Bury

Verb. What, you thought it was gonna be “funeral”? Bite me. Because. I’m tired of the letter F.

On Sunday afternoon Mr. Guest pulls up. Asks if we want to go for a ride. “We could go to the park. I got take-out.” (“And some party favors,” he whispers to my mom like I’m deaf.) “Bring the dog.” He shakes a bag of dog treats. “Let’s bury the hatchet,” he says to Washing Machine.

Fuck you, says Washing Machine.

“Macy!” my mother barks. “I need you to get Washing Machine in the car.”

Me: Hysterical laughter.

My mother: “Okay, what do you want?”

“World domination. To be beamed up into a fucking space shi—”

I rub my arm where she smacks it. “Fine. I want to skip the pep rally Friday.”

“Macy, last thing I need right now is CPS banging down the door—”

“If I’m there by ten they can’t count me absent, so CPS won’t get called.”

Big sigh. “Deal.”

Five minutes later I’m in the back of Mr. Guest’s car, holding the dog. Mr. Guest holds my mother’s hand. Now I’m mad. All that nasty stuff is one thing, but holding hands is worse. I let the dog go. Oops.

Washing Machine snaps at Mr. Guest. My mother tries to grab her, but the dog’s all teeth and spit. Mr. Guest is driving out of his lane.

“That’s fucking it!” Mr. Guest cries. “Take the wheel.”

My mom guides the car back into the lane.

Mr. Guest punches the dog. Clamps one hand around its jaws and uses his other hand to roll down the window.

“Stop it, Manny! What are you—!”

He chucks Washing Machine out the window.

“Oh my God!” My mother pummels Mr. Guest with punches. But he shoves her away and gets both his hands back on the wheel. Lets the car roll to a stop.

“Both of you! Get out.”

We scramble out and he drives off. We backtrack along the side of the road till we reach Washing Machine’s crumpled little body. My mother crouches down by her. We hear a whimper.

“We got to find a vet!”

“Ma. I’m not sure we could even move her without her insides spilling out.” Not to mention that we don’t know where to find a vet and can’t afford to pay one. But I don’t say that because my mother starts bawling.

“I had a dog when I was little. Don’t know what happened to her after my mom dumped me at the group home.”

Is this for real? The woman is actually crying. “Take off your hoodie, Ma. We’ll wrap Washing Machine in it.” She’s still warm. Maybe . . . ?

We walk through the park, thinking maybe we can ask one of the ladies walking their dogs where to go.

“Ay Dios mío,” a little old lady says, “poor thing! Did you find him by the road?”

We nod.

“I tell you where to go. The doctor there has a heart. She’ll help.”

Fast-forward to the vet’s reception room. A nurse carries Washing Machine into a exam room. The receptionist gets Kleenex for my mother. The doctor asks to speak to me. “So here’s the deal. The dog is holding on, but she’s not gonna make it. The most humane thing we can do is to put her down now.”

I relay this to my mom.

She bites her lip. “Okay.”

We stand by the table where Washing Machine is laid out. In the quiet of this room, you can hear her breathe. I swear she looks like she’s smiling, and I get real sick—like dolphins are swimming in my stomach. Like my baby sister is swimming in my brain. I want her to be on this table so I can hold her hand, instead of her dying alone behind the bars of a crib. My mother strokes Washing Machine’s head and I wonder, is she thinking the same thing? I’ve see the dead, but never the dying. I’m scared.

I’m stroking Washing Machine’s fur, but I feel my sister’s curls.

My mother and I carry the dog in a box to our backyard and bury her.

Next day, I get to school, wave to Alma and George, and lay my head down.

From behind me: “What’s that on her pant leg?”

Some dude: “Oh, shit. It looks like dried blood!”

“Fuck,” I say and run off to the bafroom. Because it is dried blood. I lock myself in a stall. I’m laughing. Not sure where the laughing stops and the screaming starts.

Alma: “Macy! Macy, talk to me.”

The stall door flies open. I scream again.

Alma screams back.

We scream together.

Till a teacher is standing outside the door screaming, and I’m laughing again. Every cell in my body is vibrating. Every hair is standing up.

For once I yelled into the dark and it wasn’t just my voice that answered back. I want to cover my ears and listen to it all the way home.