One Friday, Mom, not Regan, picked me and Rex up after class. Which was unusual by itself, more so that she was wearing cute white capris and strappy sandals, instead of her standard “teacher-wear”—long flowy skirt, blousy top with a matching string of beads, and flats.
“I’m going to my widow’s support group, and afterward, we’re all having dinner at the Ocean Grill. It’s for someone’s birthday. They say,” she said, like she was still convincing herself, “you’re supposed to celebrate the good times.”
“Have a good time,” I said, wondering what, if anything, Mom got out of her bereavement support group meetings. “Tell whoever I said happy birthday.”
Too late, I realized my mistake. Mom took my comment to mean I was in a talkative, receptive mood, and launched into the dreaded subject …
“Speaking of having a good time …” She was off and running. About how I haven’t spent any time with my friends, haven’t gone out, even though she knows—because she bumped into Jasmine’s mom—that my friends have been trying to coax me out of my shell. “Mrs. Richards mentioned a barbecue tonight at Kendra’s house—”
I cut her off. “I know you think it’s best for me, Mom, and I will … join them again. Not today though.”
“When?” She kept her gaze on the road steady.
“Soon.”
“Your mom is right, Stacie. You should go—and bring me! I’m all about barbecues and pool parties!”
Et tu, Brute? I nearly blurted, though I was getting much better at not addressing Rex in the presence of others. I did put some value on my sanity, or the pretense of it.
Mom still hadn’t exhausted the topic, when, fifteen minutes later, she dropped me at home. “Regan has some friends over. Maybe you want to call Mercy or Jasmine and join them?”
I jumped out of the car without answering. As Mom carefully backed out of our narrow driveway, her face fell just a bit: she knew I wouldn’t do it. “I miss your smile, Grace,” she said as she pulled onto Abacoa Drive.
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I called after her. “Stop worrying.”
I opened our front door to a wall of noise. Dance-club music, my least favorite, bounced off the walls, accented with the jokey, knowing, upbeat voices of Regan’s friends, male and female. Worse than bad music was the sound of laughter. It felt like an assault on my ears, like the eardrum-piercing squeal of an out-of-sync microphone.
“Weiners!” Rex exclaimed, eyes shining, tongue hanging out. “I smell pigs in blankets!!”
Food plus dance music plus guys: this wasn’t having a couple of friends over. Regan was having a party! Who does that when their father died just six months ago? Well, five months and fourteen days ago.
The last thing I wanted was to be suckered into joining them. I had to slip by unnoticed. But all the rooms in my one-level house are off a main hallway—it’s hard to avoid being seen. Not that I wasn’t going to try.
Hoping the house music would cover up Rex’s nails making clickity-clack sounds on the hallway floor, I snuck a glance into the living room. I counted seven of Regan’s friends: bestie Sheena, Sheena’s boyfriend, Regan’s current boy-lapdog, plus four random Regan-wannabes. They were scattered around the coffee table, lounging on the couch, perched on armchairs, flopped out on the floor, using our fringed throw pillows as backrests.
I’d made it well past the archway of the living room when I gave myself away. It wasn’t the inane conversation that unhinged me:
“You’re a lock for PSD, Regan,” said Lapdog. “A slam dunk.”
“What’s a PSD?” one of the morons asked. “Is that like PMS, or some syndrome?”
Regan clarified, “It’s Parsons School of Design. It’s actually called Parsons: The New School for Design. It’s the best school for fashion and design. I’ve got my heart set on it.”
“You’re so talented,” gushed someone else. “You’ll totally make it.”
“I hope so. I pulled decent grades, and I think my portfolio of fashions is pretty good, but I tanked on my PSATS. My first try at the SATS weren’t much better,” Regan replied ruefully.
“College is over a year away, why are you so obsessed with it?” That voice I recognized as Sheena’s.
“I’m not obsessed, I’m planning,” Regan corrected her.
“You do have that ace in the hole,” Sheena’s boyfriend commented. “Wish I’d thought of it—who trains service dogs? It’s such a gimme. The essay part of your application is going to rock.”
“Already got it started,” Regan said proudly.
She did? She’d been to one class. I’d been going for weeks. I shook my head in disbelief.
But none of that “all-hail Regan” banter was what freaked me out.
This did, courtesy of Sheena: “It doesn’t matter what you write, or how good your fashions are. Just play the daddy-death card. That’s like an all-access pass to college.”
I about-faced, stormed into party central, and glared at Regan. “It isn’t bad enough you’re having a party—now Dad’s a card?”
“Grace! You scared me!” Regan scolded. Her hand flew to her chest. “Don’t do that again.”
I stood there with my hands on my hips, too infuriated to know what else to say.
“And as for having a few friends over,” Regan countered, “you should try it.”
I’m sure I was the only one who noticed the slight waver in her voice. It was enough to mollify me. Almost.
Still, I needed to get out of there, dignity intact. “Since you all seem so interested,” I said, practically shoving poor Rex in front of me, “here’s the dog Regan’s trained so well. Notice his fashionable service dog vest. Do a trick, Rex.”
I pivoted, dashed down the hall, and slammed my door.
The trick Rex performed was for me. I don’t know how much time had gone by, but I suddenly became aware of something ramming against my door. I knew that sound. In class, Rex had learned to open doors by following the commands “Up!” and “Tug!”
Rex must have gotten up on his hind legs, grabbed the rope I’d hung on the handle for practicing, and tugged the door open. I half expected some self-congratulatory babble, but Rex was superserious. His tail pointed downward.
“Come with me,” he said. “You have to see something.”
“Not going back out there,” I told him.
“Me neither! The hors d’oeuvres are gone, that greedy kid ate the Whole Foods’ gluten-free mini-bagels and lox without even offering me any. Some people are so rude.”
Not in the mood for Rex’s snack obsession, I brushed him off. “If you have to go outside, take yourself—you can clearly open the door. Just be sure to close it on the way out.”
“It’s not that,” he said in a tone so hushed it made me nervous.
“If you’re here to nag me about my homework, don’t.”
“We have to go to your mom’s room.”
“Why?”
“Follow me,” Rex said. “Please, Pacey.”
Whatever. I slid off the bed.
Feeling stupid, I followed Rex to the end of the hall. The door was closed, and there was no rope hanging on the end of the handle. But unlike the circular doorknob I have, Mom’s had a lever handle. Rex swatted at it. A giant hairy paw came down hard on the lever. The door flew open.
My parents’ bedroom. I was having trouble getting used to it as Mom’s room, even though the nightstand on Dad’s side of the bed was empty, while Mom’s was piled high with books about what happens when your husband dies, like The Year of Magical Thinking and Widow.
I half expected to see Widowhood for Dummies, but apparently no one had thought of that yet.
I didn’t expect to see Sheena Weston, frozen like an ice carving in front of the bureau. Mom’s jewelry box was open, and Regan’s best friend was holding up a necklace, as if pondering a purchase. Only she looked less like a fashion fabulista than a frightened ferret caught in the klieg lights.
“What are you doing?” I asked, utterly confused.
“Nothing.” She shrugged casually. “I mean … I was looking for the bathroom.”
“You’ve been in this house a hundred times. The bathroom hasn’t moved.”
She forced a laugh. “Well, duh. No, I mean I got up to go, and Regan asked me to get a necklace—she wants to see how it goes with her new outfit.”
What part of that made no sense? All of it.
Rex growled low. “Tell her to give you her bag.”
Sensing something, Sheena protectively pinned her bulky shoulder bag close to her body.
“You’re stealing from us?” The words felt ridiculous coming out of my mouth.
Without warning, Rex rocketed toward her, snatched the bag in his jaw, and shook his head frantically. Amid Sheena’s wails of protest, the bag fell open. On the floor mixed in with her wallet, lip gloss, and cell phone, I recognized Mom’s diamond tennis bracelet, her gold locket necklace … and Dad’s wedding ring.
I was reeling. The full-out meltdown I’d so far avoided was coming at me like an onrushing train. Rex saved me from myself. He barked wildly, while circling Sheena menacingly. One thing about an unkempt shelter dog: they do an excellent menacing.
“Get that dog away from me!” Sheena cringed. “He’s going to bite me.”
“He won’t, but I will,” I threatened. “I’m going to tell Regan.”
Sheena’s face registered real fear. With two hands, she hastily grabbed her bag, wallet, cell phone, and lip gloss. Then she ran.
“You’ll never hog hors d’ouevres in this house again!” Rex said to Sheena’s fleeing back.
I knelt and put my arms around the mangy mutt, whose coat felt porcupine-prickly, but warm and soothing all the same. “Rex, how did you know she was stealing? Please don’t tell me you can see through walls.”
“I smelled something fishy going on,” he said. “I thought it was lox.”
My chest heaved as if trying for a laugh, but a raw rasp came out instead. My mom would have been devastated to lose Dad’s wedding ring.
Gently, I picked up Mom’s jewelry. I closed my fist around the simple gold ring and debated what to do. The thought of busting Sheena in front of her friends was enticing, but I doubted the she-thief had stuck around. For a fleeting second, I pictured myself marching into the living room and announcing the betrayal. Minus a surveillance tape—let alone Rex as my only witness—I’d probably be laughed out of the room.
Or worse. My sister might believe me. I couldn’t hurt Regan like that. Not in front of everyone.
In the end, I decided to leave the nearly stolen necklace in her room, and I hoped she’d ask me about it. Whatever she’d do, it’d be in private.
The first thing I noticed when I walked into Regan’s room was her laptop. It was open to a document. Application for Parsons: The New School for Design. Writing Sample.
The essay!
Was there any way I wasn’t going to read it? Even in light of what’d just happened, I wasn’t that distracted.
Applicants had to choose from three topics:
1. Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact upon you.
2. Discuss some issue of personal, national, or international concern and its importance to you.
3. Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
Predictably, Regan had gone for #1, “A Significant Achievement,” by Regan Abernathy.
This semester, I decided to rescue a dog from a shelter and then train it to help a disabled person. I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy task, but I felt I was up to it. My dog’s name is Rex. While he isn’t a purebred, he is really smart. (And cute.) I took him to classes three times a week, at Canine Connections, where he learned how to help an unbalanced person, like someone who might have cerebral palsy or another disease, have better balance. He can lead a blind person, open doors for people in wheelchairs, turn on and off light switches, and press the button for the elevator. He can even give the cashier your credit card after you make a purchase. In fact, my dog knows eighty commands! Rex is going to be an awesome service dog! And service dogs make people’s lives better. Below I have designed some original accessories so my dog will be fashionable as well as functional.
Here, Regan had sketched doggy Uggs, studded collars, leashes adorned with sequins, and even a neonpink sweater.
Two impulses pulled at me. I wanted to highlight the whole essay and hit delete.
But I also wanted to fix it.