Brady squatted by the kitchen table. He waved the red-and-blue Frisbee in front of Grit’s nose. “Come on, Grit. Remember how much fun it used to be.”
Grit’s ears twitched.
“Six-time champion. You were the best, Grit. Come on, you can do it.”
Grit slunk forward on his belly. He sniffed the Frisbee. For a second a spark of interest flickered in his old eyes. Then he heaved a huge sigh and flopped his head down on the floor.
Brady glared at him. “What are you doing?”
He waited for a minute. Grit was falling asleep.
Brady took a big breath. He leaned forward and touched Grit’s neck. Gently.
Nothing happened.
Brady felt himself relax. Of course nothing happened. After all, Gramp patted Grit all the time, and Grit just wagged his tail.
Slowly Brady slipped his fingers under the edge of the red bandana that was tied around Grit’s neck.
He counted to five. Then he tugged.
Grit rumbled like a train deep in his throat.
Brady yanked his hand away. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
He took a shaky breath. It wasn’t going to work. He was risking his life, and he couldn’t get Grit to budge from under the table. How was he ever going to drag him all the way to a stupid dog show?
Brady thought about the kids at Reptile Rage. He thought about the boy from the park who had looked right at him and said, “Neat.”
Brady went into the living room. Mom was flapping a dust cloth over the furniture. She stepped over Gramp’s collection of old syrup cans and around his five broken TVs. Her mouth was clamped shut in a tight line.
Gramp sat hunched over a table by the window, dealing cards. He leered at Brady. Brady sighed. Might as well get it over with.
“Crazy Eights,” shouted Gramp. “Best of ten.” Brady opened his mouth to protest. Grit padded into the room. His toenails click-clicked on the floor. He flopped under the table with a grunt and rested his head on Gramp’s bear-paw slipper.
“You really should take that dog out more,” said Brady. “It’s not healthy to let him sleep all the time.”
Gramp slapped an ace of spades onto the table. “Come on, boy! I’ll give you a run for your money.”
Brady slumped down in his chair and stared gloomily at his cards. “I could buy a leash at the pet store,” he said hopefully. “You know, take Grit for some walks.”
“The game, boy!” bellowed Gramp.
“Brady, the name is Brady,” Brady muttered. He laid his queen of clubs on the ace of spades.
“That’s a club!” shrieked Gramp. “In Crazy Eights, you have to play the same suit. Unless you have an eight!”
“I know that.” Brady’s stomach shriveled. Wait until Gramp saw him shuffle. He’d tried to practice, but he was getting worse, not better.
Gramp cleaned him in the first game. And the second. And the third.
Ten games. Skunked.
Gramp rubbed his hands through his hair. It stood up in fuzzy gray tufts. His cheeks were pink with excitement. He peered slyly at Brady.
Brady shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said. But he did. Just once he would love to beat Gramp.
“Skunked him, mother,” said Gramp.
“Mmm,” said Mom. She sank down on the couch. A dust ball clung to her eyebrow. “I don’t understand what these housekeepers I get for you do all day.”
Gramp stuck out his chin. Brady smiled. He was saved. Mom could argue forever about messy rooms. He slid off his chair and pulled back the curtain.
Abra and Julia were parading up and down the sidewalk in front of Gramp’s house. Cool It tugged on the end of a leash. A small white mop of a dog bobbed at Julia’s side. Brady could hear the girls yelling things like “Heel!” and “Stay!”
His stomach flipped over. He let the curtain drop. Maybe he could go to Jupiter on the day of the dog show.
Gramp had slid lower in his chair. Mom was charging full steam ahead. “I can’t believe the mess you’re in. What on earth did Mrs. Short do when she was here?”
Mrs. Short was Gramp’s last house–keeper. Brady had heard all about her. She’d quit just before Brady and Mom moved to Gramp’s town.
Gramp shot a triumphant look at Brady. “She played cards.”
No wonder she quit, thought Brady. He wondered who Mom would find next.
“Honestly, Dad! I start my new job tomorrow, and I’m not going to have time to deal with this.”
Gramp closed his eyes. Grit moaned and rolled onto his back. He churned his legs in the air. Brady stared at the dog. Grit tipped his head sideways and stared back.
Brady turned his eyes into laser beams. He concentrated.
Grit blinked.
Gotcha! thought Brady. He sighed. Grit wasn’t so tough. He just thought he was tough.
I could make him like me, thought Brady bravely. I could do it if I had more time.
The dog show was in four days.
Time. He just needed time with Grit. Lots of time.
Forget it. He must be crazy.
The problem was, he was going to look so stupid. Everyone was expecting him to bring Grit. Champion Frisbee catcher. Six times. Why had he opened his big mouth?
Brady sucked in his breath. His words poured out in a flood. “Mom, why don’t I help Gramp in the daytime? Just while you’re at work. Until you have time to hire a new housekeeper.”
Mom’s mouth fell open.
“It’d be fun.” Brady’s voice squeaked. Mom looked at him doubtfully. He forced himself to smile. “I could start tomorrow morning. It would be way better than going to the Rec Center.”
Mom looked hurt. “I signed you up for puppets. And silk painting.”
“I could do them next year,” said Brady quickly. Puppets and silk painting? It would probably be full of girls. All the good stuff like soccer and swimming had been full when Brady and Mom checked into courses.
“Well,” said Mom slowly. “The emergency numbers are by the phone. It would be mostly keeping Gramp company. And making sure he eats his lunch. I’m arranging Meals on Wheels for his dinners.”
“I know all about the four food groups,” said Brady. “And I can learn how to dust.”
Mom smiled. “Well, why not? Why not? It would be a wonderful experience for both of you. Brady, you are being extremely thoughtful. Extremely.”
Gramp slid open one eye. Brady gave him a smug look.
“You’ll really get to know each other,” said Mom.
“Anyone for poker?” said Gramp.
Brady groaned. What had he let himself in for?