Girl's Best Friend (4 page)

Chapter 7

♦     ♦     ♦

When I went to collect Preston after school on Friday, I found Isabel’s apartment in shambles. The couch cushions were askew, clothes were spilled from her coat closet, and her living room rug was half rolled up, revealing a patch of wood floor that was distinctly lighter than the rest.

“What happened?” I asked Preston, who was lounging on his dog bed under the window.

His bored expression told me—quite clearly—nothing new.

I once read somewhere that dogs have a sixth sense about danger. When they get scared, their fur spikes and their tails curl between their legs. Sometimes they bark like crazy. And if things seem really bad, they’ll whimper.

Preston looked perfectly at home, which should’ve brought relief.

But the place was so eerily silent, it made my spine tingle. It just didn’t make any sense. Where did Isabel go when she disappeared? How could someone so loud and large seemingly vanish in an apartment so small and cramped?

“Hello?” I called out in vain. “Isabel?”

My voice seemed to echo. But it had to be my imagination. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Preston stood, stretched, and lumbered over.

“Where is she?” I asked him as I crouched down to scratch his neck with both hands.

Suddenly someone knocked on the door. It made me jump. And the next thing I knew, something creaked and slammed and then Isabel came waltzing out of her bedroom, like everything was completely normal.

“Oh, hi, Maggie.” She seemed surprised to see me, yet managed to shift from a healthy stride to a painful-looking limp in half a heartbeat. “You’re early today. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

I shrugged, not wanting to tell her my true reason for being ahead of schedule. I was avoiding the Pizza Den. No way could I face Milo after yesterday.

Isabel hobbled past me to open the door.

It was Chloe, who lives on the second floor. Chloe’s a full-time librarian and a part-time drummer in a retro punk band called the Dewey Decibels. They perform every weekend—sometimes in the city and sometimes in Brooklyn. She keeps inviting me to shows but they always happen past my bedtime. Plus, I’m only twelve (or will be tomorrow) and I can’t get into bars.

I have heard her sing, though. Usually when she’s in the shower because the sound travels up along the pipes. Her voice is so pretty and professional-sounding, sometimes I think it’s the radio I’m listening to.

“Hi, Chloe,” said Isabel. “Lovely of you to stop by. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, I’m off caffeine, plus I’m already late for rehearsal.” Chloe waved her drumsticks as if she needed proof. Her hair was long, blue-black, and shiny, and it bounced whenever she moved. “I need to talk to you about something—mice.”

Isabel gasped and brought one hand to her chest, like the mere mention of any rodent would send a thousand swarming. “Dreadful creatures.” She shuddered.

Chloe nodded. “I agree. And I’m pretty sure they’ve moved in.”

“You mean here?” Isabel asked. “Impossible.”

“I heard
something
scurrying around in the walls last night.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the television?”

Chloe nodded. “Positive. There was definitely movement. It sounded pretty loud. Kind of clumsy, too.”

Isabel reeled back as if offended. “Well, I can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about.”

When Isabel gets upset, she cops a British accent, and this was one of those times.

Chloe must have known this, too, because she didn’t even blink. “They might even be raccoons. My boss lives on Fifteenth Street and she found five of them in her basement one night. It was quite the ordeal.”

“Sounds like it,” said Isabel. “It’s lucky there aren’t any here.”

“As far as you know,” said Chloe. “But you might want to investigate. Especially in that back bedroom—the one with the bay window and the crawl space—”

“There’s no crawl space there—just a door that’s been sealed shut for years,” Isabel said, interrupting.

“I know,” said Chloe. “But I’m telling you, that’s where I heard the noise. Maybe some mice got in.”

“Impossible! That wall is solid. And if this is an attempt to withhold your rent, I’ll have you know that you’re paying well below the market rate because you’re a fellow artist. This building has a long tradition of housing creative types. Did I ever tell you about Al Flosso, the Coney Island Fakir?”

“You mean Brooklyn’s most amazing and underrated magician?” Chloe asked.

“You’ve heard of him?” Isabel asked, excited.

“Yes,” said Chloe. “From you.”

“He built this grand residence,” Isabel went on, sweeping one crutch through the air with dramatic flair. “Was trained by Houdini within these walls. If only he hadn’t made such an unfortunate choice of a stage name. Houdini—now that’s a memorable name. But Al Flosso, the Fakir? At best, it’s laughable. And at worst, forgettable.”

“I know, I know,” Chloe said tiredly, like she’d heard it all before. (And I knew precisely how she felt.) “But this problem is only going to get worse if you don’t address it now.”

“Maybe it was Glen,” Isabel said. “He can be loud and clumsy.”

Glen lives on the third floor. He’s tall and skinny with a shaved head, and Isabel’s right. He’s always dropping things. And lugging his clunky bike up and down the stairs. Glen is a bike messenger/guitar player who gives music lessons out of his apartment—another noisy venture.

“It wasn’t Glen,” said Chloe. “Not unless his students happen to be rodents.”

Isabel frowned. “Well, that wouldn’t make any sense. I hardly think any rodent could afford his rate. Not to mention hold a guitar. They don’t have opposable thumbs, you know.”

“That’s not what I … ” Chloe stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Look, would you please call an exterminator? Or at least set some traps?”

“I’ll look into it,” said Isabel. “But really, dear, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’m sure this is all in your pretty little head and whatever you heard won’t be back.”

Chloe blinked curiously. “Okay, but I don’t know how you can sound so sure … ”

Isabel stood as tall as she could while also leaning on crutches. “I’m quite confident that in the twenty-five years I’ve lived here, these walls have seen a lot of things, but mice are not among them. Now, did I ever tell you about the time I starred in a show opposite Nathan Lane? He once—”

“Yeah, you did,” said Chloe as she headed for the door. “And it’s a fascinating story. More fascinating every time I hear it. I wish I had time now, but I really need to run. See ya, Maggie.”

“’Bye!” I waved.

Once Chloe was gone, Isabel turned to me and said, “Mice! Can you imagine?”

I shivered involuntarily. I didn’t want to be the type of girl who got queasy in the face of mice, but I couldn’t help it. The icky creatures creeped me out! So I changed the subject. “What did you lose this time?” I asked, pointing to the mess.

Isabel said, “Nothing. I’m just doing a little spring cleaning.”

“It’s almost October.”

“Never too early to get started. Or too late, depending on how you look at things. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Nathan Lane.”

“So you found the ring yesterday. Right?” I asked to distract her, but I also wanted to make sure.

Isabel scrunched up her nose. “I did. Thank you for bringing it back, Maggie. I’m so grateful. You really have a gift, you know? Luckily, the ring is undamaged and I now know that Preston has superb taste in jewelry.”

“And it looks like your knee is getting better.”

Isabel held out one leg and stared in contemplation. “Oh, it comes and goes. The doctor tells me to take things slow, which reminds me—I made an appointment to get Preston’s nails clipped on Monday, but I don’t think I can manage. Would you mind taking him?”

I played along even though I knew Isabel could walk just fine. “At what time does he need to go?”

“Three o’clock. The place is right down the street on Sixth Avenue and First Street.”

“Is that some new vet?” I asked, since last time I took Preston to a place on Prospect Park West.

“It is. His old place was so expensive. I’m sure they were overcharging me, and I just got this coupon in the mail.” Isabel handed me a postcard—orange with bold black letters that read,
NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS: DR. REESE, VETERINARIAN. KIND. GENTLE. REASONABLE RATES.

“Sure, I’ll take him.” I pocketed the card.

“Thank you, dear. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Probably fake-limp less, I thought but didn’t say. Instead I found Preston’s leash underneath a pile of sequined throw pillows, clipped it to his collar, and headed out the door.

Chapter 8

♦     ♦     ♦

Bean seems to be having a hard time walking in her new cape. She keeps tripping on all the extra material. I think it put her in a rotten mood. More rotten than usual, I mean. You might want to think about returning it. Or at least getting the thing tailored. Other than that, she did her business, gobbled down her snack, and only snarled at two people and three other dogs. So all in all, we had fun. Thanks for the cash.

See ya Monday!

Maggie

For all the trouble I have with Bean, I do appreciate that her owner, Cassie, pays me with crisp new bills every Friday. It almost seems like they should be worth more than wrinkled old ones. On the other hand, Cassie and Parminder pay me the same amount of money per walk, and Bean is way harder to deal with than Milo, so I guess it all balances out.

I finished my note to Cassie and hurried downstairs to pick up Milo—my last walk of the week.

“Hey, guy!” I said as I opened the door.

As usual, he greeted me with a cheerful bark and a vigorous tail wag. Then he jumped. “Easy, buddy,” I said, and I crouched down to his level so I could pet him some more. But then he wouldn’t stop licking my face, so I stood up.

Once I got him to sit still long enough for me to clip his leash to his collar, we walked into the park at Third Street. It’s my favorite entrance because of the gigantic bronze panthers flanking each side. They look so dignified up on their tall white columns, chests puffed, gazes forward, super alert like they’re protecting the whole park somehow, at least in spirit.

We walked straight through them and headed past the playground on the right. A thick row of trees separated us, so even though we couldn’t see the children, we could hear their shouts and laughter drifting through the leaves.

Farther in, the smells of burgers and hot dogs wafted over from the barbecue pits by the Picnic House, making my stomach grumble and probably Milo’s, too, since he kept trying to tug me closer.

“No, we’re not gonna go there,” I said, pulling on his leash. “And in case you were worried, don’t be. Hot dogs aren’t really made out of dogs.”

Sometimes even I’m surprised by how corny my jokes are. Good thing no one heard. No one with opposable thumbs, that is. And there I go again. But I guess it’s okay to think dumb thoughts sometimes. It’s the saying them out loud part that gets me in trouble.
I walk a dog named Milo
, for example? Why had that seemed like the right thing to say?

I hurried Milo past the Picnic House. He soon grew distracted by a large black mutt. The two dogs sniffed each other a bit. Then we moved on, Milo stopping to investigate the occasional tree, and me kicking the occasional rock.

Once Milo did what he needed to do, I still didn’t feel like going home, so we headed over to the nature trail. It’s on the opposite side of the park and is dense with trees. The farther in you go, the more shaded it becomes. By the time we got to the thick of it, the air felt damp and the temperature dropped by what seemed like ten degrees. I felt as if I’d strolled into a fairy-tale forest. As long as I overlooked the smashed beer cans and random empty packages of Fritos, that is.

The waterfall flowed nearby, but otherwise all was silent save for my footsteps and the quick pitter-patter of Milo’s paws against the dirt. It was peaceful. Comforting, even.

At least until I heard something strange up ahead—first just a rustling. Then some twigs snapped.

Suddenly Milo stopped sniffing and raised his head. Ears perked, he pulled me forward with a force so strong I had no choice but to follow.

As we turned the corner I saw what the fuss was about. Milo had found another dog—a little fluffy white one. Not a poodle, exactly, but still French and fancy looking. I exhaled in relief, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“Hey there,” I said to the dog, trying to figure out what breed it was. Maltese? Bichon frise? Shih tzu? Or some crazy new hybrid? I couldn’t tell and was so focused that I didn’t even notice the guy at the other end of the leash.

Not until I heard the sharp gasp of breath. Clearly someone was surprised to see me, and not pleasantly so.

I looked up suddenly, and I locked eyes with him—Milo!

Yeah,
that
Milo.

My first instinct was to run. Hide. Just disappear. But it was too late.

Obviously, he saw me. And for some reason, he seemed more freaked out than I was. His eyes darted from side to side, like he was searching for an escape route. But we were on a narrow path and there was nowhere to go.

He had no choice but to move forward. Something he did with dread, like I was Vice Principal Mackey and he’d just gotten caught flushing firecrackers down the teachers’ lounge toilet.

Which, let me assure you, did wonders for my self-esteem.

I mean, obviously Milo thought I was a total freakazoid or he wouldn’t look so panicked, right? Why, oh why had I bothered to try and speak to him at Pizza Den yesterday? What made me think I ever had a chance?

And while I was asking myself questions, how come all the pretend conversations I had with Milo in my head were so much easier—so much better—than our real-life actual ones?

I guess I just preferred admiring Milo from afar. Something I wished I could do at the moment. But he was already looking at me, so I couldn’t turn around.

We had to speak. Yet, so far all I could manage was a gulp.

I told myself to act normal. Which is a surefire way to look weird.

As in way dorky.

I smiled. Then I worried my smile was too big. Or maybe too nervous looking. So I stopped smiling. But I didn’t want to appear unfriendly. So I took a step forward and he did, too. And then we were so close one of us had to say something, and it didn’t seem like it was going to be him.

“You never told me you had a dog,” I blurted out. “Hello” would’ve been more appropriate, I guess, but no one ever accused me of being the smoothest conversationalist.

I swallowed hard.

“Hey, Maggie,” he said carefully.

“You know my name?” I asked—again with the absolute worst response.

Milo smiled—small with his mouth closed. “Sure, from science.” He pushed his bangs out of his eyes.

“Oh yeah. I know. I was just kidding.” I forced a laugh, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t exactly been funny.

“So this is Milo?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“You told me you walked a puggle back at the Pizza Den, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” So he
had
heard me.

“Or is this another puggle? Do you specialize in the breed?”

Was he joking? Probably. But I couldn’t tell and I didn’t want to take the risk, so I answered him honestly. “No, I walk all sorts. A Maltese, an Irish wolfhound … and um, well, actually those are my only three clients right now.”

Milo’s mouth twisted up in a way that told me he
had
been kidding. So now he probably thought I had no sense of humor.

“He’s cute,” he said, smiling down at Milo.

“Thanks,” I said. “I mean, he’s not mine or anything. I just walk him. But he’s my favorite. One of my favorites, anyway. I actually like all the dogs I walk.” Just then the image of a snarling Bean dressed in a sparkly sequined sweater-vest popped into my head. “Well, most anyway. Who’s yours?”

Milo didn’t answer me. Not right away. Instead he looked around, like he was afraid someone would see us together.

“Know what?” he asked, taking a step back and tugging lightly on the leash. “I forgot but I’m really late for this, um, thing. So I’ll see you later.”

He turned around and took off without another word. Running so fast, his little dog could barely keep up.