I steered my bike several blocks to a brick-faced building with a weathered sign that read BEST F IENDS ANIMAL CINIC, DR. ROY KIEKLACK. An old oak with dangling bird feeders provided shade for much of the yard. Kickstand in place, I scooped up Eleanor, still bundled in the towel, and pushed open the glass door.
The COME IN sign clinked on its small chain as the door slipped shut. Dr. Kieklack’s waiting room was bright and sterile like a hospital. And smelled like one too. I’d know because my memory from infancy was brilliant.
At the whoosh of the door, the receptionist, Miss Hazel Sogbottom, looked up over her bedazzled spectacles and popped a humongous wad of bubblegum. If anyone deserved a legal name change it was Miss Sogbottom.
“Good afternoon, Vilonia!” she said, taking a big sip of energy drink.
It’s always awkward bumping into people for the first time since Nana died. They don’t know what to say: “How’s your mama?” “Are y’all holding up?” Or the classic, “Your nana’s in a better place.” Even worse, some people flat go out of their way to avoid me or give me stuff out of pity. Like the time AC and I rode our bikes to the vegetable stand, and the farmer who usually waited on Mama got so flustered, he gave us two huge bags of asparagus for free. Our pee stunk for a solid week. All that to say it was a relief when someone acted normal. But even normal was a stretch for Miss Sogbottom.
“Hi.” I shuffled up to the desk. Behind the counter, a red dachshund yipped and growled in his crate. In a flash, Miss Sogbottom turned and snapped her fingers. “Hush, T-Bone.”
Spinning back to me, she smiled. Her spray-tanned cheeks sparkled with a hint of body glitter. “Someone’s a little cranky after his ear drops.”
“Oh.” My eyes widened.
“He’ll survive.” She jammed a pencil into her hair-as-big-as-Texas and peered over the counter. “What have you got for us today? Another baby squirrel? A malnourished kitty?” So, I had a reputation for taking in destitute creatures. It all started when I adopted a nest of baby skunks last spring. I’d found the babies under our front porch after their mama got run over by a car. Mama wouldn’t let me bring the kits (that’s what you call baby skunks) indoors even though I showed her solid research saying most don’t spray until they’re three months old. So on the porch they stayed in a big cardboard box destined to prove Mama right. And science wrong. These kits were advanced.
Still, it wasn’t my fault the preacher’s wife chose this week to bring over a Dutch apple pie. She spooked those skunks silly when she stomped mud off her boots right next to their box. Maybe she should have worn cleaner boots. Or looked before she stomped. No one touched the pie, and poor Mrs. Pounders smelled like skunk for three Sundays straight. Not to brag, but I did become the talk of the church potluck.
“It’s nothing like that, Miss Sogbottom. It’s the Willoughbys’ hen, Eleanor Roostevelt.” I held up Eleanor, still cloaked in my towel. “She’s victim to a hit-and-run.”
Miss Sogbottom clicked her tongue. “Got spooked and flew the coop again, I bet. You know those Willoughby boys and their firecrackers. I’ll call Mrs. Willoughby to let her know we’ve got her.”
It’s true. The Willoughbys owned Tom Sawyer’s Catfish Hole, a family-style restaurant that served up the best catfish filets your mouth ever did meet, and they ran the only fireworks stand for twenty-five miles. Believe me, those boys tested every black cat, smoke bomb, and parachute the day inventory rolled in.
“Thanks.” I passed Eleanor over the counter, towel and all. She clucked loudly as if to say Watch it, buster. “Yeah.” I frowned. “Her right leg doesn’t look so good.”
“Dr. Kieklack will take a look, don’t you worry. Eleanor’s what we call a frequent flyer; she’s used to us. See?”
Sure as snail snot, Eleanor calmed down in the receptionist’s arms. “You did right by bringing her in, Vilonia. She could have been snatched by a predator, you know. Here’s your towel.”
“Oh, right. Well, tell Dr. Kieklack hello. I’ve got a game to catch.” I started to leave, but a poster on the wall jumped out at me. With my hand still on the doorknob, I read:
FEELING BLUE?
The most powerful antidepressant has
4 paws and a tail.
Pets promote well-being. Adopt yours today.
Contact the Howard County
Animal Shelter for details. 555-PETS
Then a photo of a yawning gray kitten cuddled up to a Labrador retriever with a softball in his mouth closed the deal: We Beebes needed a dog like Mama needed to feel better.
“You know,” Miss Sogbottom said, “we partner with the shelter and have animals available for adoption here, too. Take T-bone, for example.” T-bone growled.
“Ha, I wish.” My cheeks grew hot, and I read the poster again. “Do you think pets really help with depression?”
“Absolutely,” Miss Sogbottom said, cradling Eleanor like a football. “Pets provide comfort and companionship. They can make people laugh. They don’t care if you forget to turn in your homework or don’t feel like brushing your hair. They love you regardless.” The receptionist pointed to a framed photo of a rabbit sitting on her desk. “My mini lop Oreo has seen me through hard times and heartbreaks.” She looked at me quizzically. “Are you sure you’re okay, Vilonia?” Oh boy. She didn’t know Mama had come down with the Infinite Sadness, and I had no time to explain. No time to explain I needed a dog now more than ever.
“I’m just fine, Miss Sogbottom. Thanks and good-bye. Bye, Eleanor!” I blurted instead.
“Buh-bye.” Miss Sogbottom waved over her shoulder as she whisked Ellie to the back. “And go, team!”
Heart racing, I rode like the wind on the best kite-flying day. If Eleanor Roostevelt hadn’t crossed the road in front of me, I’d never have read that poster. If I hadn’t read that poster, I wouldn’t know how badly we needed a dog. No one plans on rescuing a chicken and discussing heartbreak right before her first ballgame of the season. But I hadn’t planned on arriving at the ballpark and debating this word either:
Forfeit.
• • •
Daddy arrived at the ballpark in time to drive my bike and sorry self home. “Vilonia, please pay attention,” he said as we walked into the kitchen. “You know the rules. Six players on the field at game time. They were counting on you.”
“I know, Daddy, but Phoebe and Summer weren’t there either! And Eleanor Roostevelt needed prompt medical attention. What’s more important?” My face felt splotched.
Daddy poured us each a glass of cold milk and ignored the stack of dirty dishes filling Mama’s stainless sink. She loved that sink—back when she enjoyed cooking. “Phoebe and Summer had their family vacations approved weeks ago. Just no more found creatures, okay? We’re a family. We’re not running some animal rescue operation.”
“But, Daddy.”
“Don’t ‘but, Daddy’ me. Vilonia, last week you hid a peacock. In our basement. He ruined your nana’s velvet couch!”
“How would I know Steve had escaped from a petting zoo?”
Daddy ran his fingers across his uneven beard and sighed. “You’re a smart girl, Vilonia. Use your noodle.”
My noodle. My noggin. My brain. The one they were so worried about when I was born ten weeks too early. I did use it, and Daddy had no idea how much. There was this side job I sort of fell into. It was 100 percent hush-hush. Number one, I could get Mama in trouble because it was really her job. She hasn’t been able to write a single thing since Nana died. (I knew because I was watching videos of those fainting goats when a work e-mail came through stating Mama would be replaced if she didn’t write something.) And two, no one, not Mama or Daddy or Mama’s boss, knew I was doing it. I was writing the county obits.
Obits, or obituaries, are paragraph summaries of dead people. They appear online or in the paper and make nice people out to be super nice and not-so-nice people out to be better than they actually were. For the most part.
When you spend your free time writing about the newly dead, it’s best to keep a sense of humor. This biz can and will suck the life right out of you. At least that’s what Mama says, and look where it got her.
Daddy whistled and waved a hand in front of my face. “And Leon found this by the tire swing.”
Great Danes and greyhounds! Peon Leon had found my long-lost library book. I’d only checked it out a gazillion times before it’d disappeared. Shoot, Because of Winn-Dixie was the whole reason I started the Great Pet Campaign in the first place. I’d have traded my lucky softball socks to have a dog half as good as him. Of course, I’d searched Pet Campaign Headquarters (aka my room) and emptied my desk at school and never came across the book. Until now.
The only problem was Because of Winn-Dixie’s hardcover, featuring India Opal and her smiling mutt, now looked warped beyond repair. Its pages showed that trademark wave of having been dropped in a puddle of water, the bathtub (don’t ask), or in this case, left out in the rain. I knew because I’d last seen it the day of the rainout. The day I took my first obit. The day Scooter Malone of Howard County, beloved father, grandfather, and friend, died of congestive heart failure while playing a game of checkers. He was seventy-nine.
Dad handed over the book and sighed. “You’ll need to pay Mr. Reyes for it, using your allowance.”
I picked at the ruined corner. “You mean my pet fund.” Maybe Mr. Reyes, my school librarian, wouldn’t drain my whole twenty-eight dollars and three cents.
“Vilonia, we’ve discussed this before. We absolutely cannot get a dog—or any pet for that matter. Your mama can’t handle anything else right now . . . You’ve got to start taking care of your things and showing your mama and me more—”
“I know, responsibility.” I shot Leon a dirty look. He’d been mouthing along with Daddy’s speech. Yeah, we were all tired of hearing it, but no one more than me. Doggone it, I was responsible. I brushed my teeth with minty fluoride cavity-fighting toothpaste every stinking night, thank you very much. And I hadn’t lost my new rain jacket yet. I’d had it three whole weeks. That had to be a world record. It was navy with green frogs and perfect for fishing in the rain. Did I mention I hadn’t even lost it?
This week alone, I’d taken out the trash, cleared the table without being asked, and ta-da! accepted a new role at school as the Friday Library Helper.
But this wasn’t the time to mention that. So instead, I trudged upstairs to HQ, where my “You can always trust a dog that likes peanut butter” Winn-Dixie poster clung to the door.
More dog posters covered the walls inside. And sticky notes. A sticky note for every reason I should have a dog. I had over thirty squares on the wall at the moment. Dogs make good friends. Dogs keep you active. Dogs can sense danger. I whipped out a fat orange marker and jotted down one more: Dogs soothe aching hearts.
Sitting on my bed, I sifted through notes from family members regarding the week’s deceased. The really weird part was when they sent in photos of left-behind pets. They were almost always cats.
Twirling the marker in one hand, I got to work highlighting important information. One woman had visited a hundred national parks before her ninety-ninth birthday. Another had played the organ at her church for over thirty years and occasionally enjoyed skydiving. Neither of those are what killed her. Pneumonia did.
I got the obits written and e-mailed them, from Mama’s account, to the editor of the Howard County Press. Once printed, I’d paste them inside my obituary scrapbook, the two-inch binder I sneakily labeled ANTHROPOLOGY.
When I couldn’t think anymore, I shut the book in favor of skimming India Opal’s story, even though I knew it by heart. I mean she (spoiler alert!) did convince the preacher to let her keep Winn-Dixie. I just needed to find the right dog to convince my dad.
But getting Daddy to agree to a dog would take a miracle similar to the birth of sweet baby Jesus. A sick feeling swam in my gut. I’d have to try flattery, then possibly hypnosis. At the very least, I needed some heavy-duty research. More than I did with the skunks.
“Hey, Vi! We’ve got a bit of a situation!” Ugh, Leon.
“Good grief.” I capped the orange marker ever so responsibly so it wouldn’t ruin my comforter and zipped downstairs with my book. “I told you I was busy. This had better be—yum.”
The smell of cookies fresh from the oven stopped me in my tracks. Mama’s big red mixing bowl was drying upside down on the counter. The pile of dishes had disappeared from the sink. My heart skipped a beat.
“Mama?”
“Wrong.” Leon brushed by me with a metal box, filled to the brim with mouth-watering, delicious oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies as big as my face. I knew right off Daddy had baked them using Mama’s recipe. Daddy added chocolate chips to every recipe whether it called for them or not.
Plus it’d been weeks since Mama had used an oven. Weeks since we’d sampled her legendary cookies and cakes. Sure, Mama’s love for baking had spoiled us, but store-bought cookies didn’t taste as good as her homemade ones. And have mercy if Leon ever tried to make them, the Fire Department would arrive in full force.
“Not so fast. Where’s mine?” I asked.
Leon hooked his thumb toward the kitchen counter.
Three cookies cooled on the wire rack. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
“What?” Leon balked. “Dad took a few, and I’m keeping the rest safe by taking them to the track meeting. You should thank me.” Safe? Really?
“Ha. Everyone knows you just want to impress your new coach.”
“He’s not my coach!” Leon held the tin of cookies out of my reach. “Yet.” It was true. After last year’s blow of not making the team, Leon resolved to wake up at six a.m. three times a week to run. And I don’t mean to the donut shop.
I sprung for the cookies again. “Well, I am this close to telling Ransom Willoughby and the rest of the track team that you’re a ginormous cookie thief who still sleeps with a stuffed frog.” I put my hands on my hips and stuck out my chin. “Going to a track meeting is hardly ‘a situation,’ anyway. Besides, you don’t even like oatmeal.”
“I don’t.” My brother smirked. “But she does.” Leon motioned to the kitchen window. A burgundy sedan with a busted-out headlight cut its engine in our drive. “The situation is she’s been sitting out front for ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes. Are you sure?”
Leon tapped his stopwatch. My palms began to sweat.
“What could she want?” She was Miss Bettina, newspaper editor and Mama’s boss. I disliked her more than cauliflower.
Leon shrugged and lowered the tin for me to make my choice. “What she always wants. A story.”
Or an obit.
I snatched the cookie with the most chocolate chips. It was still fall-apart hot. “You can’t leave me here with her! She’s nuts.”
Leon checked his stopwatch. “Oh, yes I can.” He snapped the lid on the cookies, pocketed an apple for himself, and jogged to the back door. “Watch me.”
“Wait!” I stuck my head outside. “Where’s Mama?”
“Sleeping.”
“And Daddy?”
“In his shop.”
“Poodles.” I licked gooey chocolate from my fingertips and secured the back door. The last bite of cookie dissolved in my mouth as the all-too familiar voice drifted inside.
“Vilonia, honey, I know you’re in there.”