Imagine you are an average fourteen-year-old girl, say, like me. You are awakened one morning at 5:30 by your four-year-old brother licking your face and barking in your ear. Your parents arrive at the sound of your screaming and respond by:
A. Asking your brother to please return to his room and play quietly so the rest of the family can continue sleeping;
B. Yelling, “What’s all the screaming about, Mattie? Can’t you be nice to your brother for once in your life?”; or,
C. Saying, “Wait! I gotta get the video camera for this.”
B and C are how my morning started. My day seemed destined for disaster. Donny Disaster. Sounds like the perfect cartoon villain, doesn’t it? Of course, if I mention this to my parents, they jump down my throat for not being nice to my little brother. And when I ask them why he can’t be nice to me, my mom gives me “the eye.” You know the one I mean: that squinty-eyed glare that says “drop the subject or lose a limb—your choice.”
Recently Donny has decided he’s a dog. Mom and Dad play along with it. If I had tried this when I was four, they would have sat me down and had a long conversation about how dogs are dogs and people are people, and I couldn’t be a dog because I was a people, and I didn’t have fur or a tail or paws.
But that was then, this is Donny.
Mom doesn’t want to stifle his “budding creative impulses” by limiting his imagination. Dad is just convinced that everything Donny does is going to score him $10,000 on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” It has gotten so out of hand that they’ve even bought him a shiny red stretch collar and a nylon leash, and Mom lets him eat from a bowl on the floor.
Having managed to sneak in a few more hours of sleep after the face-licking alarm dog went off, I call my best friend Olivia, a.k.a. Livvy, to see how she is spending one of the last remaining Saturdays before school starts.
“Rearranging my room,” she says. “Wanna help?”
“Love to,” I say.
“Seriously?”
“Anything that gets me out of this house is a good option. What time should I be there?”
“How ’bout noon. I still need a shower and some fruity pebble cereal.”
I head for the kitchen to inform my mom. She is microwaving frozen waffles for Donny, cutting them into little pieces, then drowning them in syrup and putting the bowl on the floor. I stand and stare. She never would have done this for me. Not even the frozen waffle thing. I ate all-natural, organic, pesticide-free, homemade, healthy stuff until I was ten.
But I’m not bitter or anything.
“I’m going to Livvy’s in an hour,” I say as Mom pours herself another cup of coffee.
“You need to get your room cleaned first and get the laundry folded before you go.”
“No problemo,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Take your brother,” she replies.
“Mom.” My voice is a bit louder than I meant for it to be, but this is clearly not fair.
“I have a hair appointment at 1:00.” Her voice is not loud. It is flat and serious. I decide to argue anyway.
“I have watched him every day this summer while you and Dad are at work,” I say. “Why don’t I get to have one Saturday to myself? Why can’t Dad watch him?” Why can’t we send him to the kennel? I think.
“It has not been every day, Mattie. You don’t need to be so melodramatic.” Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “I told you about this when I made the appointment last week.”
She so did not tell me. She put this off so I wouldn’t get mad until it was too late. Can you say procrastination? My mom is a champion procrastinator. She has raised procrastination to an art form.
“So leave him with Dad,” I say.
“Dad had work at the office. He left earlier. I need you to watch Donny.”
Hearing his name, my brother barks. He is kneeling on the floor and panting, his face covered in syrup and bits of waffle. He looks at me, pulls his arms up in front of him, and tips his head to one side. He whines, like he’s begging for a treat.
“See, he wants to go with you,” Mom says, smiling at him.
“This is so not fair,” I say. I do not want my little brother hanging around at Livvy’s. Especially when I know Nate will be there.
Just thinking of Nate makes my stomach do a little shimmy thing. Not that he even knows I breathe air. But I have hope that one day he’ll see me for the goddess I hope to be by the time I’m—well—at some future date.
“Donny goes with you or you stay here.” Mom dumps the rest of her coffee in the sink and heads for the back of the house.
“Arf,” Donny says. He is on all fours, looking up at me and grinning.
“Mangy mutt,” I say. Donny’s smile wilts, and he crawls off to watch cartoons.
Cleaning my room takes about five minutes. I hate clutter, so I don’t have a lot of stuff hanging around. The laundry basket is sitting on top of the dryer, overflowing with towels and sheets. Five minutes after I find the pile, it is reduced to nice fluffy stacks that are put in their respective locations. I make a pit stop in the bathroom to check the status of my hair. A little water on my fingers to scrunch the curls a bit, and I’m good to go.
Then I remember Nate. I poke around in a drawer and find a small, pink clip. I push some of the curls on the left side back and slip the clip into place.
“Arf,” says Donny.
I about jump out of my skin. I didn’t hear him come down the hall.
“Brat,” I say under my breath. “You better get dressed if you’re going with me.”
Donny takes off down the hall as fast as he can go on all fours. The sun coming through the skylight in the hall reflects off his shiny red collar. Could he be any weirder?
“Mattie?” Mom calls. She has that tone in her voice that says she needs something. “Have you seen my car keys?”
All the kitchen drawers are opened. Mom is on her tiptoes, feeling around the top of the refrigerator.
“Not in your purse?”
“No, I checked already.”
“On your desk?”
“No, Mattie, now will you help me look around for them?”
“Donny probably buried them in the yard again,” I say.
“Already looked,” Mom says. “No fresh holes in the garden.” She doesn’t sound as exasperated as I expect her to.
In the corner by the sofa is a big cushion that Donny uses as his bed. On a hunch, I lift the cushion. “This what you’re after?” I jingle the keys and hold them up for her to see.
She smiles and laughs. “Where did he hide them, under his dog bed?”
I nod. I would never get away with this without a lecture of some kind.
Mom grabs the keys from me. “I’ve gotta dash.”
I hear the groan of our automatic door. She spins around in the doorway and looks at me very directly. “Be nice to your brother. He still isn’t feeling one hundred percent, so don’t let him get over-tired. And make sure he gets a nap if I’m not home by 2:00.”
Before I have a chance to ask her why she wouldn’t be home by 2:00, the door to the garage is closed, and I can hear the car engine start.
I check the clock on the microwave: 11:30. As I step back toward the kitchen, my toes discover something smooshy and sticky.
“Donald!” I pull off the waffle piece stuck to my foot and hurry to clean up the other pieces he has left strewn on the floor. Wiping up the syrup with a cloth from the sink, I wonder how much longer this dog fantasy can last. It has been going on for more than a week now. He was bored with the toy truck two days after he got it for his birthday. The plastic dinosaur that came with his fast food lasted only a few hours. But this dog thing—well, I’m tired of it already.
Donald bounces into the kitchen, carrying his sandals in his teeth. He whimpers at me.
“Those straps just stick together,” I say. You can do those by yourself.”
He drops the shoes and shakes his head, pouting at me.
“I’m not touching your slimy sandals after you’ve had them in your mouth. And you need to go wash your face. It’s all sticky from breakfast.” I know he can do all of these things. He’s been doing them for nearly a year.
He sits back on his feet and starts licking his hand. Then he rubs his hand on his face. I grab the nearest dishtowel, turn on the faucet to get it wet, then start toward my brother.
“Yi - yi - yi,” he yelps.
“I’ll leave you here if you don’t let me wash you off,” I say. It’s an empty threat because Mom would kill me if I left him, but I’m hoping he doesn’t figure that part out.
I grab his hands and wipe them, but when I reach for his face, he bolts.
“Get back here,” I yell as I chase him down the hall. He bounds into his bedroom and scrambles under his bed. The fact that he can move so fast on his knees catches me by surprise. I kneel down by the bed and try pulling him out, but he avoids my hand. He has pushed himself way into the corner, and I have to slide halfway under the bed to reach him. Just as I’m about to grab his foot, he slithers out and takes off down the hall.
“If you know what’s good for you, you better get your hind end over here so I can clean you up.” I back out from under the bed.
Donny is sitting on the dog bed, his eyes wide. He holds perfectly still while I wipe off his mouth and chin.
“I’m leaving. If you’re coming with me, you put your shoes on by yourself.” I slip on my sandals and turn to leave.
Donny has shoes on his feet and the leash in his mouth.
“No,” I say. But then I realize that this might make things easier. I clip the leash to his ever-present collar, and we start walking toward Livvy’s.