Livvy and I run through the house, calling for my brother. My heart pounds loudly in my ears. “Maybe he went home,” Livvy says.
“I don’t think he knows the way without me.” Not that I think that would keep him from leaving.
“I’ll go ask Nate if he’s seen him,” Livvy says. I jog up the stairs to see if he’s hiding under a bed or in the linen closet. Donny likes squeezing himself into the smallest spaces he can find. He thinks it makes him “inbizibo”—he’s almost right.
I feel weird looking through Mr. and Mrs. Byer’s room, but it would be just like Donny to hide in their closet. I get on the floor and look under their bed. Nothing but slippers and darkness. I open their closet door.
“Donald George,” I say in my most stern, big sister voice. “If you’re in there, you are in deep, doggy doo-doo.” I push aside the dresses and pants, and shirts draped in plastic from the dry cleaners. They make a soft rustling sound, but no barking. Then I get an idea.
I step into the hallway at the top of the stairs, pretty sure my voice will carry through the top floor. “Here Donny, here boy,” I say. I whistle. “Wanna treat, boy?” I wait. Nothing. I head downstairs and stand in the tiled foyer. “Here Donny, here boy.” I whistle again and slap my leg. “Come here, boy, come get a treat.”
From the garage, I can hear laughter. The door slams and Livvy stomps into the kitchen. “Buttheads,” she says.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say.
Livvy looks at me, confusion scribbled across her face.
“Here Donny, here boy,” I say. I slap my hand on my leg again. “Here boy, come get a treat.”
Livvy smiles and nods. “Here dude, here Donny,” she calls.
We go through the main floor, then move outside and start to circle around the house. We reach the back just as I’m about to give in to panic. I whistle again.
“Bark,” comes the response.
“Come here, Donny,” I say. “Come get your doggy treat.”
From out of the bushes comes a mud-covered, stickery-tangled mess. A mess with a shiny red collar and a leash.
“Hey, little dude, you been burying bones?” Livvy looks entertained. I am not at all amused.
Donny sits back on his haunches, sticks out his tongue, and pants. He nods. “Arf,” he says.
“I guess that takes care of the rest of my afternoon,” I say. I grab the leash. “I have to take him home and give him a bath.”
“Yi-yi-yi,” whines Donny.
Livvy laughs. “I don’t think he’s too hip on that idea.”
“Yeah, well, tough dog biscuits. If Mom comes home and sees him like this, I’ll be grounded until school starts.” I look my brother right in his dirt-streaked face.
“We could just turn the hose on him,” Livvy says.
I can’t decide if she’s trying to be funny, or if she really thinks that would work. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Livvy.
“I’ll pass, thanks,” I say. I tug on Donny’s leash and he makes a growling noise. Part of me would like to drag him. I look at Livvy. “Come with me and help, okay? You can entertain him while I get him cleaned up.”
“Beats rearranging furniture,” she says. “Let me tell Nate. I’ll meet you up front.”
“Come on, Donny,” I say. He doesn’t move.
“Donny, come on. I gotta get you cleaned up before Mom comes home and yells at me.”
He looks up at me, tilting his head to one side. He blinks at me.
“Please, Donny,” I beg. “Please start walking.” Donny stays put.
“Look,” I say, resorting to bribery, “if you’ll cooperate, you can have a Popsicle for the walk home, and another one when you get out of the bathtub.”
Donny smiles and nods. He pops up and starts gallop-running toward the front of the house, dragging me behind him. He sits on the steps by the door, pants, and looks up at me.
“What flavor Popsicle do you want?” I ask.
“Bark,” he says.
“I don’t know what flavor ‘bark’ is, unless you plan to eat a tree.”
“Bark,” he says again.
I let out a long sigh. “Fine, you get what I give you.”
“Gwape,” he says. It’s the first human word he’s used all day. I’m grateful.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I say as I walk inside to get his treat. I grab a purple Popsicle and hurry back before Donny has a chance to slip away again.
Livvy emerges from the garage. “We are adios,” she says.
I unwrap the Popsicle and twist the paper around the stick. No sense adding sticky to muddy. I hand it to Donny, who immediately shoves it in his mouth.
“I wish I had a little brother,” Livvy says. “It would be fun.”
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“Seriously. I think it would be a blast. Your little brother totally rocks.”
“You don’t live with him.”
Livvy kicks at a piece of gravel. “Yeah, well, I wish I did.”
I’m about to offer her a trade, her brother for mine, but I decide against it. “It’s got to be at least a hundred out here,” I say, changing the subject.
Livvy looks up at the sky. “I can’t believe that summer’s almost over.”
“Me, either.”
“I can’t believe we’re going to be freshmen,” she says.
We walk a little way in silence, then she says, “Are you, like, scared to go to high school?”
“Nervous, maybe,” I say. “Not really scared.”
Livvy lets out a sigh. “Hmm.”
“Are you?” I ask.
“A little,” she says. “Everybody there knows Nate. Everybody there loves Nate. I’m just his geeky little sister.”
“That should give you instant credibility,” I say. “Think of all the guys who will want to hang with the football star’s sister.”
Livvy shrugs. “I somehow doubt that’s how it’ll be.”
“Yeah, well, at least they’ll know you breathe air.”
Livvy smiles at me. “Nate will convince them I don’t. He’ll convince them I’m a toad.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Bet me.”
“Nate’s not a bully.” My voice sounds a bit more defensive—and fourth grade—than I intended. But I can’t believe that he would be that mean. Not to his own sister.
“You don’t live with him,” Livvy says.
We reach my house and go through the front door. The window cooler in the kitchen chugs its little heart out, but it still feels like it’s about 98 degrees inside. I remind myself to ask Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny for central air conditioning.
“Let’s get him in the tub,” I say.
Donny runs ahead of us, slamming the door to his room. I turn on the faucet and check the temperature.
Livvy sits on the bathroom counter, leaning against the big mirror. “So, this dog thing . . .”
I brush my wilted curls back from my eyes. “Yeah, I know. He’s weird.”
Livvy laughs. “No, I think it’s funny.”
“It’s not so funny at 5:30 in the morning.”
Livvy’s eyes go wide, and she slaps her hand over her mouth like she might scream. She points behind me, and I turn to discover Donny standing in the hallway. He is completely naked except for his dog collar and leash.
“Come here,” I say, taking off the leash. I start to take off the collar, but Donny wraps both hands around it and shakes his head.
“Suit yourself,” I say. I lift his mostly muddy body into the tub and proceed to scrub. Donny thrashes around, splashing water everywhere. I’m dripping wet, and Livvy is in hysterics behind me. My jaw clenches.
“This isn’t funny,” I say, but she keeps laughing. Donny realizes that his splashing makes Livvy laugh, so he thrashes and splashes even more. Water droplets slide down the walls.
“Stop it,” I yell, but it doesn’t matter. The more he splashes, the more Livvy laughs. The more Livvy laughs . . .
“Donald, knock it off right now!” I grab him by both arms and hold him tight. He freezes. Tears well in his eyes, and he starts to cry. I grab the plastic bowl that Mom uses to wash Donny’s hair and fill it with water. Without warning, I dump it over his head. He howls, but I don’t care. I just want to get him clean and get myself dry before Mom gets home.
I scrub his head with baby shampoo and dump another bowl of water on him to rinse the suds. He screams and rubs his eyes.
“It doesn’t sting,” I say.
“Foap eye,” Donny cries. “Foap eye.”
“The soap doesn’t sting your eyes,” I say. “It’s the same one Mom uses.”
Livvy hops down and sits next to me. “Don’t be so harsh,” she says.
“If he isn’t going to cooperate, I don’t have much choice,” I say. But I look at Donny, his lower lip sticking out in a frightened pout, and my heart sinks a little that I was so rough with him.
“Hey, dude, you want me to style your hair?” Livvy grabs the conditioner and squeezes some into her hand. Donny nods, but he won’t look up. I feel like a first-class schmuck now.
“Great,” I say. “He holds perfectly still for you, but he practically drowns me.”
“That’s ’cause he knows I’m the best doggy groomer in town,” Livvy says.
“Bark,” says Donny. He looks up at Livvy and smiles, his eyes red from crying and rubbing.
“I’m gonna go put some dry clothes on,” I say.
Livvy massages her fingers in Donny’s hair, then wraps it into a twist that stands up like a horn.
“Nice height,” she says.
I change clothes and head to Donny’s room to look for clean stuff for him to wear. As I rifle through his dresser drawers for something clean, I can hear Donny and Livvy giggling in the bathroom. I wish he would giggle like that for me.
Livvy has Donny sitting on the counter, wrapped in a towel, when I come in to get him dressed. She brushes his hair to one side and makes it stand out from his head. He laughs and turns from side to side to catch every angle in the mirror.
“Surfer dog,” Livvy says as I put the clothes on the counter. “Got any gel?” she asks.
I rummage through the drawer and pull out some glitter hair gel. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say.
“What do you think, Donny?” Livvy asks.
“Arf,” Donny says. He lets his tongue hang out and he pants. “Arf, arf, arf.”
Livvy squirts some of the pink-tinted sparkling goop into one hand, then works it into Donny’s blonde hair. She smooths all his hair forward, then messes it up. She pulls two strands into horns and twists them so they stand on their own.
“That’s appropriate,” I say.
Livvy grins at me. Donny doesn’t get it.
Livvy starts twisting strands all over Donny’s head, making little spikes, until he looks like some kind of punked-out hedgehog. The pink glitter just makes it that much more ridiculous. I start to laugh. Donny’s eyes sparkle, and his smile stretches across his whole face.
“Blow-dryer,” Livvy says, like a surgeon asking for a scalpel. I grab the blow-dryer from under the sink and plug it in. She dries the pink-tinted spikes into place. We both giggle like crazy.
After a few spritzes of hair spray, Livvy lifts him from the counter, and we carefully pull his shirt over his head. He steps into his Elmo undies and pulls on a pair of denim shorts. With the shiny red collar, he looks like a miniature punk rocker. Donny Rotten. I can’t stop laughing, and I wipe at the tears with the back of my hand.
“Dude,” Livvy says, “you are completely the most awesome dog on the planet.”
Donny runs down the hall to his room, then comes back with his fist wrapped tight around something. He holds it out to Livvy. She puts out her hand, and he drops in a bunch of pennies.
“Oh no, really. No charge. You are so cool looking, that’s payment enough.” She gives the pennies back to him. Donny’s grin is so big I think his face might crack.
Then he sneezes. I stop laughing.
“Well, bless you,” Livvy says.
I look at my brother. “Are you cold?” I ask. He shakes his head. I put my hand out to feel his forehead, but he ducks and runs for his room.
“What was that all about?” Livvy asks.
“He’s had this weird summer cold thing,” I say. “It’s been hanging around for, I don’t know, a week or so?”
I pick up the towel and his dirty clothes and toss them in the hamper. “I guess he’s sick of everyone trying to take his temperature and give him medicine.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Livvy says. She holds her hands out. They sparkle with a pink, glittery tint in the light. She turns back to the sink and starts washing.
“My mom is going to freak when she sees his hair,” I say. “I’ll probably be grounded—again.”
“Nah. Just tell her it’s my fault. She can’t ground me.”
“She can try.”
“Yeah,” Livvy says, drying her hands. “But it would be worth it. He looks totally cool with spikes.” She laughs.
“Yeah,” I agree, “he does.”