At the firehouse the next day, Leo asks me if I’ve heard from the coach yet. I tell him no and he says, “How were the other wide receivers? Were you keeping up?”
I shrug and look down at the black Vans I got last summer. The right one is scuffed up from the very day I got them, the day Marcus tried to teach me how to skateboard and I dragged my toe down his driveway to keep from getting going too fast.
Roger’s got a football he’s passing back and forth between his hands. “Want to toss it around the parking lot for a minute?”
“That’s OK,” I say. And I know this is my big moment, because if I’m a star at anything, I’m a star at faking. So I look up and say, “I think Marcus and Shane are running routes at Marcus’s house today while we wait to hear about the teams.”
“You want to go?” Dad asks. He’s raising his eyebrows because I haven’t asked to run routes in their backyards since they started running full speed and bouncing off each other’s chests and smacking their helmets together just for fun.
“Guess maybe I should.”
Dad tussles my hair and says, “Atta boy.”
“Meet you at home for dinner,” I tell him.
Even though I’ve never straight-out lied to Dad and I’m starting to get that uneasy feeling in my stomach, I keep walking toward the door, right over the spot where I was left eleven years ago, the spot where we found Parker trembling with his tail between his legs, and I continue on down the street.
I look back to make sure no one is watching, then turn right toward the humane society instead of left toward Marcus’s backyard and walk fast with my eyes down.
I’m remembering every little detail I can about Parker—his brown-and-white patched fur, short and rough like wires, his whimpering, and his ribs—and before I know it, I’m running, and I tell myself that this counts as running a route, and it’s the only route that makes me feel like it’s right where I belong.
The humane society is clean like a doctor’s office, with tile floors and hard plastic chairs and a front desk with a lady wearing a green smock and a big smile. Dogs are barking in the back, and I listen hard through all the yips and howls for Parker’s whimper. And now that I’m this close, I feel like I can’t wait one more minute to see him and tell him I came back and everything is going to be OK because humane means nice and they’ll find him a good family.
The lady at the desk tells me her name is Max, and that makes me think of Sam and how you just shouldn’t ever assume anything. Max asks how she can help, and I tell her I’m here to visit Parker and I describe his brown fur and white-dipped tail.
“And who are you?” She smiles wide again, and it reminds me of when we visited my grandma in the hospital after her stroke. The nurse made Dad show his driver’s license, then checked to make sure we were on the family list. We signed our names on a clipboard, and she gave us sticky name tags with Grandma’s room number printed on them. I remember looking at the list as the nurse peered over the glasses on her nose and feeling relieved that even if I didn’t look like any other Olson, Cyrus was on the list, that I was family, because Grandma and my dad said so.
And I’m wondering if I’ll have to show Max some proof that I belong to Parker.
I smile and say I’m Cyrus.
“Are you here for the volunteer walking?” she asks.
I nod my head because a walk with Parker sounds perfect. I’m trying to look past her and past the front desk and down the hall to where I hear the barking while she writes Cyrus on a name tag, peels it off, and sticks it right over my heart.
“Welcome,” she says. “You can wait with the other volunteers until we’re ready to bring the dogs out for their walks.”
She points to the plastic chairs, and I count seven girls that I didn’t even notice when I walked in. They’re huddled around, talking, and they’re all taller than four feet eight inches.
I’m not great at adding myself to circles, so I just kind of stand off to the side, with one ear listening to their conversation and another still listening for Parker down the hall.
One of the girls is wearing bright orange Crocs and talking about a book she’s reading, and it makes me take one step back, because even if I were good at adding myself into circles, I’m definitely not good at talking about books.
Another girl, in a pink dress with wavy brown hair and bright eyes, looks up and says hi, and it takes me a second to realize she’s saying hi to me.
The girl next to her has short hair cut above her ears and green pants with suspenders, and she’s waving me over. I can feel my face getting hot because the only girls I ever really talk to are my grandma and Milly, and I don’t think they count.
I walk over slowly, hoping the dogs come running and barking down the hall dragging their leashes, ready for their walks, because I can’t think of one single thing to say.
“Hey, Cyrus!” The girl who knows my name is tall and strong and wearing a swim team T-shirt with Joseph Lee Heywood’s face printed on the front. I have no idea who she is, and the fact that she knows my name is making me feel even more awkward and weird. Then she points to my chest. “Your name tag.”
I look down at Cyrus and say, “Oh, duh.”
And all seven of them crack up, but they aren’t cracking up in a way that makes my cheeks burn hotter, they’re cracking up in a way that makes me crack up too, and all of a sudden I’m in their circle and even though they’re still talking about that book, I don’t feel like stepping back behind the edges.
I read all their name tags. Orange Crocs is Lou, a family nickname that just stuck, she tells me. Pink dress is Ruth. Green pants is Elli. Swim team is Katherine. There’s June, who asks to borrow Lou’s book for her book club, and DeeDee, who has dark curls and a full tote bag with sunscreen sticking out, and Alexis, with a smile so wide it seems to take up her entire face.
“This is your first time here,” Alexis says, and it’s not a question.
“We’ve been doing this together since sixth grade,” DeeDee adds. “No one else ever really shows up, but we’re here every Tuesday and Friday.”
I decide not to tell them that I don’t even start sixth grade for another four days.
“Yeah,” I say. “First time.”
“We’re the HS 7.” June pushes the glasses up her nose and smiles and reaches out her hand to shake mine, and I reach out too.
“Humane Society 7,” DeeDee explains. “But we just go by The 7.”
“Welcome.” Elli nods, and then they’re all saying welcome, even if it’s just with their eyes and smiles.
Then I hear the claws on the floor and hard, slobbery panting as Max from the front desk, and a man in a green smock, each with six dogs pulling on leashes, come barreling down the hall.
And before I know it, Parker’s nose is right there on my shoulder, and he’s wagging his tail so fast his whole body is going, and then he pees on the tile floor and it pools around my Vans and I don’t even care because he remembers me.
The man runs to get rags and a spray bottle of cleaner, but DeeDee is faster and pulls a wad of paper towels from her bag to wipe up the mess.
“It looks like he knows you,” she says.
Parker pants hot breath down my neck. “He does.”
The 7 take the leashes, but they let me take Parker, and we head for the back door across the parking lot to the trails that wind through the woods behind the Carleton College playing fields.
Parker jumps and wags his tail. I can still count his ribs, but he doesn’t feel as skinny as he was when he showed up at the firehouse. He still shrinks away and pulls his tail between his legs when a bird surprises him and flaps its wings loudly out of a tree, or one of The 7’s shoes gets too close to his paws, but he doesn’t whimper and hang his head like before.
The girls talk about what teachers they’ll have, and back-to-school shopping and Labor Day sales, and favorite ice cream flavors as we walk. I learn that they’re all going into eighth grade at Joseph Lee Heywood Middle School.
“How about you?” Alexis asks.
I tell them I’m starting sixth grade, and they don’t laugh or smirk or try to walk fast and lose me in the dust or anything, they just ask what teachers I have, and I tell them the names I can remember.
My English teacher, Mr. Hewett, is the best, they tell me.
I decide not to tell them that it’s too late for me and English class. I’m four days away from sixth grade, and I still can’t really read. Not the way other people can. Not like read-a-book-talk-about-it-and-share-it-with-your-friend-for-her-book-club kind of reading.
“Mr. Hewett’s first assignment is going to be a review of the best book you’ve ever read,” June tells me. “Just so you know. He does it every year.”
“Almost every other teacher’s first assignment is an essay on Joseph Lee Heywood,” DeeDee says and rolls her eyes. “I’m using the one I wrote last year if we have to do that again, because seriously, if they can’t come up with something new, neither can I.”
“That school’s obsessed with Joseph Lee Heywood,” Alexis says. “If you ever get in trouble, just say, ‘Joseph Lee Heywood was so brave,’ and they’ll forget that they were about to call your parents to complain about you being late to class.”
That gets us all laughing again.
We walk around a bend in the trail, and Elli breathes in deep. “Ahhhhh. Fresh air and—”
“Cheerios!” they all shout.
“Forget Joseph Lee Heywood,” Katherine says. “That is the best thing about Northfield.” She takes in another big breath.
And she’s right. It is the best. Every afternoon at exactly three forty-five, the whole town starts to smell like Cheerios being pumped into the air from the big smokestack at the Malt-O-Meal factory that towers high above our little town, and everyone stops whatever they’re doing and takes a big whiff of it before they continue on. I don’t know any other towns that have their own flavors.
Parker pulls on the leash and sniffs around a bush on the side of the trail. I scratch behind his ears, and the girls go back to talking about an end-of-summer sleepover they’re planning, and I’m wondering what my favorite book could be and how I can fake a good review for Mr. Hewett.
The 7 laugh and laugh and laugh. And I’m thinking that this might be my first time at the humane society, but I’m definitely coming back, even if it means faking around my dad every Tuesday and Friday because walking next to Parker is right where I belong.
When we bring the dogs back, Max meets us at the door, and I bend down and look right in Parker’s big brown eyes. And I tell him I’ll be back. I promise.
He parks his nose right on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around his neck.
And that’s when I hear the sirens.