Another scorcher. It was probably hotter in the clubhouse than outside, but we didn’t want to leave. Besides lemonade, Mrs. L was bringing us homemade ice-cube Popsicles—grape and orange.
We had our shirts off, except for Ernie. He’s no scrawnier than the rest of us. Just more modest, I guess.
We were talking about school starting soon and all the usual junk, but my mind was on a different track from my mouth. I kept looking at Ernie, with his Daffy Duck T-shirt and his white smear of sunblock on his sunburned nose and his clumsiness and his never-ending cheeriness, and I realized he was the same as always. He fit the definition of a goober as perfectly as ever. He hadn’t changed at all. I had. We had. Forget what I said a couple pages ago: goobers do exist. They are what they are, which is pretty much what I thought they were. What Bump thinks they are. But Bump is missing the point: it’s okay to be a goober. Beneath every goober is a kid. A person. Maybe he’s not what you would call “regular.” But so what? Is that a bad thing? Turns out goobers—this goober, anyway—make great friends. I’ll take a goober over a Death Ray any day.
The guys were talking about school activities, and Ernie was saying he wanted to join the band and learn to play the trombone. As he was demonstrating trombone playing he knocked his lemonade off the TV tray. As he dove for his falling glass he knocked over the others. We all laughed and got down on our knees, and as I was picking an ice cube off the new hardwood floor I had a sudden feeling. It had nothing to do with ice cubes or lemonade or friends or clubhouses. It had to do with my sister. Lily. I can’t describe it except to say that for the first time in a long time that special sense was back, what we used to call goombla. If the wordless feeling could speak, it would have whispered, She needs you.
Next thing I knew, I was flying down the streets on my bike and busting into Poppy’s driveway. The big black dog from next door was blocking the front steps. Just sitting there. Lily was on the porch. She looked like a statue, like some alien paralyzer ray had zapped her.
The dog didn’t bother to get up when he saw me. He just swung his big black head. I knew he lived next door, and I knew Lily was terrified of him, even though Poppy keeps telling her he’s just “a big baby.” The dog barked at me. I have to admit it didn’t sound like a friendly bark. More like a don’t-come-one-inch-closer bark. Then the dog got up on all fours. He barked at me some more. His head bounced with every bark like a recoiling pistol. This dog wants to kill me, I thought. I don’t know how long I stood there, staring back and forth from the dog to Lily. Then I was aware of two things: I was moving, and I was thinking, I’m gonna die. And then the dog was coming at me and its bark was different and it was jumping up at me and licking my face and I knew Poppy was right, it was just a big baby.
Lily was still on the porch, still frozen. I went to her. Her eyes were horror-movie wide. I cupped her shoulders. “It’s okay,” I said. She flinched—the dog was licking her hand. Then I felt her relax. Tears came. She sagged into me.
Her voice was muffled against my shirt. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I knew.”