The Gardens is our neighborhood mall. It’s a two-story superdome of luxury anchored by the upscale department stores Nordstrom, Saks, and Bloomingdale’s. Boutiques of such chic designers as Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Burberry, and Chanel dot the main corridor. Sure, there’s a token JCPenney, three varieties of the Gap, and a food court, but for the most part the fashion is outrageous, the prices obscene. It’s not a place you’d ever find me. Unless I couldn’t avoid it.
Sunday morning, I had no choice but to be there. Taking our dogs to the mall to get them used to crowds, noise, and kiddie chaos was a Canine Connections assignment. By Mom’s decree, Regan had to come, but ordering my fashion-obsessed sib to a fancy mall didn’t seem like the best way to force her into taking responsibility. The automatic doors parted, Regan departed to power shop.
Rex and I met up with the rest of our class by the elevator. Correction: the rest of our class minus JJ and Otis. In spite of Rex’s insistence that I corner JJ and demand to know what really happened, his absence worked for me. Already I was more comfortable.
Because our dogs might be paired with a person confined to a wheelchair and unable to use an escalator, our first task was to teach the dogs to push the elevator call button. We’d practiced in class using a simulator, but this would be the first time using an operational elevator.
Even before we started, we attracted attention. A clutch of shoppers, charmed by the pups-with-a-purpose, had gathered round to watch. Some even obeyed the DON’T PET instruction stitched onto their vests. To the others we explained that petting a service dog is distracting and counterproductive to his training. In a real situation with a disabled person, diverting the dog from its job could prove dangerous.
The warning deterred few people, who couldn’t keep their own paws off Romeo, Daffodil, Chainsaw, and even dwarfy Clark Kent. Only Rex went without shopper-strokes: the not-cute factor was in full effect. I found myself actually hurt on his behalf! I knelt and whispered to him, “Don’t be upset. These people aren’t worth it.”
My dog may not inspire ooohs and aaahs, but as a service dog, he was a superstar. When I gave the command for “side,” Rex obediently positioned himself to my right so the elevator button was straight in front of him. Then I showed him the UP button and said, “Reach.” Just like we practiced, and he did the other night at JJ’s house, Rex hoisted himself up on his hind legs and nosed down hard on the button.
“Good boy!” I praised him, maybe a little too loudly.
When the elevator arrived I told him, “Let’s go,” and he dutifully led me inside, where he followed the commands to push the 2 button.
“You’re the champ!” I overpraised him. When no one was looking, I slipped him a Snausage.
Rex even “tutored” Chainsaw—at least that’s how I interpreted the growly sounds of their canine communication. Daffodil and Romeo mastered the assignment with few corrections and earned lavish praise. Only Clark Kent, whose stunted legs prevented him from getting up high enough to press the button, couldn’t complete the task.
Next up was retrieval. We were to drop a water bottle on the floor while saying, “Look.” Then, “Get it” and “Bring it to me.”
Eventually, the dogs will be able to accompany their new partners on real shopping trips and pull specific items off the shelves or racks—very, very cool. I was looking forward to next week, when our field trip was to a grocery store to test out this “look,” “get it,” and “bring it to me” skill in a real store. But for now, our purpose was to practice focusing amid distractions, and be sure they didn’t get startled at loud noises or interruptions.
As late morning drifted into early afternoon, the mall got more crowded. Distractions abounded. Toddlers in strollers begged to pet the dogs or offer them snacks, a serious doggy-temptation. A pack of young girls dangerously swinging shopping bags came too close to Romeo and brushed his tail, which caused the chocolate Lab to whirl around, startled. Countless customers on cell phones breezed by, oblivious to the fact that they were getting between the dogs and their water bottles.
Each time one of our dogs got distracted, we were to gently bring them back to the job at hand. When they followed the command correctly, they got a reward—praise, hugs, petting. And in Rex’s case (okay, I felt a little sorry for him), a treat.
Of course my chowhound was most excited about today’s final destination—the food court. The lesson, a little complicated, involved ordering lunch. We’d teach the dogs to pay and deliver the food to us. Beforehand, we put a credit card in our pockets or purses where the dog could get at it. As soon as we placed our orders, the dogs were to get up on their hind legs and give the credit card to the cashier. The food would be placed in a to-go bag so the dog could bring it to us.
The Gardens’ food court was horseshoe shaped with stalls around the perimeter and seating in the middle. Aside from the obligatory Starbucks (this mall had one on each floor), selections included pizza, gyros, subs, teriyaki, cookies, ice cream, and salad.
“Let’s talk turkey!” Rex exclaimed as we came to the very first stand—a sandwich and salad shop actually called Let’s Talk Turkey. I was headed for the counter when Rex suddenly yanked me away. “No, wait, I haven’t had pizza in forever. Oh, I’d give my soul for a slice!”
Obligingly, I pivoted and headed for Sbarro, but again Rex hesitated, overwhelmed by the profusion of savory smells. I allowed the litany of “I want ice cream! No, cookies! Wait, I must experience the Teriyaki Experience!” go on for a few minutes, attracting confused stares of passersby as the dog yanked me in different directions. Finally, I made an executive decision: I’d order a turkey Caesar wrap and share the croutons with Rex. It was neat and small—something he could carry in a togo bag, and I could eat quickly with a minimum of mess. If I texted Regan now, we could be out the door in ten minutes.
We might have, too, only we got ambushed.
“Grace! Hi—over here!” Mercy was half sitting, half standing, waving excitedly. The Gardens is not Mercy’s usual haunt. She’s more of a vintage store girl, so I wasn’t surprised to see she had company. Jasmine and Kendra had spotted me, too. My hoped-for ten minutes had just inflated into a half hour. Reluctantly, I walked over to them, forging a smile.
“So this is the dog you’re training!” Jasmine squealed, trying to not look appalled as she regarded his scraggly muzzle and chaotically colored coat. “He’s so … uh … alert!”
Rex posed proudly.
“Does he bite?” Kendra wanted to know, backing slowly into her seat.
Only if you’re holding a pork chop, I wanted to say. Neither girl petted him.
“This is Rex.” I explained our reason for being at the Gardens.
Mercy knelt and scritched the underside of the dog’s chin. “Hey there, Rex,” she cooed. “It’s nice to meet you finally!” Rex responded by stretching out his neck and making a doggy-bliss sound.
“You are so sitting with us,” Mercy pronounced. “Unless you have to eat with the others?” She gestured to our classmates, gathered around a too-small table with their dogs obediently lying beneath their seats.
“Yes! Let’s sit here!” Rex ruffed. “It’s about time I met your friends.”
You just want to beg off their trays, I almost said out loud. Rex knew full well that service dogs in training should never be fed table scraps. He calculated—correctly—my friends did not know this rule.
Within minutes, he’d hoovered pizza from Jazz, burger bits from Mercy, and most of a teriyaki kebab from Kendra, who’d apparently lost her appetite.
“We were studying for the social studies test,” Mercy explained, biting messily into her burger. “Then Kendra talked us into a shopping break.”
“There’s this one layered mini and sparkled tank outfit I have to have.” Kendra made it sound as if she had no choice. “I’m actually deciding between that and a really cute ruffled dress I got at BCBG. It’s the same blue as my polish.” She held up her hand—her nails were painted Smurf blue. “Either one would look amazing at the dance.”
“You’re going, right?” Jasmine looked at me hopefully.
Wrong.
“Oh, come on, Grace,” urged Jasmine. “You only get one chance to go to an eighth-grade dance.”
Not necessarily. At the rate I was going, I might be doing eighth grade all over again. I bit into the turkey wrap, but it was dry and I had trouble getting it down.
Kendra chatted on obliviously. “I’m going to try them on at Jasmine’s house. Come and help me choose?” She stole a glance at Rex. “You can drop him at home first if you want.”
“You should come!” Mercy exclaimed. “We’re all going to model our outfits and then get back to quizzing each other. We could use you.”
I hadn’t shared the sorry state of my grades with anyone. But it wasn’t hard to figure out, provided you were paying attention to me. Mercy clearly was. I don’t know why I did it—right in the middle of the food court at the mall—but something made me blurt, “I don’t think studying for one test is going to help.”
Jasmine eyed me quizzically.
“How bad is it?” asked Mercy carefully.
“Flunking out bad.” There, I said it. They say confession is good for the soul, but I have to confess, neither me nor my soul felt one bit better.
“What does that mean?” asked Kendra, never the brightest light on the Christmas tree.
“Summer school?” guessed Jasmine.
I felt my throat closing, but I managed to croak out, “Repeating the year.”
“No. Way.” Mercy said it with scary conviction. “Not. Gonna. Happen.”
“So says the Magic 8 Ball?” That came out more sarcastically than I intended.
Mercy ignored my snark and gave Jasmine and Kendra a look. We knew what it meant: you’re all going to do exactly what I say. Mercy turned to me. “You’re not gonna fail because we’re not gonna let you. The way I see it, your grades were amazing until your dad died. That means we need to get you up to speed for only this past semester. That’s nothing. I tutor kids who are way further behind.”
If I could have found it inside me, I would have hugged Mercy. Not only for making it sound like the impossible was possible, but for just coming out and saying “your dad died.” A statement of fact. When everyone else around me still acted as if vagueing it up or ignoring it would make it less true.
“I’ll take social studies and science. I’m getting As in those.” Mercy nudged Jasmine. “You’re acing French, right? Can you work with Grace so she passes the final?”
“Mais bien sur,” Jazz agreed, kicking into scrambled Franglish. “Après Grace aidez Kendra and moi choose les chemises kill-aire!”
“I’m reading a book for language arts,” I mentioned. “Mr. Kassan says if my report is halfway decent, he’ll pass me.”
Mercy glowed with satisfaction. “So that’s it. And your mom can help you in math. She is a math professor.”
“I don’t know.” Now that I’d announced my dire situation, I felt vulnerable, exposed. I didn’t want their charity—as much as I needed it.
“Here’s the way it’s gonna be,” Mercy declared. “We’re gonna boost you up. You’re gonna pass. Or”—she hesitated a fraction of a second—“I’ll have my nose ring removed. That’s how sure I am.”
It was the first time I’d laughed out loud in months. “You’d never do that, Merce. It took forever to convince your parents to let you have it. You love that ring.”
“That’s why you have no choice but to pass,” she pointed out to me.
“Why aren’t we going to Jasmine’s house?” Rex complained. “I wanted to hang out with them.”
“I can’t watch a fashion show,” I snapped.
“Why not?” the dog prompted.
“I don’t want to,” I whispered, so as not to attract attention in the crowded mall. We were on our way to meet Regan.
“Because it might be fun?” he prodded.
What’s the command for shut up? I thought, too tired to engage.
“Well, I’m proud of you anyway,” Rex said.
“For what?”
“Letting your friends help.”
“They offered,” I corrected him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Have you decided to repeat eighth grade, then?”
Who knew a dog could be so annoying? “Rex, mind your own business.” I took a water bottle out of my bag and tossed it on the floor. “Get it! Give it!” I commanded.
I swear Rex rolled his eyes at me.
“One thing you should know, though,” he said as he dropped the bottle by my feet. “The reason Jasmine is doing so well in French is that she’s getting her test answers off the Internet. It’s how she’s gotten through the whole semester.”
Très bien pour elle. Good for her, I thought.
But I didn’t mean it.