Fetching (4 page)

Phoebe looks at her and back to us. “We like Boggle here,” she says. I think she's falling for it. She is probably the smartest, most academically gifted person I know,
and yet
. I sigh.

“Oh, I love Boggle.”

“You do?” Phoebe asks. Mandy gently puts her hand on top of Phoebe's, as if to try to bring her back to reality.

“Well, sure. And Clue. And Candy Land. And…”

I glance over at Delia, whose eyebrows are pulling together with concern. The Scattergories timer dings, but words beginning with
E
have been forgotten. There's only one word running through my mind. It, however, begins with a big fat
B
.

“You really like Yahtzee?” Joey asks, hopeful. Oh, no. Him too? “What about Stratego?”

“Straget…Strate…” Brynne tries. And then a laugh roars out of her, like a ripping lung, and she doubles over.

“Miss Shawnson!” Ms. Greenwood's voice belts out from the back of the room. “I suggest you. Get the heck. Out of here!”

“
Oh. Em. Gee.
” Brynne is still laughing as she stumbles to the door. “You all are such—
dweebs
!” There's a ripple of laughter outside the door from Brynne's portable, eavesdropping audience.

“Miss Shawnson!” Ms. Greenwood rips off her glasses and stands up. Her head wiggles like an angry bobblehead.

But Brynne's gone—we hear the scuttle of her and her fan base running down the hall.

“Never mind her,” Ms. Greenwood says. She takes a deep breath, pulls a hand through her gray, fluffy hair, and sits down. “Carry on,” she tells us with a flick of her hand. As if the whole incident was nothing more than an irritating mosquito.

We all look sunburned with embarrassment. Phoebe is nearly purple. Delia's eyes are wide with shock. Joey stares down at his blank list, biting his lower lip. And Mandy, whose words are dripping with sarcasm, says, “So, Delia. You still think a good talking-to will do it, huh? Maybe a nice heart-to-heart? Over some tea, perhaps?”

“Oh! I quite like tea,” Phoebe says, unhelpfully.

Mandy lowers her face into her hands.

“I'm just saying. I could try. Anyone have any better ideas?” Delia asks, exasperated. She looks around at us. We're quiet. “I didn't think so.” And then she picks up the letter die and rolls an
L
, and I set the timer. We drown our sorrows in the game until the bell finally rings.

I am heading down the hall with Mandy and Delia when the PA system screeches on and our principal, Mrs. Vander-Pecker, reminds us to “evacuate the building in an orderly fashion.” Like it's a fire drill or something instead of a normal bell. She also reminds us that campaign parties for class president will be forming within the next few weeks and that all candidates will receive extra credit for Social Studies. “Remember, everyone has a shot at becoming the next class president. This means you,” she says in her old-lady voice.

“Ha,” Mandy says. “What a joke. Watch Brynne Shawnson become president again, for like the fifth year in a row.”

“It's not like you'd ever
want
to be class president,” I say.

“Oh, I don't know.” She shrugs. “It's more like no one would ever vote for me.”

“
We
would,” Delia offers.

“Gee, thanks.” She smiles. “Maybe in another lifetime.”

A horn honks and I jump. Corny's waving wildly from the pickup. “Hurry up, Liv,” she calls. “You've got an app—”

“Coming!” I yell, before she can blast the news that I've got to go see my therapist to the entire school. She might as well just hang a neon sign on me, announcing damaged goods. “I better go. Dentist appointment,” I say. Delia gives me a knowing look. She's the only one of my friends who knows that my own
mom
doesn't want to be with me. Lucky for me, I can trust Delia.

“Didn't you just have one last week?” Mandy asks. Which is why it's good to keep track of your lies.

“Cavities,” Delia says, covering for me. “I keep telling her she's got to brush better.”

Which is why it's good to have a best friend.

CORNY'S HAD ME
in therapy since I came here to live with her. She says it helps to have someone to talk to, but I really think she's just worried that the crazy gene I'm carrying around, thanks to my mother, is going to rise up and do something awful. She shouldn't worry. Not that I don't have the crazy gene—everyone who knew my mom tells me how much I remind them of her, so I'm pretty sure I
do
. But the difference is that my mother's crazy gene made her run away and leave my dad and me, forcing me to move in with my grandmother, while my crazy gene will probably drive me to devote my life to watching
Full House
reruns and playing Scrabble. Alone. I think it probably makes you do whatever you would do if no one could tell you that you weren't allowed. So yeah, at least I don't expect my crazy gene to hurt anyone, but still, it's not exactly the path to social acceptability.

My therapist isn't an actual therapist—not yet. She's still in psycho school and I'm her guinea pig, so it's basically a discount version of the real thing. Sometimes my
whole life
feels like a discount version of the real thing. I mean, my family split at the seams like a cheap pair of underwear, and here I am hanging by a thread. If my life were, say, a sock, it would be the one stitched shut on both ends, with the heel halfway up the calf, selling for seventy-five percent off. At the dollar store.

Not that I talk about this with Moncherie. That's my therapist's name. She's not French, but her name sort of is, and whenever she says it, it sounds like she's got something stuck in her throat. Anyway, Moncherie may be twenty-six years old and well out of middle school, but still, sometimes I feel like she's going to laugh at me and spread rumors. So I have a policy. I don't tell her anything that I wouldn't want written on the bathroom walls.

Usually, that is.

But today, for maybe the first time ever, Moncherie hasn't brought up my mother, a topic that practically makes her salivate. Not even once. I mean, she seems to be listening to me and is completely ignoring her checklist of questions, which are: 1. How does that make you feel? 2. How do you feel about that? and 3. How would you describe what you are feeling?

In fact, she's acting so interested that I almost expect her to peel off her face and reveal a different identity. I find myself telling her about the ketchup packet. And not only that, but everything I can possibly think of about how Brynne and her friends have made my life miserable. I'd almost forgotten about the time last year, when I was new to the school and even more clueless, that Brynne and Tamberlin stopped me in the locker room to tell me there was a call from my grandmother. I started to worry, and asked if she was okay—I mean, she was old even
then
. And they said, yes, that she was fine, but she'd asked for her panties back.

Get it?
Granny panties
—which is what the cotton underwear I've always worn is called when you get to middle school. I don't know if grown-ups realize this, but being forced to take off your clothes in front of strangers is a serious form of abuse that wouldn't be tolerated in any other setting, except for maybe jail.

Today, Moncherie has on a boxy-looking yellow blazer that looks like it was pulled out of a time warp. She's got her notepad on her lap and her pen in her hand, but instead of taking notes, she's twirling the pen like a baton between her fingers, which are nicely painted in glittery blue. Her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open a little as she listens.

“She sounds like a real you-know-what,” she says, shaking her head.

I smile. “You can say it. Corny does. It's just means female dog.”

She gives me this you-know-better-than-that kind of look. “Yes, well, Corny works with
dogs
. In the dog world, maybe it's not a dirty word. But in the human world, well, it's just not very nice.”

The dog world
is
a strange world. Dog people get away with all sorts of shocking words that would land most kids my age in detention. If, for example, you were in school and were to even form your lips around the words
shih tzu
—which is just the name of a fancy-schmancy kind of dog you see in dog shows—a team of assistant principals would be circling you in no time.

“So,” she says, clearing her throat, “speaking of dogs, how's the training been going?” She always likes to hear about the dogs we work with, the different problems they start out with. There was one dog, Cosmo, a German shepherd who would go into attack mode if he saw a tail wagging, even his own. Corny trained him last year, and I helped. And then there was Dinah, the spoiled Chinese Crested that treated her owner like an indentured servant. And then there's Bella, who lives with us now. She used to be obsessed with wood. Her owners gave her up because she couldn't stop chewing on their doors and banisters. But I helped Corny train her, and she's been wood-free for almost six months.

I tell her about Loomis, the dog who gets majorly pissed off when he sees someone riding a bike, and how, as part of the training, I will have to do exactly that—
just so
he can get mad and Corny can correct him. Yeah, fun. And I tell her about Kisses, the dog that's afraid of grass—yes,
grass
! Corny and I are supposed to meet Kisses today, right after our session.

“Sounds like you're doing well with the training,” Moncherie says, and gives me a huge smile. “Now if only school could be so easy. Too bad Brynne's not a dog, right?”

“Right,” I say, and laugh. Even though she sort of is, just not the kind I'm allowed to say out loud.

WHEN CORNY TOLD
me about a grass-fearing dog with a wimpy name like Kisses, this wasn't at all what I expected. But here we are, parked in a driveway, sitting inside the pickup, staring through the windshield because every few seconds a howling, pointy-eared, batlike creature pops into view over the hood.

“Are you sure that's a dog?” I ask Corny, as Kisses jumps into view again.

“Yep. A Mexican Hairless,” she says over the weird creature's howling.

I snort. These dog breed names can get really ridiculous. Then it all becomes even funnier to me because a balding man who could be described as an American Hairless pokes his head out of the screen door and yells something at the dog, which we can't really hear over the howling.

“Poor Mr. Dewey,” Corny says, waving to him. “He's got his hands full with this one.”

But I'm thinking this Kisses is about the size of one of Ferrill's paws, so I'm wondering how much of a wuss this Mr.

Dewey is. “Shouldn't we get started?”

Corny puts her hand on my arm. “Don't let her size fool you, Olivia.”

“Um, didn't you say this dog was scared of grass?”

“She was bitten by a snake a couple of months ago. Since then, she won't step foot anywhere near grass, and she's been using Mr. Dewey's carpet as her personal toilet,” Corny explains. “She's really insecure. Remember what I told you about insecure dogs? You have to take them very seriously. If they sense weakness, they might attack. Understand?”

Weakness. Ugh. After a few days of middle school, I probably stink of it. But I say, “I know!” I mean, this dog's about the size of my thumb.

Corny takes a breath and opens her door just as Kisses howls again and pops back into sight. The dog sees the open door and makes a scrambling motion in midair. With the same frantic motion, she makes it past Corny, through the open truck door, and is a fraction of a second away from sinking her tiny but sharp-looking fangs into my bottom lip. Lucky for me, Corny is quicker than the evil Kisses. She scoops the dog away with one hand, managing to save my life. Or at least save me from several stitches and a tetanus shot.

You'd think this near-death experience would mean that my grandmother would call it a day, take me out for ice cream, and station me in front of the TV for the evening with a bell to ring when I want something.

Instead, we're still here in Mr. Dewey's driveway. He's sent the bat-dog inside, and I'm perched on the bumper of the pickup as Corny talks with him. Kisses wails from behind the storm door. It turns out that the near-attack on my bottom lip wasn't just a random thing—and neither is the name “Kisses.” No. In fact, Kisses has “kissed” her owner a few times before. “But only one time required stitches,” Mr. Dewey said earlier, in his dog's defense. I noticed a faint scar along the edge of his lip.

Corny is asking him questions. “What kind of rules do you have for her?”

“Rules?” Mr. Dewey looks confused. “Well, I'd prefer, of course, that she'd go outside to relieve herself.”

I know Corny doesn't like that answer.

“And is she allowed to jump on the furniture?”

He laughs. “Allowed? Well, I don't
allow
it, really, but she has her own mind about that. But then, she's not a shedder, so it's not too big of a problem.”

Mr. Dewey doesn't know it, but he's failing this interview. Miserably.

“How much exercise is she getting?”

He looks down again. “Well, I used to take her on walks, but now she's a lot more difficult to manage.”

F
, Mr. Dewey.
F
. You have officially earned an F on this interview. Even I can see that.

“Mealtimes?” Corny asks. “When are they?”

“Well, I just feed her when she's hungry. She gets a little antsy if she has to wait.” He chuckles a little, but I notice his fingers go up to his lip scar.

I sort of wish I could stop him from talking now. It's like watching a train wreck happen. Thankfully, Corny stops questioning him. “The problem,” she says, “is that Kisses thinks she's in charge.”

“Well, that's just—” He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “I mean, that just can't be. Look at her—she weighs twelve pounds.”

“She could weigh twelve pounds or a hundred and twelve—it wouldn't matter,” Corny says to him. “Look, I know you love your dog. But right now Kisses is in charge, and as bossy as she may get sometimes, she really doesn't want all that responsibility. Someone's got to be a pack leader—and if you won't take over that role, Kisses will, whether she wants to or not. It's instinct.”

I think back to what Moncherie said, that it's too bad Brynne's not a dog. But isn't she acting just as mean and bossy as Kisses? Could this same thing be true about her?

Mr. Dewey takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I appreciate your insight, but I actually called you here because of the grass problem. I have to walk her in the street. She's afraid of the lawn, she's terrified of the park, and my house—well, inside, it smells like a kennel. Most of my friends have stopped visiting, and the one or two who still do, Kisses does her best to scare off.” He looks up at us, his frustration edging up his eyebrows.

Corny nods patiently. “Dogs are pack animals, and they need a pack leader, an alpha dog. Usually, in the case of pets, a human takes over that role and the dog can relax and just enjoy being part of the family, the pack. But when the owner doesn't take leadership—” Corny interrupts herself. “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Dewey?”

He looks confused, but he answers, “I'm a chef.”

“Perfect,” she says. “So when an owner doesn't take charge, it's like having a restaurant with no chef. Someone's got to do the cooking, right?”

“So, what are you saying? The dog—does the cooking?” Mr. Dewey asks carefully, looking at her sideways.

I imagine Oomlot standing on his hind legs, wearing a poufy white hat and an apron, stirring a pot of stew on the stove, and stealing all the little chunks of meat out of it, as I know he would.

“So to speak,” Corny says. “Except the dog really doesn't want to do the cooking. It's a lot of responsibility, and it requires a lot of decision making. All that cooking is very stressful for the dog.”

In my mind, Oomlot rips off the apron and storms out of the kitchen. The situation is made funnier to me by the serious looks on Corny's and Mr. Dewey's faces.

“So,” Corny continues, “the dog starts to snap at people. She growls. She doesn't know what to do, and no one wants to tell her what to do because, frankly, they're getting a little scared of her.”

Mr. Dewey nods slowly, still serious.

“And things set her off. Say one day a plate falls on her toe. She's so anxious and insecure that she starts to develop a fear. It may be irrational, but that's what the dog feels.”

Mr. Dewey is hanging on Corny's every word, and something about their seriousness makes a laugh bubble up in me. It comes out as a snort.

Corny turns. “Olivia, are you okay?”

“Sorry, just thinking. Fear of plates,” I mutter.
Snort, snort
.

Mr. Dewey glances over at me like he's almost forgotten that I'm here. “No, actually, I think your grandmother means the fear of grass. She was just using plates as an example,” he tells me, like I'm stupid. I fight the urge to ask whether that means dogs don't really cook either.

Corny shoots me an
I know, I know
look and pats the back of my hand.

“So where do we start?” Mr. Dewey asks.

“With body language,” Corny tells him. “We're also going to let her work some of that energy off. You're going to take her for a walk.”

His eyebrows raise. “Oh, I don't know about that. She doesn't listen. Last time I tried, she wore me out.”

“Actually,” Corny says carefully, “last time you tried, I'm sure she took
you
for a walk. This time, you're the pack leader.”

He scratches his bald head and squints a little.

“Let's take a deep breath,” she tells him. He inhales.

“Now, stand up tall. Really tall,” she says. He laughs like it's silly, but straightens up, and seems to grow an inch or two.

“Think about relaxing your face. Your doubts are showing.”

His eyebrows even out.

“Great,” she says. “Now think confidence. Think dignity. Think calm, cool, collected.”

“I'm trying,” he says.

“Now. She walks right next to you. If she gets ahead, you stop. If she howls, you stop.
You
are in charge.” She smiles at him. “
You
are the chef.”

He opens the door, sweeps up Kisses, and carries her back out like a football. The dog gives me a dirty look as she's carted by. I think about how she bypassed Corny to try to attack me when we first arrived, and I wonder what that says about me and my own place in this world. So un-alpha. And I realize that I've been letting Brynne and her groupies lie all over my furniture and pee all over my carpets. It has to stop.

I watch Mr. Dewey and Kisses walk—if you can call it that—along the pavement, far away from the grass. He steps, she runs ahead, he stops, her harness pulls her back. This is repeated over and over. Even though it's probably the most awkward dog-walk ever, I can already see a little change take place. It's becoming slowly believable that Kisses may be just a strange little dog and not a direct descendant of the devil. Maybe just a third cousin, tops. And Mr. Dewey is becoming a taller, smarter, calmer version of himself.

You know, it's funny how many things your body can say about you, even when your mouth is completely shut.

And I begin to think that Moncherie might have actually, for the very first time ever, given me a good idea.

Perhaps even a great one.