“I loooove you. I loooove you.”
Of course Rex didn’t say that. But I swear that’s what I heard as his slobbery tongue swiped my chin, lips, and nose over and over again. Combined with his hot doggy breath, it was more than enough to gross me out of the deepest sleep. I also didn’t need a sharp-clawed paw digging into my shoulder. I rolled away from him and pulled the blanket over my head.
The tongue—and the dog attached to it—would not be denied. Within seconds, Rex had hoisted his whole self onto the bed and his moist muzzle found its way underneath the quilt. He continued to treat my face like an ice-cream cone.
“Stop it!” I scolded, tucking my chin down and curling into a ball so he couldn’t get me.
“Gotta go! Walk me! Walk me now. Come on, get up, gotta go!” Rex was panting.
I opened one eye and slid it toward the bedside clock. 6:02. Ugh.
Blearily, I stumbled down the hallway and through the kitchen, trailing Rex. Mom was already up and online, gulping what I suspected was last night’s reheated coffee and picking at a still-frozen bagel. The thought hopscotched across my muddled mind: Had she even slept?
“You’re walking him?” Mom asked with a frown.
“I’m pretty sure he’s got to go,” I replied.
“Look, Grace, I see this dog has already taken a shine to you—but you and Regan should share the responsibility.”
We should? I thought this was Regan’s deal, and I’m just being the sap I usually am. I was about to challenge Mom when Rex interrupted. That is, the doggy-voice in my head sounded urgent.
“Ixnay on the chitchat. When a guy’s gotta go, he’s gotta go! My leash is on the peg in the mudroom. Let’s go—Race!”
“Grace.”
“What did you say?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “I’m already up. I’ll get Regan to walk him later.”
Later, as in most likely, never.
Regan drives me to school. Although she got her license when she turned sixteen, Regan didn’t always have a car. Mom used to drop us both off—first Regan at Jupiter High School, then me at Jupiter Middle. The two schools, about a mile apart, are conveniently on the way to Palm Beach Community College, where Mom is Professor Judith Abernathy, Chairperson, Department of Mathematics.
Mom drove a swanky (for us) SUV; Dad, a cranky Ford Fiesta. When our lives got upended last November, Mom gave the big car to Regan, on the grounds that it was bigger-meaning-safer. “I’ll keep Dad’s car until it dies,” she’d reasoned. I knew she regretted her choice of words right then.
Dad would not have approved. He would not have wanted Regan in an expensive car. The girl drives like the ditz-diva she is, more interested in being seen than seeing the road. Riding shotgun with Regan means being her eyes and ears—if you want to live.
“Remember, Grace,” she said the Monday after we got Rex, “today’s the first training day for that dog. He’s got to be certified as a full-fledged service dog by the time my college essay is due, so it’s crucial to be at all the classes, and to be on time.”
“What do you mean all the classes?” I bristled. “After today, you’re taking him.”
“Of course.” She waved me away dismissively. “Let’s take one day at a time. And today I need you to be outside the school right after last period. Mom will pick you up; you’ll get the dog and take it to Canine Connections on Military Trail. Clear?”
My sister excels at delegating. Which beats actually doing anything herself. Weirdly, I don’t hate her for being both beautiful and manipulative. She’s got other good qualities. Which escape me at the moment.
“Hey, Grace.” Jasmine Richards and Kendra Ramirez sidled up to me in the hallway. Ever since grade school they, along with Mercy Goldstein, have been my closest, most trusted friends. They acted like they still were.
It was admirable, their loyalty, since I’d given them every reason to drop me. How many more “missed” phone calls, deleted messages, and turned-down invites would it take until they got the real message?
It’s nothing against them. I just couldn’t force myself to care about the things they did, like classes, the eighth-grade dance, the yearbook, midterms, and least of all, who posted what about whom.
Even if I could pretend to care, it’d be so wrong, on so many levels.
“We’ve got practice this afternoon.” Jasmine tried to sound casual, while stating the obvious. Why else would they be wearing their Jupiter Middle School softball uniforms? Cleats with knee-high socks aren’t trendoid Jazz’s footwear of choice.
“You could come,” Kendra said carefully. “Just hang out.”
“Maybe,” I lied. No way would I ever set foot on that softball field again.
“So what’d you do this weekend?” asked perky Kendra, who’d clearly spent hers at the beach. Her sunburned face and bronzed arms stood out against her blue, yellow, and white softball tunic.
“We got a dog.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Jasmine was indignant. “I called you, like, seventeen times.” Jazz has to be the first to know everything. She’s the source of whatever goes viral at school, and she doesn’t like coming in second when there’s a newsblast. She uploads, texts, and tweets incessantly. Yep, she is that girl.
“She can tell us now,” Kendra said brightly. Kendra dislikes conflict, even when it’s minuscule, even when it doesn’t involve her: she’s the smoother-over.
“There’s not much to tell. It’s for Regan. She’s going to train him to become a service dog.”
Kendra blinked in disbelief. Jasmine’s jaw fell open.
“It’s for her college application,” I clarified. “So it’ll look good.”
“And yet we all know who’s getting stuck with the training.” Mercy came bouncing along just then, diving as seamlessly into the conversation as an Olympian slices into a lap pool. “Your sister is just like my brother Raj: do-nothings.”
“No, that’s not it.”
That’s exactly it, but the instinct to defend my sister is a reflex—albeit a gag reflex sometimes.
Normally, Mercy would debate this. But now she simply looked at me with sad brown eyes. Even my best friends, even now, six months after it happened, didn’t know how to act around me. It’s like they were afraid if they contradicted me over anything I’d fall apart. It’s not like I’d done anything to make them think any differently.
“What does the puppy look like?” Jasmine wanted to know. “All kinds of adorable?”
“He’s … intelligent-looking,” I answered. “Which, for Regan’s purposes, trumps adorableness.” I omitted the full description, as well as the most salient fact about Rex. Although if I really wanted my friends to dump me, telling them I hear the dog talk might just do the trick.
As I slid into my seat in language arts, I pictured what Rex was doing right then. Only his third day home, and left alone in an empty house. Was he stretched out, muzzle resting on his paws, eyes wide and glued to the front door waiting for someone to come home? Was he missing me?
“Don’t worry about me,” Rex had assured me that morning.
“What makes you think I would worry?” I’d been distracted enough to actually talk back to him (!) while trying to locate the least-ratty-looking jeans from the epic mess on the floor.
Rex had tilted his scraggly head and looked me square in the eye. It was like he knew exactly what I was feeling.
I had bigger problems right then. Bigger, as in, the jeans I’d just pulled up slid down to my ankles. I frowned. This wasn’t good. But how was I supposed to have an appetite when everything tasted like chalk?
An idea for a diet plan struck me. The grief diet! Lose someone you love and watch those pounds melt away! Without thinking, I reached for my phone. I always told Jazz or Mercy my bizarre ideas, but something told me they wouldn’t get my strange humor on this one.
“Can I borrow a pair of jeans?” I’d stuck my head into Regan’s room. My size-zero sister was half dressed, texting away like a madwoman while talking into the landline, wedged between her cheek and neck. She waved me toward her closet. When she’s motivated, Regan can be just as organizationally obsessive as my mom. As a fashion-designer-in-waiting, clothes and accessories fall into that category. Everything in her closet is arranged according to hue and size, coordinated seasonally and by trend. “The bigger sizes are in the back,” she called out. “Take a pair that cuffs at the ankle.”
“I’m going to explore today!” Rex had continued talking as though I hadn’t even left the room. “But don’t worry, no belongings will be injured or harmed during my walkabout. I’ll just sniff. No tail action.”
“You should probably stay away from Regan’s room,” I heard myself warn the dog that was in fact Regan’s dog.
“I’m troubled, Grace.” Mr. Kassan jolted me from my morning replay to the here and now. Uh-oh. Our language arts teacher was handing back exam papers from our “Coming of Age” unit. The test, a combination essay and multiple choice, covered everything we’d discussed and read—or should have—for the past two months.
“Please see me after class,” he instructed.
“Sure,” I mumbled, eyeing the packet of papers in front of me. I knew I’d blown the test, but whatever. I flipped through the exam booklet to see exactly how bad it was, but the pages were devoid of any marks. The exam was ungraded. A hot flush of shame crept from my neck to my face. It was ungraded because my teacher hadn’t wanted to fail me. His kindness made me hurt all over.
At the end of the period, I approached Mr. Kassan’s desk. Too embarrassed to look at him, I averted my eyes. I wished I could tell him that being pitied is worse than being failed.
Thankfully, he didn’t start out with the default, “I know you’ve been through a lot …” I gave him silent kudos for that.
He also scored points for not taking the “help me help you” route. He simply said, “Of the books on the reading list, I hoped you’d choose To Kill a Mockingbird, or The Pigman & Me. I had the feeling you could bring some new insights to the classic Harper Lee story—and I wanted to see what you’d make of The Pigman.”
I hadn’t picked either. Instead, I’d recycled Regan’s old paper on A Separate Peace. I knew it probably wasn’t very good; some part of me knew that Mr. Kassan would realize I’d neither read the book nor written the paper, but I didn’t care.
Why should language arts be different than any of my other classes? Just showing up takes everything I’ve got.
“I know this seems meaningless to you now,” he said, thankfully without forcing me to look at him. “But I promise you will feel differently later. So here’s what we’re doing to do. We’re going to table this exam. We’re going to act like it didn’t happen. In a week, or a month, or whenever you decide you’re ready to redo it, we’ll come back to it.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be ready,” I mumbled, anxious to leave.
“Back in September when we went over the syllabus, you told me you were looking forward to this unit—remember?”
Back in September the world was still spinning on its axis. Back in September, I didn’t know that in less than three months my father would be gone. Or that it would be my fault.