Strays (6 page)

I couldn't have said it better.

“However,” said Kevin.

Oh, boy.

“Knowing Roman's history, we have to remember that his owner was abusive. When he would go to lift his leg, it more often than not came down on Roman's back. Or as a kick to the face. So the dog is reacting to his own experience. Our job is to retrain these dogs to trust humans. We need to rewrite their histories so that they see us as the good guys and not as the enemy.”

Rewriting history? What a joke. It wasn't even possible. Didn't Kevin know that everyone wanted to rewrite history? Everyone had something in their past that they wished they could make disappear. Of course I would have liked to rewrite history so that I passed my English final and I didn't have to spend the summer here. If I could, I'd go back in time and make it so that Mrs. Schneider never found my list, or, better yet, make it so that my mom never got in that car two years ago.

“What about the rest of them?” asked Randy, Tinkerbelle resting in his lap.

Kevin knew all of their histories. “Well, Bruce here was a street dog. He was found extremely emaciated. We don't know if he ever had a real home. And Persia's owner”—he motioned toward Oak's German shepherd—“was a drug dealer. Persia came to us with a bullet in his shoulder. You'll notice he has a bit of a limp. And Tinkerbelle, well, she was a prize-winning breeding dog forced to litter puppies year after year.”

“Is that why she has those funny things dangling from her?” asked Randy.

“Those are teats,” I said.

“It's where she produced milk,” added Kevin.

Randy looked down to further inspect. “Gross!” He lifted the dog off of his lap.

“Did you grow up on a farm?” asked Oak.

I realized I must have sounded strange to be so scared of dogs and yet know random names for their anatomy. “
Animal Planet
junkie,” I said quietly.

He nodded as though he understood exactly what I meant. “History Channel buff,” he whispered back.

I smiled.

Kevin continued, “So what do you say? Are you up for the challenge of getting these dogs trained?”

“Do we have a choice?” asked Randy.

“There's always a choice,” said Kevin. He handed me Roman's leash again. This time, when the dog came to smell my feet, I stayed very still, as you're supposed to do with bees. Roman looked like he was inhaling my shoelaces through his nostrils, sniffing intently. But then he decided he was done and had a seat next to me, his head resting on his front paws.

“What are we doing today?” asked Shelley.

“Just getting to know our dogs. Getting to know each other. And we'll learn how to hold a leash. So everyone stand up,” said Kevin.

Did he think we were idiots? How hard could it be to hold a leash?

“There is a proper way. I'll use Bruce as an example.” Kevin borrowed Shelley's dog. “So this is how it works. Leashes don't work when you hold them like this,” he said, demonstrating the way we were all casually holding them. “They only work if you hold them like this.”

He took the loop of the leash handle in his right hand and then held the leash with his left. “This is how you tell a dog that you're in control.”

“Why doesn't this work?” asked Talbot. Her dog was way out in front of her, and Talbot had her forefinger casually hooked around the leash.

“Because your dog is leading you. He's telling you that he is the boss, but
you
need to be the boss in order for him to feel safe.”

“Do you really think this little thing thinks it's the boss of me?” said Randy, regarding the pint-sized Chihuahua at his feet. “I could sit on it and practically end its life!”

“Randy!” screamed Talbot.

“What? Are you going to report me to PETA? I'm just telling it like it is,” said Randy.

“Your dog doesn't respect you yet, Randy,” said Kevin.

“How do you know?” asked Randy.

Kevin pointed toward the dog. “See how she's sitting with her back toward you, totally not in tune with what you might want her to be doing?”

“I thought she was just sunbathing,” said Randy.

“Watch this.” Kevin gave Bruce's leash to Oak, who looked a little lost with a dog on each arm, and went over to Tinkerbelle. Kevin took the leash, holding it with his right hand looped and his left hand holding the leash and gave a slight tug. Tinkerbelle abruptly stood up and came around to face Kevin.

“That is being in control of your dog. That's how you properly hold a leash. Now I want you all to try.” Kevin handed Tinkerbelle's leash back to Randy.

I tried to hold the leash as Kevin had shown us, but Roman didn't budge.

“Face me!” I said to my dog, whose ears perked up right away as though he fully understood my command—but instead of calmly turning his attention toward me as Kevin had demonstrated, Roman began yanking on the leash. I held on tightly to the other end, paying particular attention to how close my feet were coming to him because the last thing I wanted to do was make him think that I was about to beat him up like his previous owner.

“Give just a little tug.” Kevin looked on, and I listened and jerked ever so slightly on the leash. Like magic, Roman perked up and turned around to look at me. Everyone else was still struggling with this exercise.

“Great work, Iris!” said Kevin.

I felt like I had the magic touch. Garrett was rolling on his back, and Persia was having a light snack of fresh grass. Their dogs were being ornery.

Nothing had gone my way like this in a long time. Not my bike wheels staying inflated. Not summer school being avoided. Not mothers staying alive. Nothing. But just now, I'd experienced what it felt like for things to go well.

“Your dog had an accident,” announced Talbot.

I looked down. There on the grass was one of the largest dog dumps in all of dog-dump history.

“You need a bag?” Kevin asked, pulling a blue plastic baggie from his back pocket.

“For what?” I played dumb.

“The poop.” This got everyone else's attention, and they stopped what they were doing to watch the showdown.

“What poop?” I asked.

“Iris, I'm not stupid. Here's the bag.” His tone seemed to have shifted from supportive to admonishing. I was embarrassed. I wished everyone would just focus on their own dogs and stop staring at me.

“I'm not cleaning up poop,” I said quietly. I wasn't about to let myself be degraded in such a demeaning way, forced to pick up poop from this animal that I didn't even like, while everyone watched like I was some sort of circus act.

“It's part of the deal,” said Kevin. “If you're not sure how to do it, I can show you.”

“Who doesn't know how to pick up a dump?” asked Randy.

Everyone laughed, and
I felt the waters rise swiftly all the way to my neck
. Why was the world out to embarrass me? I contemplated just walking away from it all. But before my body had time to react, Roman took off again. In my anger, I'd let go of his leash. I chased after him, shouting his name. And, to my surprise, he stopped running and waited for me.

“Thank you,” I mouthed to him as I picked up the leash and walked back to the group, grabbing the small doggie bag out of Kevin's hand. I approached the offending area. Sticking my hand in the bag, I picked up the poop, still warm through the plastic. I twisted the bag and waved it around, showing everyone I
was
capable of picking up dog poop. As I tossed the bag in the trash, Talbot came up to me with her dog. I wondered what the next rude thing to come out of her mouth was going to be.

“Sorry about all that,” said Talbot.

“Sorry about what?” I wasn't about to let her have the satisfaction of knowing she had angered and embarrassed me…twice.

“It's this thing I do. When I'm uncomfortable, I find someone to pick on. That someone was you.” She paused. “I'm working on it.”

Her candor impressed me. When I made a mistake, I blew it off or pretended it never happened, but Talbot was willing to face her gaffes head on. It made it easy to forgive her.

“Do you like your dog? I could just take mine home with me!” She let Garrett lick her face.

“I'm not so into dogs,” I said.

“Well, what are you into?” she asked.

I shrugged. I didn't even know anymore. I guess lately I was into composing hit lists and making court appearances.

“That guy seems like a jerk.” I motioned toward Randy, who was looking my way and laughing at me—probably for the whole dog poop situation.

“Don't let him piss you off. He's nothing but a bully. I can tell. And she”—Talbot pointed to Shelley, who was sitting on the grass with Bruce, pulling up grass at the roots and then chewing on them—“she's on her own planet. At least that guy seems nice. And maybe even cute if he ever took off that thing.”

I looked over at Oak. I wasn't the only one wondering what he'd look like without the hood.

“He never takes it off,” I said.

“You know him?”

“We go to Santa Cruz High. But I've never even talked to him before today.”

“Hey, what are you doing after this? It is summer vacation, right? There's gotta be some fun to be had,” said Talbot.

“I have to head home,” I said.

“Parents?”

“Yeah.” I didn't get into the fact that at my place it was just
parent
, nor did I tell her that my afternoon would consist of preparing dinner for myself, and then a whole lot of nature TV. Dad would no doubt be working late. I was happy to learn that his date with Janet had been a bust.

Talbot shrugged. “Well, maybe another time. My dad's always riding me about bringing home a ‘decent and respectable' friend.”

“Um, don't forget you met me at juvenile community service,” I said.

“Hey, it's better than some of the other people I've been hanging out with, believe you me.”

Kevin interrupted us. “Okay, gang. You've taken in a lot today: met your dogs, learned about leash leading. And,” he said, glancing over at me, “some of you were even educated on the various methods of picking up canine excrement. All in all, a full afternoon. If you could bring your dogs to the van and then take their leashes off, I'll see you all again tomorrow.”

I had made it through day one. Only twenty-nine more to go.

Not that I was counting.

D
oug Loggins, my court-appointed therapist, didn't get much out of me that first day. He kept waiting for me to speak, as if I had anything to say. Somehow, we ended up chatting about my favorite juice combinations that Dad had brought home, as though the medley of beet-carrot-apple juice contained some deep commentary about my psyche.

“Well, this was good,” Doug said when our time was up. “But next time, let's focus less on vegetables and more on your anger.”

I left embarrassed and dreaded my next office visit.

That first week of dog training inched forward. Because summer school didn't start until Thursday, I was able to sleep in a few days more (once Dad was done puttering around the house early in the morning).

I wore my running shoes every day to work with the dogs so I'd be armed and ready to bolt as fast as my legs would take me if things got scary. Within the first couple of days, I had successfully taught Roman how to walk and stay on a leash, always exercising caution. He had a habit of bringing his nose to my hand when I praised him, which made me uncomfortable, so as soon as he'd perform a task successfully, I'd lift my hand to mess with my hair, scratch my face—anything to have it unavailable for Roman's wet-nose press. He'd look at me with his sad eyes.

“Let's stick to the lesson,” I'd tell him.

By Wednesday, it seemed as though everyone had become best friends with their dogs, except for me. Even Randy and Tinkerbelle were hitting it off, playing tug of war with a stick. It was a hot day, and Kevin brought out some spray bottles. The dogs were having fun getting wet. When I sprayed water in Roman's face, he tried to bite it. Go figure.

“Hang out after this?” asked Talbot from across the grass, rolling around on the ground with her dog.

“I can't. I have plans,” I lied.

I couldn't manage the friends I had (if they still considered themselves my friends), let alone forge ahead with a new friendship. Yesterday afternoon I'd caught a glimpse of Ashley when I rode by Pergolesi after dog training. She was bringing someone an iced coffee drink on the wraparound porch. I'm pretty sure she saw me because she started to lift her hand up to wave, but then, as though her instincts got the best of her, her hand froze at waist level, and I turned the corner.

“Suit yourself,” Talbot said, turning her attention back to her dog. “You'd hang out with me this weekend, wouldn't you, Garrett?” She was lying on her back as her dog stood over her, and she rubbed his belly. The dog loved it and started kicking its hind leg repeatedly in pleasure.

I walked Roman to a shady spot and tried my best to imitate Talbot's body position and laidback attitude. From my vantage point on my back, Roman looked even bigger and more intimidating, but if this is how one played with a dog, I was going to give it a try. He responded to my new positioning right away, coming over to check it out. He nudged me with his nose. It tickled. I gently pushed him back. He didn't get the message and came at me again, this time jabbing me in the hip.

“No!” I said.

But my commands weren't working.

Roman let out a subtle growl, and before I could stand up, he grabbed my shorts and began tugging, his growl turning into a full-on snarl.

“Help!” I screamed. I covered my face with my arms, hoping to save my face if he launched into an assault.

Within seconds, Kevin was at my side, in control of the leash and the dog at the other end of it. When all was clear, I stood up, shaken.

“What were you doing?” he asked me. Roman had seemed to snap back to his listening self.

“I was trying to play with him, like Talbot's doing with her dog.”

“She has a very different dog,” said Kevin.

“I see that.”

“They don't play the same way,” Kevin said.

I couldn't keep it all straight. I'd finally made an effort to work with my dog, and he'd tried to eat me.

Kevin had Roman lie down while he explained more dog rules to me. “By lying down on the ground, on your back, you are completely submitting to Roman. You're letting him know that he's the boss of you and that he's in charge of the game.”

“That was his version of a game?” I asked.

“Did you think he was attacking you?” asked Kevin.

I burst into tears. Oak came over and took Roman's leash from Kevin, who put his arms around me while I blubbered into his chest.

“It's okay. He won't hurt you,” he whispered into my ear. “You have to learn to trust him. And in the meantime, no lying down on your back, okay?”

I nodded.

“You sure?” asked Kevin.

“As long as you're positive he wasn't trying to eat me,” I said.

“I promise. We feed them a good breakfast before they work with you.”

Talbot and her dog were still both lounging together, and she turned my way and smirked as if to say:
This whole thing could have been avoided if you'd just committed to making plans with me
.

*

I was determined not to be late on the first day of summer school. I had been so efficient, in fact, that I rolled Dad's bike into its parking spot thirty minutes early. Good timing had never been my forte. There was only so much roaming of the halls I could do before I got bored and headed toward my classroom, and besides, the more people I came across, the greater the chance they would recognize me as that girl who went nuts. Scanning my enrollment papers, I found my classroom assignment: C-123. Schneider's room, which was more like a tomb.

Just great.

She'd never be my teacher again, but the thought of even setting foot in that classroom made me sick.

Even though most remnants of her presence had been removed, above the whiteboard, still tacked to the wall, was the quote by Molière. Who was this Molière, and why was he giving such import to grammar anyway? Probably some historical English teacher famous for torturing his students.

Inside the classroom was just one other student, searching for something in a green canvas army bag. I took a seat at the back of the room, ready to become a wallflower as soon as class began.

“Why don't you take a seat at the front. It's going to be a small group, I think,” said this apparently know-it-all, bossy student.

Who in the world did this girl think she was, telling me where to sit? I felt anger-fueled adrenaline race through my body, but I worked hard to suppress it, knowing that acting out in any way would not be the best way to mark my big return to school.

“I'm good here, thanks,” I said.

“I'm Perry,” said the girl. “I'll be your teacher for this class.”

What? How did a kid get this job? She must have been some honor student or something—looking to perk up her college application form. Was that even legal? But as she came closer to shake my hand, I saw she wasn't my age at all.

“I look young,” she said almost apologetically.

“I thought you were in the class,” I said.

“Well, I am—it's just that I also happen to be teaching it.”

A teacher who introduced herself by her first name? I was impressed.

“Iris,” I said.

She paused and looked up, like she was recalling some information. “Iris Moody, right?” Why did she know my last name? What had she heard about me? I was probably blacklisted throughout the school.
Watch out for this one. Don't piss her off; she'll add you to her list.

I was so embarrassed.

“I've studied my roster,” she said and handed me a syllabus entitled: “Fairy Tales: Happily Ever After?”

“Am I in the right class? English 3?”

Perry nodded her head. “Yes.”

I'd read all the fairy tales I ever wanted to read in the second grade. Mom bought me a huge collection, and I remembered staring at that glossy cover when she read from it. All of the characters from the stories were there, Rapunzel sitting on Cinderella's coach, a leprechaun in her lap. Puss in Boots standing next to Rumpelstiltskin and Bluebeard's facial hair weaving its way across the page like a piece of yarn gone wild. We'd cuddle on the couch, and Mom would make me a cup of chamomile tea and place a handmade quilt on top of me. If the stories ever got too scary, I'd hide beneath, as though shielding my eyes would turn off my imagination. They were all good memories, those fairy tales, but they were stories for young kids, not for high schoolers.

“Do you think you could help me move some chairs around?” Perry asked. “We're going to get rid of these pesky rows and make a circle.”

I felt obligated more than ever to be the best student I could be, as though that might erase my current reputation. This could be my chance to start over.

*

In a short while, students filed into the classroom, taking their seats at various vacancies in the circle that Perry and I had assembled. The seats on either side of me remained empty.

When Lorrie Hastings, swim team snob, ambled in late, Perry motioned for her to go to one of the free seats next to me.

“I am not sitting next to
her
.” Lorrie snickered.

The waters percolated inside
. How dare she embarrass me in front of the whole class? It would be so easy to reach out and teach her a lesson. It was almost what was expected of me now.

“Lorrie, is it?” asked Perry.

Lorrie nodded.

“You make one more comment like that in here, and you are out. This classroom will be a place of respect.”

Perry was protecting me. I hadn't felt as though anyone had been on my side in a long, long time.

Lorrie rolled her eyes and reluctantly sat down next to me.

The circle setup was awful because I couldn't hide behind anyone. We were all equally visible. As I looked around the classroom, I recognized a few familiar faces—one guy from PE, another from biology, a few from Mrs. Schneider's English class. They were all students who failed. And now I was one of them.

Perry addressed the class. “So you might be wondering why I have chosen fairy tales as the focus for our class this summer.”

“Fairy tales!” the boy next to me said. “That's girlie stuff.”

“If by ‘girlie' you mean mass murder, infanticide, and lust, then yes, by all means, very girlie,” said Perry.

The guy next to me looked perplexed—in fact, we all did, not quite sure what she was talking about. But any teacher who uttered the word
lust
was bound to get our attention.

“Since you are getting a year's worth of credit for a six-week course, I'm not going to lie—it's very intense. Not only will you have to complete all of the required material in your reader, but you will each need to read and review an outside collection of fairy tales as well as compose an eight- to ten-page research paper on your chosen collection in relation to a specific topic.”

I stopped listening at the phrase
eight- to ten-page research paper
, focusing only on the five-hundred-page reader plopped on the desk in front of me and the syllabus, thick with explanations. High school seemed to be all about following directions. I had grown tired of listening.

Perry spoke as though she had been reading my mind. “Keep in mind that this syllabus is a formality. The school requires that I churn one out. But in this class, in addition to hard work and a firmer grasp of the English language, we're going to have fun. We're going to delve into deep psychological recesses and explore these tropes that come up again and again in this type of literature.”

“What's a trope?” asked a girl dressed in gothic garb across from me.

It seemed as though Perry had forgotten that we were all here because we had failed English class. Instead, she talked to us like we were honor students.

Perry said, “The valiant prince, the girl who gets punished for being curious, the missing mother.”

My ears perked up with that last phrase.

“These are all tropes that we will be discussing in detail—that is to say, these leitmotifs occur again and again in these stories, and we're here to act as psychologists, sociologists, and historians to figure out why.” Perry looked suddenly lost in thought. She stared above the whiteboard.

We looked around at one another, wondering if our teacher would ever return to us.

“What's wrong?” asked the guy from my PE class.

Perry kept her eyes fixed on Schneider's Molière quote.

“Something is going to have to be done about that,” she said. She dragged a chair over to the back wall, hoisted herself up, ripped the butcher paper with the quote from the wall, crumpled it into a ball, and slam-dunked it into the recycling bin. Score two points for Perry, zero for Mrs. Schneider.

I had been staring at that quote for two years wishing I could have done that very same thing.

English, even if it was only temporary, had just become my favorite subject.

*

At our session Thursday after school, Doug Loggins asked me what my “exit plan” was when I got angry.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you don't have one in place, we need to develop a strategy, something that interrupts the anger—that makes you walk away from situations if using your words isn't an option.”

I had seen evacuation plans posted in plenty of hotel rooms, but never did I think I would need my own.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, uncomfortable with this session topic.

“Go right ahead,” said Doug, “if that's how you want to spend this time.”

I was nearly at the door when it occurred to me that I had used the bathroom as an excuse to escape the session.

I turned back around and faced Doug. “I don't really have to go. That was just me showcasing my exit strategy.”

“See, Iris, you're coming a long way here,” said Doug.

I sat back down and finished the session.