Nobody's Dog (5 page)

Chilko sneezes beside me.

A piece of the puzzle just dropped out of the sky but I have no idea where to go from here. I wish I could remember. “Let's go,” I mutter. “This is stupid.”

We walk two more blocks along Cygnet Street but nothing gets more familiar. I get grumpier. How am I ever going to find anything like this? My eyes feel sandy. It's 2:15. At the next intersection, I turn left, then left again. Chilko follows silently. By the time we get back to my neighbourhood, I'm counting the steps to my computer. Research. I can't walk the whole city at this pace. I need a map. And my dad's star chart. He never would have thought I'd use it for anything, especially not this.

A block from where we met, Chilko crosses the road.

“Where are you going?” I ask, but then it's obvious. He's going home. Wherever that is. We meet, we roam, we go home. He's my partner. I give him a wave and watch him slip around the corner. For a moment I want to run after him. He's so much smarter than me — knows how to travel, how to take care of himself. Doesn't get worried or scared. Just lives.

Bumps and thuds echo from the kitchen: 8:54.

“Morning,” Aunt Laura says as I emerge, dressed and yawning. I must look like I thought it was a school day, but really I didn't want to sit in sweaty pyjamas for breakfast.

“So today's the day,” she says, putting toast onto a plate.

“For what?” I ask.

“Libby. Your new friend?”

“She's not my friend.”

“Right. She's your summer buddy.” Aunt Laura hands me the jam.

“God, stop it. She's nothing, okay?”

“But you're doing it.”

“Doing what? You make it sound so weird.”

She sighs, hands me a knife as I stick my finger into the jam. “You're looking after Libby. Like you promised Soleil.”

“Whatever.” I spread too much jam on my toast, the way I like it. “It's temporary. Soleil said until she found work.”

Aunt Laura looks at me. “Gee, Jakob. It's not like you've got anything better to do.”

I glare at her.

“Just treat her nicely, okay? That's all I ask.” Aunt Laura rubs her eyes. “She might actually be someone who understands what it means to be alone.”

Libby comes out of the basement suite with a pad of paper and a box of pencils, sets them up at the picnic table and starts drawing. Her long black skirt hides her feet and drags on the ground. There's a bright orange gypsy-looking thing around her shoulders. I really don't get how girls choose their clothes.

I stay on my side of the yard, half-pretending to read a book about stars. The other day I found out that Cygnus is also called the Northern Cross, which makes it much easier to find because it's cross-shaped.

“You don't have to talk to me,” Libby says suddenly. She stares at her paper.

“I'm not,” I say, stating the obvious.

“But for the rest of the day. You can just do whatever. I'll pretend you're not there if you want.”

“I don't care.” She's making me uncomfortable, but it's my yard, so I refuse to leave. We both go back to what we were doing — or in my case, not doing.

A car blasting rock music drives past the house. It's the Cosmic Turkeys, a band Grant loved — “Water From Stone,” from their second album. I whisper the lyrics under my breath until the car takes the music away.

“You know that song?” Libby asks.

“I thought we weren't talking,” I say.

“I said you didn't
have
to talk to me. If you want to, you can. It's a personal choice.”

“Well, I choose not to. You know, out of respect. You asked
me
the question.”

She takes her eyes off whatever she's drawing. “You know, I thought you were kind of cool when I first met you.”

“Let me guess. That's all changed?”

She rolls her eyes, goes back to her drawing.

The sun bakes me inside my clothes until it feels like I'll melt right here on the grass. I need water — cold, with ice.

“You want a drink?” I ask, forgetting we're not supposed to be talking.

She looks up, startled. “Yeah. Thanks. With ice, please.”

I stumble across the lawn, a little dizzy. From behind her, I get a glimpse of a drawing that fell out of her sketchbook.

I stop. “What's that?” I try to keep my voice steady. It's not perfect, but a creepy-close drawing of a black and white husky.

“It's a dog,” she says. “Doesn't it look like one?”

“Well, I wasn't sure,” I say, to cover my shock.

“Are you just going to stand there staring into space?”

I take a few steps back, not sure what to do next.

“You know, people think I'm weird but you're kind of freaky yourself,” she says.

I shrug, turn toward the house. How does she know Chilko? I'm positive it's him on the page. I bet she'd tell if I asked.
No way
, J thinks.
She's not trustworthy. She'll ask questions
.

“I should show you how to draw,” Libby says. Her voice sounds far away in my brain.

“No, thanks,” I mutter, while J tries to convince me not to say anything else.

“Well, I'm drawing you next,” she says, flipping to a fresh piece of paper.

I stare at her. She's looking through her box for the right pencil.

“I'm not posing,” I say.

“I didn't ask you to. I know what you look like.”

“That's creepy.”

“Why? It's not a nude study.”

I shudder as I slowly take the steps. My head aches a little from this strange conversation.

By the time I come back out with the water the questions are piling up inside me. There's a drawing of Chilko over there. Did she see him that night he was in the yard? I was sure he got out before she saw him, but maybe …

She's concentrating so hard, she doesn't even notice me. Her hair has fallen in front of her face. I have no idea how she can even see what she's doing. I put her glass on the table and lie down beside my book. Even with my eyes closed I see the drawing of Chilko, the rope she held up after he escaped.

Someone clears their throat. Libby's looking down at me. Up close I can see freckles on her nose. Her eyes are pale blue. She stares at me, waiting.

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted to see your portrait.”

“It's done?”

“It's just a sketch. I wanted to capture you quickly.”

The way she says
capture
makes me squirm. No wonder she has no friends.

When I don't reply, she holds the paper over my face.

I take it and sit up. Before I can say anything, she's sitting cross-legged beside me.

“It's the way I saw you the other night when you were out here.”

It's a figure, blurred around the edges, with an oversized head and huge eyes. But they are my eyes. The face looks
surprised, like it's been caught doing something. Behind it to the right is a street lamp, a stream of light coming down to the ground. On the other side of me is a coil of rope. If I was a stranger looking at this, I might think the figure was going to hang himself or something. Is that what she thinks? I'm glad there's no dog in the picture but I can't help feeling she knows too much. Maybe not from seeing Chilko that night, but it seems too much to be a coincidence. I don't want to see the next thing she draws.

“What do you think?”

“It's original. Different,” I say. I'm surprised my voice works.

“Carmen Rosemont says most people don't understand true art. She doesn't show her work to any friends or family — just has it in galleries and strangers and critics love it.” She shrugs. “I don't care if you don't like it. That's not the point.”

“What is the point?” I don't say that I'm not a friend or family member and I don't ask who Carmen Rosemont is.

She gets up, sweeps the paper from my hand. “The point is to tell a story. Even one that lasts a second. That's the story of you the other night.”

I can't argue with that. In fact, I can't really say anything. So I just stare into the sky until my eyes water from the brightness and I have to close them.

A while later, from across the yard, she says, “I'm going inside now. You don't have to babysit me, Jakob. I'll tell Mom we got along great.”

I want to apologize for something but I don't know what. Instead I say, “Fine.”

She walks across the grass with her paper and pencil box, pauses at the door. “But I do wish we got along great, you know.”

She turns inside, leaving me feeling like a loser, wanting to ask her for the drawing just so I can pretend I like it when it really weirds me out and I don't want to look at it ever again. I realize why: it's too true. The eyes, the rope. It was full of guilt, being caught in the act. It
was
the story of that second, whether she knew what happened or not.

Midnight. Chilko and I meet silently out front, a well-practiced team, and cruise down the street like ghosts. J's ready to run and he's sure it's going to be a good night. I printed out a map and traced where I think we've been already. Cygnet Street seemed even more important when I saw it on paper, but beyond that nothing stood out. I need to walk the neighbourhoods. I feel so much closer to knowing with a map and my backpack filled with water, food, a flashlight, and Chilko beside me. He glances at me with those dark orange eyes. I could hug him, but I know that's not his style.

The blip of a siren heads in the opposite direction a street over, but I automatically duck behind a tree. This is the training I need: street smarts. How to move around and not get caught. I'm so wrapped up in plans for making myself invincible that I don't notice Chilko. He's stopped. We're at the edge of Victoria Park, which is just lawns and flowers and benches that old people sit on during the day. But tonight there's something in there Chilko wants. His ears are at attention and his nose is sniffing overtime. I look into the shadows to see what he sees, but I realize what it is too late.

“No!” I shout, swiping at his tail, but he's off — after a skunk.

There's the crash of dog into bush and the
pffsshhht
of skunk letting it go, and then the yelp of a husky in pain. J swears like a trucker and I wish I could rewind the last ten seconds and steer us clear of the park.

The smell wafts over in a thick cloud and makes me feel like throwing up. I've never been this close to skunk spray before — and I guess neither has Chilko. He stumbles out of the bush, pawing his eyes. He whines and coughs. I walk backward and he walks toward me. This is one time I don't want him anywhere near.

Then I notice he's foaming at the mouth. I look around. Will he need a vet? How am I supposed to get him there?

“Whoa. That's not cool,” a voice calls behind me.

I spin around.

It's a stocky guy in a yellow hoodie and ripped jeans. “You got tomato juice?” he asks.

I shake my head. “What does that do?” I gag on the words as I inhale more skunk stench. I have to run across the street, toward the guy, to get some fresh air. Chilko wheezes behind me, but stays where he is.

Up close the guy looks familiar. He's got shaggy hair under his hood. He holds his nose but doesn't back away. “My cat got sprayed last year. You gotta wash them with tomato juice. It gets out the smell. Cans and cans of it. You got a bathtub?”

I nod, still not daring to open my mouth and let the skunk air in. I can't figure out where I know him from.

“Maybe you should call someone to help get him home.” He points to Chilko, who's pawing his face and trying to puke. “He looks in bad shape.”

How did this happen so fast? I went from having the whole night to roam with him to having a skunk-sprayed
dog that's not mine, and nowhere to take him.

“I can't go home,” I say. “He's … can
you
help me?” I stare at the guy, willing him to say yes. Does he go to my school?

He blinks, surprised. “Whoa, man. I'm on my way home. You can't take that dog inside — he'll stink up the whole house.”

“So how am I supposed to get him into a bathtub?” I ask.

“I don't know — find an outside one?”

“That's stupid — who has an outside bathtub?” I glare at him. What's wrong with this guy?

He shakes his head. “Look. I gave you some advice. I'm a nice guy. I gotta go home now. Call your mom or something.”

“My mom's dead.” I watch his eyebrows rise into his shaggy hair. J put that one in my mouth. It works.

“Aw, man. I can get you the tomato juice, but I don't have an outside bathtub, okay?” He glances at Chilko. “Look — he's not wheezing so much. That's good. Maybe he didn't get a direct hit.”

“I'm J.”

“Mason,” he says, slapping my hand. “How old are you, anyway?”

I shrug. “Old enough.”

He blinks. “Whatever, man. I work around the corner. Literally.” He points and starts walking.

A light comes on in my head. I know where I've seen this guy before.

Ten minutes later I'm standing in the back of Gerry's Corner Store, where Mason works, surrounded by boxes and cans and newspapers, waiting for Mason to find the last
can of tomato juice in the store room. He said there were eight and I've loaded seven into grocery bags, but he thinks we'll need all eight, so he's searching for it. I showed him how much money I have — six dollars and seventy-five cents — and he says he'll expect the rest later. At this point I'm happy to give him whatever he wants.

Chilko waits outside by the loading area. He's stopped sneezing and gagging but he's pretty miserable and his eyes are swollen. Mason says the tomato bath will make him more comfortable — and easier to be around.

“Here it is — you got a bucket?” Mason comes out from behind some boxes with the last can.

“I don't have anything. I can't go home with him like this,” I say.

“Won't your aunt understand? I mean, there're lots of skunks around here. Dogs and cats get sprayed all the time.”

“I don't think so. She's not like that.”

“She won't help you in your time of need?”

“You don't know my aunt,” I say. I gave Mason the basics about my living situation, but I haven't told him that Chilko isn't my dog. It's best if he knows as little as possible.

He shrugs. “That's too bad. Well, the only thing I can think of is two doors down there's a preschool. They have a plastic kiddie pool that's empty right now, and this morning I saw it on their lawn.” He points at me. “I guess you're stealing the kiddie pool.”

“Me?”

“Well, I'm in this far enough for my liking,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “You can get your hands dirty now.”

“Come on, Mason,” I say. “I don't want to steal a kiddie pool.”

“Man, this is your issue, not mine.” He turns away, grabbing a chocolate bar from a box.

“Do you get freebies here?” I ask.

“I don't have to pay for everything right away,” he mutters. “They trust me, I
work
here.”

I stare at him, wondering how I got into this mess in the first place. Oh yeah — J followed Chilko and Chilko chased a skunk and now we're all here with Mason who'll tell me what to do but won't help. I sit on a box of toilet paper and it sags under me. J has to think quick. “Do the owners check their stock room? I could come back tomorrow and tell them you're stealing their stock.”

“Nice try. It's not going to work. Just stop your fear mongering.” He chomps the chocolate bar.

“Or you could just help me now, because otherwise I'll stay here all night with my reeking dog, and maybe I'll rub him all over your store. Got enough tomato juice for that?”

“Come on. He's not a biological weapon,” Mason says.

“Oh no?” I call Chilko and his big, stinky head appears in the doorway.

Mason groans. “Fine. But you're doing all the work. I'm just lookout.”

My stomach grumbles. I take a piece of Mason's chocolate. J feels like some kind of superhero. He thinks in some insane way, this could be fun.

The street is empty and quiet. Most of the apartments are dark.

“It's over there.” Mason points.

Beside a purple house with a big preschool sign is a pink and yellow paddling pool. It's empty. It waits for us. My heart starts thumping.

“I'll stay here and let you know if someone comes,” Mason says. “Just go and grab it as fast as you can. Speed is the thing here.”

“What if I trip?” I ask. The preschool's lawn, separated by a chain-link fence, seems really far away right now.

“You'll be fine,” Mason whispers. “Go. Don't trip.” He pushes me onto the sidewalk.

A waft of skunk hits my nose. I run.

The paddling pool is the only thing in my vision, so I don't see the guy walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street until I'm already pulling the pool behind me, gasping for breath.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Pranksters! That's stealing!”

“Mason!” I shout, like he can do something about this. Why didn't he warn me? He was lookout!

Mason's running toward me, swearing. “Sorry J, didn't see him.” He grabs the other side of the half-inflated pool and we run around the corner store.

Chilko's still wheezing beside the empty milk crates, and we both hold our breath until we get the pool behind the garage door.

One minute. Two. No knocking, no more shouting. The man must have kept walking.

“You think he'll call the cops?” I ask. It seems like everything that happens to me when I'm out roaming involves the police.

Mason pants and wipes his face. “Nah. He didn't see us come in here.”

Since he messed up the whole lookout thing, I don't completely trust Mason's opinion, but we wrestle the pool out the door again and Mason goes to get the can opener.

Chilko does not like being washed with tomato juice.
He stands in the pool without struggling too much, but the whole time I pour juice over him, trying not to gag, he howls. He howls in this moaning way that's like someone died. Mason tries to make him feel better by talking to him about getting dry and not smelling like skunk, but he just keeps howling.

I use the empty can to scoop up more juice and pour it over Chilko's head. He flattens his ears and then shakes all the juice over me and Mason and the back wall of the corner store.

“Hey, man — I've got to clean this up. That's not cool.” Mason goes to find a towel.

“Just wait a little longer,” I gasp. “Soon you'll stink like tomatoes and not skunk.” The smell is still really bad and I have a feeling this isn't working. Maybe we need more juice. Maybe he's supposed to soak in it. I don't think he'll lie down in the pool for a lifetime of dog treats.

Mason comes back with some paper towel and starts wiping the wall down. “He still reeks,” he says, coughing.

“I don't think it worked,” I say. “What am I going to do?”

“Uh, go home? Confess? So you were out after bedtime — all kids get in trouble at some point.” Mason shrugs. “I got my first grounded-for-life when I was thirteen.”

“You don't understand —”

I don't get to finish my sentence because right then a car pulls up to the back of the corner store. My heart stops. I drop the can and look for a good exit. Chilko quits howling and shakes again, spraying us. There's no escape. I fly behind a pile of boxes. Mason sees me and grimaces. I send him “I'm not here” messages in my head. I just hope he'll cover for me.

A woman gets out of the car. “Mason Kreeley, what in
blazes are you doing?” she shouts. Her arms fly up as she yells. She wears a dressing gown and a really angry expression.

Mason grabs Chilko's collar, gagging at the stench. “Don't flip out. I was only trying to help,” he stutters.

“Oh, you better have a good explanation for this!” The woman stares at the tomato-spattered walls and ground and the kiddie pool and the stinky dog.

“This is Chilko,” Mason says. “He needed help.”

The woman splutters and waves her arms again. “That's Mrs. Johnson's play pool. Why is it here, with a dog in it?”

Mason winces. “We — I just — he got sprayed by a skunk.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I got that much from the odour.”

“He was pretty messed up. I had to help.”

The woman shakes her head. “Mason, you're too old to smack around, but believe me, if you were younger —”

“Yeah, I've heard it before, Mom,” Mason says.

Mom? I shift to see better behind the boxes.

“It's nice of you to help the dog, but really, Mason, you're not usually so thoughtful. Where's the owner?”

“I don't know. He's probably a stray.” He holds on as Chilko tries to get out of the pool. “How'd you know I was here?”

“Tom Webber saw you in the preschool yard and called me.” Mrs. Kreeley bends to look at Chilko, who's dripping in the pool, looking sad. “This guy's got a really bad dose of skunk. Tomato juice won't do it.”

My foot is falling asleep as I crouch behind the boxes, but I don't dare move in case I make a noise.

Mason's mom sighs. “I've got some shampoo at home left from the cat. Tie the dog up and come get it. You can hose him down and then it's up to you.” She points a
finger at Mason. “I expect all this mess to be gone by morning. Understand?” She glances at something on the floor. “You been snacking again? Remember what happened when Dad found your last pile of wrappers.”

Mason follows her to the car without looking at me.

I have no choice but to wait.

Mason comes back with the shampoo but by then I'm starting to panic. It's already 4:09. I didn't expect to be out so late. The sun will be up in less than an hour. It's cold out here too. Chilko's coat keeps him warm even though he's wet, but my hoodie is thin cotton and it's been a long time since dinner. I'm ready to eat something from the store and let Mason take the heat.

“Oh, man, the stink's even worse than before,” Mason moans, holding his nose.

“You're so dramatic,” I say. “I've been waiting for almost an hour and I haven't passed out from the fumes.”

Mason rolls his eyes. “You sound like my mom.”

“You got the shampoo?”

“Yup. But you can do the soaping.” Mason throws the bottle at me.

I catch it and let Chilko sniff it. He moans a little.

“This isn't your dog, is it?”

I look up from twisting off the cap.

Mason crosses his arms over his chest. “Whose dog is it?”

J can't ignore that one. Mason's my only ally right now. “He's belongs to a friend,” I say.