and then to his right. Clearly, as any numskull could see, there was no one else around. Grinning, he looked back at me. “Yeah, yours.”

“Pamela. Pamela Collins.”

“My name's Matt Leighton.”

Like, no duh. As if I didn't know. “Hi, Matt.” “Listen, Pamela. Can I walk with you? Are you on your way somewhere?”

All I could think of was why he'd have the least bit of interest in walking with me, when he had the likes of Danielle Higgins. It had to be Emily. I mean, like I said, everybody's a sucker for a puppy. “Sure, if you want to. I'm on my way home.”

The end of this completely unbelievable story is that Matt Leighton walked all the way down Ross Road with me, down Hoskins and down my street to my house. Sometimes he carried Emily. Sometimes I did. And for a little stretch, she waddled between us. Standing outside my house, he talked about his dog, Swat. He talked about his job at the Westview Safeway. He told me he'd seen me many times in the canyon. Lying on the white rock down by Ninety Foot. Soaking up the sun. Looking very content with my life. He told me he goes there a lot himself. You know, just to figure things out. And he never once mentioned Danielle Higgins. Then he said, “Well, see you.” And I said, “Yeah, see you.”

And that was that. And I discovered that I really like him. I mean, aside from his wicked grin and perfect body. Although, I'm sitting here with Emily on my lap, trying to figure out what that entire thing was all about.

June 10th

Joanne's grounded Saturday night and can't go to Mike Ortega's party. This means I won't be able to go with John Robbel. Oh, poor me, I'm in such distress.

She called Mr. Bartell a slippery old coot, and it got back to her mom. I was there in gym class when it happened. We were doing the swing in social dance. And this time Joanne got Mr. Bartell for her partner.

It was pretty funny to watch. Mr. Bartell ripped her around the gym much faster than when I danced
with him. He huffed and puffed and yelled out instructions — that is, when he could catch his breath to talk. He taught us half-rotations, wraps and unwraps, rows and the double-cross. He demonstrated single-unders and double-unders. And all the time he had this real happy look on his face. In fact, he was so into it, I wondered why he didn't teach at a dance studio. Instead of boring old English to us.

Joanne had this totally serious expression. Sort of, like, this “Get me out of here or I might throw up” look on her face. I had to giggle with everyone else. Although I did feel just a twinge of sympathy. Having been there myself. I mean, the sweat and the breath and everything.

So, what happened was, Mr. Bartell did one of those double-under things and suddenly swung Joanne away from him. Joanne's hand slipped from his, she lost her balance and fell on her butt. Mr. Bartell helped her get back up again. He apologized all over the place. He felt real bad about it, I could tell. He said it was his fault. She wasn't expecting it and he should have warned her. But from experience, I suspected differently. Because of the major sweat factor involved, it was hard to hang onto his hand. Whatever. He told us to get into partners and he let Joanne go.

I know Joanne was real embarrassed, and that's what made her as mad she was. She was angry with
herself more than Mr. Bartell. Still, as she walked back toward us, she muttered, “It wouldn't have happened if he wasn't such a slippery old coot.”

She didn't know that Mr. Bartell was directly behind her. Which would have been alright, because he didn't hear her. The problem was, Danielle did. And because Danielle had never got over the fact that Steve Adler had gone for Joanne and not her, she would never miss a chance to humiliate her. Not one chance in her entire life.

Facing Joanne, watching Mr. Bartell come up behind her, Danielle stepped forward. “What did you say, Joanne?”

“I said — I fell because he's a slippery old coot!”

Everybody around her went quiet. Including Mr. Bartell. It was one of those situations you wish you could rewind and live through over again. After considering if it was worth hurting whoever got hurt.

“Joanne?” Mr. Bartell said after a few silent moments. His scraggy beard was tilted in the air. And his thin lips were set tight.

Joanne's eyes grew huge as she realized he had heard what she said. She was silent as she turned around.

“I just wanted to make sure you're alright?”

She nodded quietly. “Uh-huh. Yes, I'm alright. Thank you.”

Mr. Bartell clapped his hands. “Alright, class.
Let's hop to it. Come on. Come on! It's time to swing, everyone.” But he didn't seem nearly as enthusiastic as he was before.

Joanne turned back toward us. Her eyes bore into Danielle, declaring total, killer war.