Of course I went back. I knew as well as Regan did that eventually I’d give in. The sad truth is that when it comes to my sister, I’ve folded so many times I’m surprised I don’t see an origami swan when I look in the mirror.
I put up a good fight, though. I took my case to Mom, explaining that I didn’t want to be on the same planet, let alone in the same room, with one of the goons involved in Dad’s death. I was sure Mom would be horrified, shocked at the turn of events.
So wrong.
She wasn’t shocked at all that a known felon—well, okay, maybe not an actual felon, but a suspected one—was in the same Canine Connections class as the victim’s daughter. Me.
Mom mused, “I wonder if that boy is in the East Coast Assistance Dogs program—they work with Canine Connections.”
The what?
“They choose specific at-risk teens to train service dogs,” Mom explained. “It’s supposed to allow kids who’ve been abandoned or abused to receive unconditional love from these dogs, and learn responsibility, discipline, and empathy for someone who has it worse than they do.”
I flashed on Lissa. She had to be part of that program, too. It was her community service to keep her out of juvie.
As if I cared about the East Coast whatever program.
Then Mom dropped the D-bomb. Dad.
“Your dad was a big fan of ECAD, you know. He saw good results with the kids he worked with—saw it boost their self-esteem, made them more compassionate toward other people, less likely to turn to violence.”
Bringing Dad into it was low. Before I could tell her what I thought of that, she made it worse: “It’s even possible that Dad recommended this boy, JJ, for the program.”
Come on, did I really need to remind her that this boy was a suspect?
As if she could read my mind, Mom said, “He was under suspicion, honey. They ruled him out.”
They gave up, is what I wanted to say. I scowled.
My mom reached out to touch my hand; instinctively, I pulled it away. “Please don’t say I have to let it go, okay?”
“I understand if you don’t want to be in that class, and I’ll support you. Tell Regan she’s got to do it herself.”
I would have. Except for Rex, who’d been on my case ever since the one class with Regan. “Please, Jacey, oh, please!” Rex kept up his whining. “It’s no fun going with Regan—she’s not like you. She doesn’t even pay attention!”
Bizarrely, Rex’s talking was starting to seem—I can’t believe I’m saying it—normal. Maybe it was just easier to go along with this weirdness than to keep trying to convince myself it was all in my head. Because if that were true, it was time for the men in the white suits to come and take me away.
“I’ll protect you from him—from that boy you don’t like,” Rex asserted. As if to prove it, Rex sat upright, puffed his wiry chest out in his version of a guard-dog pose. But with his chaotically colored prickly hair sticking out in all directions, one ear upright, the other folded down, he hardly looked like he could guard a parakeet.
But there it was, a little ice cap melted inside me … … and, strangely, re-formed into an idea.
No, not an idea. A thought. A thread of a thought, which, over the next several hours wound itself into a possibility.
What if I could pull off what the cops couldn’t? What if, somehow during those class hours—maybe even with Rex’s help—I could wear JJ Pico down, or trick him into telling the truth about what really happened that day?
It wasn’t going to be easy. I may be a nutcase for hearing a dog talk, but I’m not delusional.
And I know nothing can bring my dad back. Just like nothing can change the fact that it was all my fault.
If I hadn’t guilted him into leaving work early that day, he wouldn’t have been out there when that car drove by. Maybe no one would have gotten shot. But I wanted him there for my after-school softball tryouts. Originally, he’d begged off coming; he was slammed at work. But his workload was no match for my petty selfishness. I wanted to show off, see him cheering for me when I made the team (’cause I was sure I would). I wouldn’t take no for an answer and pulled a Regan. I pouted and pretty-pleased until I wore him down. So he left early, intending to come see me play. And walked right into a drive-by.
If I hadn’t been so selfish, he might still be alive. There was no way to tell him how sorry I was, but maybe I could do this one thing: get justice for him.
Uplifted by my newfound hope, I tried to think of a way to get JJ to tell me what he hadn’t told the police. There were several obstacles to that goal.
The biggest? I hated him. The idea of getting him to talk was one thing. Doing it meant being close enough for a conversation, and that turned my stomach.
Unless there was another way.
One thing I knew about bad guys—or any guys who think they got away with something—is they like to brag. Especially to someone they want to impress. Someone who’d give him props for committing a crime and getting away with it.
Someone like Lissa.
She’d made it clear that her only reason for being in Canine Connections was to avoid juvie. She and JJ had at least that in common. And sure enough, the delinquent duo had formed their little Future Felons of America club. In class, they were always together.
Normally, I would have stayed as far away from them as I could in the gymnasium-sized room. Now I had to get closer. For a week and a half, Rex and I chose workstations that inched us nearer to them. All I needed was to accidentally-on-purpose overhear JJ brag about his exploits. I’d have something the police did not. My secret weapon? Rex. What I couldn’t hear, he could—especially if they were whispering.
All dogs have supersonic hearing. My dog can tell me what he heard. Better, Rex was totally into playing detective.
“That’s a great idea, Spacey! I’m all over it.”
For the first few days, Rex’s reports were disappointing—unless it was Lissa I wanted to snare. The only time she talked animatedly was to brag about fights she’d gotten into, cigarettes she’d cribbed, stores she’d ripped off. JJ didn’t seem to have any problem with any of this. But if he was matching or one-upping her with tales of his own unlawful actions, neither Rex nor I ever heard it.
Finally, after nearly two weeks of semi-stalking, we got a sort-of break. Rex did, that is.
“Lissa’s planning to rob someone’s house!” he told me excitedly. “She’s got it all cased out.”
“Not cool,” I agreed. “But how does that help us nail JJ?”
“She wants him in on it.”