Seven

—

More Sightings

ALL WEEKEND, Trevor was plagued by thoughts of what he had seen or not seen in the alley, while his parents continued to pack away the things that he would not see again until they had moved to their new place.

Those worrying thoughts about Buster made him cranky at every turn. He kept trying to pick a fight, but there were no takers. Both his mom and dad were in spectacularly good moods, because the prospect of moving again meant they were going to fly different types of airplanes, just the kind of experience they were looking for.

“Don’t pack my kite,” Trevor warned his mom as she headed upstairs with a stack of flattened boxes.

“Of course not,” she said cheerily. “Not until the end, like always.” She paused. “Is something wrong?”

Trevor shifted on the couch. He had been trying to read a new mystery book that Mr. Easton had suggested called To Catch a Bicycle Thief, but with all the goings-on around him, it was hard to concentrate.

“Can we get a dog when we move?” Trevor blurted.

He already knew the answer because he had asked a hundred times before, and the reply was always the same. So why bother asking?

Guilt. That’s why. Edward Pond’s lecture about motivation flashed in his mind.

His mom sighed. She leaned her stack of boxes against the stair railing and came over to sit down beside him.

“What’s eating you?” she asked. “Not the move, is it?”

“No,” Trevor said glumly, staring into his book without reading a word.

“Well, what then?” his mom insisted, gently closing his book.

“I just want a dog, that’s all. I like the ones I’m walking each week, but none of them are mine.”

“I’m sure you’re taking great care of them,” his mom said, skillfully preempting his usual argument that he’d take good care of a dog, so she needn’t worry. “But we move too much and it’s hard to rent a place that allows dogs. You know that, pumpkin.”

Pumpkin. She always called him that when she had to tell him something difficult. Whenever he heard that nickname, he went straight to high alert. Unless she was offering pumpkin pie, which was his favorite dessert. Then he came running.

His mom made excellent pumpkin pie.

Suddenly he was hungry for pumpkin pie.

“Will you make me a pumpkin pie?”

“What? This weekend? I was planning to get ahead of the schedule by packing some of the kitchen.”

Trevor knew the drill. The kitchen was always one of the last rooms to pack and one of the very first to unpack. That, and the beds. His mom usually baked a pumpkin pie almost as soon as they had settled. The smell instantly made the new house feel like home.

But if there was to be no pumpkin pie this weekend, Trevor went right back to trying to pick a fight.

“Miller’s having a birthday party at the go-cart track and I’m invited,” he said.

“That’s wonderful,” his mom said, falling into Trevor’s trap. “You’ve wanted to try the track ever since we arrived. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to take you ourselves.”

“I’m not going,” he said flatly.

“Why not?”

“It’s in July.”

“Oh,” his mom said. She patted his knee. “You’ve really enjoyed your time at Queensview, haven’t you?”

It was true. Trevor had really enjoyed his time. It was because of the people he had gotten to know. Really gotten to know. Mr. Easton. Mr. Fester. He paused. Loyola.

“Yes,” he said glumly, making no effort to hide his feelings.

Even though he knew that the move wasn’t his mom’s fault — not really — he still wanted to punish her, because he suddenly realized that he was pretty sure he had seen a spotted dog in that alley and he had no idea what to do about it.

And he couldn’t exactly tell her about that, either. What would he say?

Hey, Mom, I think I may have tricked an old man’s family into thinking that he couldn’t take care of himself because the old man had all this crazy talk about a spotted dog that doesn’t exist, only there probably is a spotted dog, but too bad for the old man whose house is now up for sale.

“Tell you what,” his mom said. “If I can get the winter clothes packed, I’ll see about baking that pumpkin pie.”

Trevor tried, but it was hard to stay mad at his mom who, despite being in the throes of yet another move, would stop to make him his favorite dessert.

“With whipped cream?” he asked, pushing his luck.

“Of course,” she replied as she got up.

“Thanks,” Trevor muttered. And then, “Where’s Dad flying to today?”

“Winnipeg.”

“How long?”

“Back tomorrow.”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Trevor said, glad he was feeling better.

A doorbell usually meant some kind of package or delivery had arrived. But when he opened the door, it was Miller on the front porch.

“Some of the guys are meeting at the soccer field with their kites. Want to come?” Miller asked.

He was carrying his rolled-up kite which, when unrolled, was the shape of a white box with a small red dot and a larger blue dot on it, and pointy black bits trailing on the corners. Miller said it was a Korean fighter kite, and it did look ominous, only Miller wasn’t all that skilled at flying it. There were plenty of grass stains on the white bits.

“Mom, where’s my kite?” Trevor bellowed.

“Still in your closet,” she replied from somewhere inside the house.

“Be right out,” Trevor said to Miller.

He rushed upstairs to his bedroom closet and pulled out his kite, which his mom had bought for him at a famous store called Sky High Kites on one of her trips.

It was an awesome kite. It was shaped like a Canada goose with a wind-inflated body and wings, a long black neck and black, white and brown markings. The only thing missing was the quack.

Both Trevor’s parents were big kite fans. They each had their own kite. His dad’s was in the shape of an orbiting satellite, and his mom’s kite looked like an origami airplane made out of lined notepaper.

“I hope I have better luck today with the wind,” Miller lamented as they walked along the sidewalk. “I don’t think my kite is going to take many more crashes. Maybe it’s just too heavy.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Trevor said. “Airplanes are heavy but they fly.”

“But isn’t lighter better?” Miller asked.

“Not necessarily,” Trevor said. “You need large wings to create the lift into the air to overcome the weight of your kite. But your kite must also be strong enough to take the force of the wind. So you need a balance. Light plus strong. Just like an airplane.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your parents are pilots. What’s that like?”

“No big deal,” Trevor said. “We get to fly for free. That’s about it.”

“I’d love to fly all the time,” Miller said.

“When it’s free, it’s not so special,” Trevor admitted.

“And you move a lot, too,” Miller said.

Trevor could feel Miller tense up beside him. Miller was not the type who liked to talk about feelings or sad things or about anything that wasn’t about to explode, burst into flames or crash in some hilarious way. Especially on such a blue-sky day.

“Hey! Is that Noah?” Trevor asked as they came onto the school’s soccer field, changing the topic to something happier.

The wind was stiff, but not too stiff. Trevor got his kite up on the second try. Noah got his kite up, too, a blue-and-orange two-stick diamond kite with a long trailing tail of bow ties. The bow ties reminded Trevor of Mr. Fines.

When Craig arrived, he flew his delta kite with its triangular shape, extra batons for strength and keel. Craig could make his delta fly at really steep angles and swoop at the other kites. He was a menace.

Bertram was late on account of the shoe shopping he had to endure with his mom, during which she made him try on one hundred pairs, none of them as comfortable as the sneakers with holes he was still wearing. Bertram didn’t own a kite, so Trevor let him fly his from time to time.

Meanwhile, Miller repeatedly crashed his Korean fighter kite to the point of no repair. Holding bits and pieces in his hands, he turned to Trevor.

“Can I try yours?” he asked.

“You’re joking, right,” Trevor said, his eyes glued to his goose in the sky.

But his eyes weren’t always glued to his kite. Not entirely.

Every once in a while, he glanced at the back alley beside the soccer field where he thought he may have seen a spotted dog the day before. The alley remained ordinary in every way.

Rows of garbage cans and recycling bins.

Bikes leaning against garden sheds, abandoned in haste.

Sheets and pillowcases pinned to sagging clotheslines, snapping in the wind.

No spotted dog.

Suddenly, a crash rang out. It sounded like a metal garbage can lid hitting the pavement.

Trevor nearly let go of his kite.

“What was that?” he demanded.

The other boys barely shrugged, way too busy with their kite flying to care about a garbage can lid.

“Here,” he said to Bertram, handing over the reel for his kite, “but keep clear of Miller.”

Bertram happily took hold.

Trevor cautiously made his way over to the fence line. His heart was racing and his mouth went dry. What was he about to see?

Nothing, apparently. Nothing that had made that crashing sound, anyway. Just the breeze blowing in his ears. For all Trevor knew, that crashing sound might have even come from inside one of the houses, now that everyone was keeping their windows open to let in the warm spring air.

“What are you doing?” Bertram called to Trevor.

“Just seeing something,” he called back.

“Seeing what?”

Trevor hesitated. What, exactly, should he say? The thought of telling the boys about the spotted dog, about the old man that he may have betrayed, about the terrible guilt he was feeling was too hard for words.

And then a wave of anger hit him. How did this happen? Why did he care so much? What made him get so involved?

Trevor made a vow then and there. When he moved, he would return to his standard routine — try new things, join new groups, but don’t get to know anyone too well. Or look what happens.

“Time to fly,” he muttered to himself.

“Miller wants a turn on your kite,” Bertram called out.

Miller was standing right beside Bertram, grabbing at the string.

Trevor turned to the boys.

“Hold on,” he called back, and strode in their direction, refusing to take a backward glance at the alley.

When Trevor arrived home after the kite flying, his dad met him at the door. He was in his uniform and on his way to Winnipeg.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he told Trevor and kissed him on the forehead. “Save a piece of your mom’s pumpkin pie for me for breakfast,” he added.

“I will,” Trevor said.

Trevor liked his pumpkin pie warm, right out of the oven, but his dad liked his pumpkin pie cold from the fridge. He said that pumpkin pie tasted even better the next day.

Or maybe that was just how his dad had gotten used to eating it, flying around so much that he was rarely home when the pie came out of the oven. Trevor couldn’t be sure.

His dad pulled out his car keys and headed down the steps.

“Hey, Dad?” Trevor said.

His dad turned.

Again, Trevor hesitated. Should he tell his dad about the spotted dog?

Trevor knew his dad didn’t mean to, but he jiggled his keys, a sure sign that he was in a hurry to go. There was an airplane with its passengers waiting, after all.

“Safe travels,” Trevor said, his standard goodbye.

“Roger that,” his dad said, giving him a salute.

He climbed into his car, and Trevor went inside the house.

“Smells great, Mom,” he called out.

The air was thick with warm cinnamon, nutmeg and brown sugar. And while Trevor ate his large slice of still-warm pumpkin pie with extra whipped cream, he almost forgot about the spotted dog that he may or may not have seen.

Almost.

But not quite.

It was the first Monday morning in June. Trevor and the rest of the grade-six class sat cross-legged on the shiny wood floor of the auditorium, all staring up at the stage. There Ms. Albright, the school secretary, stood holding a large basket. Inside the basket were the names of each and every grade-six student written on folded slips of paper. Mr. Easton was swirling his hand in the basket, making a big deal out of picking one single name.

The students buzzed in anticipation.

Mr. Easton plucked a slip of paper from the basket and held it up for all to see.

“And the Queensview Elementary student chosen to be this year’s time-capsule participant is …”

He unfolded the paper and read the name. Then he held the piece of paper out for Ms. Albright to read. She smiled.

“Trevor Tower!”

Whoops and cheers flew all around Trevor with lots of thumps on the back and friendly shoves.

“Congratulations, Trevor!” Mr. Easton exclaimed.

Trevor beamed. He had never won anything before. Or if he had, he had never stuck around to hear the results.

“What are you going to put in your time capsule?” Noah asked as everyone stood to go back to class, now that the selection was over.

“Don’t know,” Trevor admitted. “I’ll have to think about it.”

With each family move, Trevor had worked hard not to leave anything behind. It was strange to think that this time he could fill a locker with whatever he wanted, and the contents would be safe in one place for fifty years.

Trevor caught Loyola’s eye as everyone went up the stairs toward their classroom. She gave him a quick nod and a slight smile, nothing more. Their pact remained in place at school, despite his good fortune.

But their pact was about to be broken for good. Later that day at lunch, while chasing after a stray soccer ball, Trevor saw the dog with spots. This time there was absolutely no mistake. It was sitting alongside the school fence, watching the game.

Trevor froze, forgetting the ball, which rolled right past the dog.

“Buster?” he called tentatively.

The dog cocked its head to one side.

“Is that your name?” Trevor asked, trying hard to keep his voice even.

The dog thumped its tail on the ground. Twice.

The only thing that separated Trevor and the dog was the long fence. He knew that there was no way he could climb over that fence without frightening the dog away.

But if he couldn’t get to the dog, he could at least get to a witness.

Loyola.

“Stay,” he said to the dog as calmly and as firmly as he could.

Trevor slowly backed away, then turned and tore across the soccer field as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Trevor, get the ball!” a few players called out in confusion.

Trevor ignored them. He rushed inside the school in search of Loyola.

She wasn’t in the library with Ms. Wentzell, or in the lunchroom with the chatties, and she definitely was not in the gym with the basketball players.

“Have you seen Loyola?” he kept asking everyone he came across.

All he got were shaking heads or shrugged shoulders.

He ran into Mr. Easton near the teachers’ lunchroom.

“Have you seen Loyola?” he asked, almost completely out of breath.

“She’s waiting for her mom on the front steps of the school,” he said. “She forgot her lunch.”

“Thanks,” Trevor said, and he was off.

He rushed down the hallway and yanked open the front door. Startled, Loyola looked up from her step, a mystery book open on her lap.

“Loyola,” he said. “You need to come see this.”

“See what?” she asked nervously, while others eyed them curiously as they slowly passed by.

“A spotted dog,” he said, ignoring everyone except Loyola.

“A spotted dog?” she repeated softly, closing her book.

“I think it’s Buster.”

“You think it’s Buster?” she repeated, eyes widening.

“I’m pretty sure,” he said.

Loyola gulped.

“Where?” she asked.

“By the fence on the soccer field.”

“Are you certain?”

“Come and see.”

“I can’t go now. My mom’s coming with my lunch.”

“When?”

“Any minute.”

Trevor looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Loyola’s mom.

“Tell you what. You go check out the fence line. I’ll stay here and keep a lookout for your mom.”

“You mean it?” she asked.

“Yes, but hurry. The dog might not stay there for long.”

Loyola nodded and ducked into the school, the quickest way through to the back door and the soccer field.

Trevor stood on the steps anxiously waiting for Loyola’s return.

Would she also see Buster or would she be too late? And if she did see Buster, then what? Should they catch the dog and return it to Mr. Fester? No, that wouldn’t work. Mr. Fester had moved to a seniors’ residence. Trevor was pretty sure that seniors’ residences did not allow dogs. And he couldn’t take the dog. His family moved too much.

What about Loyola? Could she take the dog?

A woman on a bicycle pulled up to the front of the school. She locked it to the bicycle rack, then headed to the steps. She was carrying a blue camouflage-patterned lunch bag. It was the same blue as the tables in the school’s cafeteria. Loyola’s need to blend into the background knew no bounds!

“Are you Loyola’s mom?” Trevor asked her.

“Yes, I am,” she said, pausing on the steps.

“I’m Trevor. She wanted me to take her lunch for her.”

“Trevor from the animal shelter?”

“Yes.”

“How nice to meet you! Loyola has been telling us all about her adventures with you and the dogs.”

“She has?”

“Oh, sure. Let’s see. You have Misty and Duncan and Poppy. She has Scout and Ginger and …”

Loyola’s mom tapped her helmet, trying to remember the name of the last dog.

“MacPherson,” Trevor said.

“That’s right. MacPherson, who hates Frisbees. She tells us that your favorite dog is Duncan.”

“I like Duncan,” Trevor admitted. “He’s a good bulldog, but not much of a walker.”

“I can imagine. So where’s Loyola?”

Trevor hesitated. Should he tell her about his Buster sighting? Loyola’s mom had mentioned every other dog but that one. Perhaps Loyola had been keeping just as quiet at home as Trevor had been about Mr. Fester and his lost dog. If that was the case, he wasn’t about to break the news to Loyola’s mom now. Friends didn’t tattle on each other. He knew that much.

“Loyola’s on the soccer field,” he said, which was true enough.

“The soccer field?” her mom said. “That’s unusual. She’s not much into sports.”

“What about equestrian?” Trevor said, and he smiled despite his worry about Buster.

“Ah, you’ve heard her standard joke,” Loyola’s mom said. “I like that one, too.”

She studied Trevor, and he shifted his feet. Was Loyola’s mom about to tell him that he’d make a much better jockey, joining the long list of others who had something to say about his height?

She held up Loyola’s camouflaged lunch bag.

“Would you please be sure she gets this? I need to get back to work.”

“I will,” Trevor said, and he happily took the lunch bag from her.

Loyola’s mom was all right.

“Do you have a dog?” he blurted just before she turned away.

“No, we don’t. Our condominium board won’t allow it.”

“Oh,” Trevor said, disappointed at having to rule out Loyola’s family as a potential home for Buster if they ever caught him.

He stood watching as Loyola’s mom unlocked her bike, then pedaled down the street after giving him a friendly wave goodbye.

Moments later, Loyola pushed through the door of the school and stood staring at him. It was hard to read her face. Was she confused? Shocked? Horrified?

“So?” he demanded.

“I didn’t see it,” she said simply.

“You’re kidding,” Trevor said incredulously. “It was right there by the fence.”

“I didn’t see it,” she repeated, taking her lunch bag from him.

“Did you look all up and down the fence line?” he challenged.

“Yes. It wasn’t there.”

This was infuriating. Trevor knew what he had seen. He was sure of it this time.

“Well, it certainly was there. I saw it. It had spots and everything. Exactly how Mr. Fester described.”

“I went as fast as I could,” Loyola said apologetically.

“Oh. So you believe me, then?”

“Of course I do.”

Trevor nodded with relief.

“What now?” Loyola asked quietly.

“I have no idea,” he admitted.

Loyola sat down on the steps and opened her lunch bag. She pulled out a sandwich and unwrapped it — plain cheese, same as Trevor’s favorite, but this was not the time to mention that happy coincidence.

Between bites, Loyola said, “I’m sure you saw a spotted dog. What we need to do now is make sure that the spotted dog you saw is actually Buster.”

Her observation hit him like setting off the metal detector at an airport security gate.

“That’s brilliant!” Trevor exclaimed. “There must be hundreds of spotted dogs in the world. I’m getting worked up about nothing.”

Loyola’s theory made perfect sense. Mr. Fester’s dog couldn’t possibly be alive after all these years. Mr. Fines said so. Isabelle Myers, too.

“Tell you what,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I still have Buster’s favorite toy, remember?”

“The stuffed ladybug?”

“Yes. The science fair is over. I’ll grab the toy from my locker after school and drop it over the fence where you last saw the spotted dog. If the toy goes missing, or better still, if you see the spotted dog again and it’s carrying Buster’s toy, then we’ll know for sure.”

It was a good plan.

A smart plan.

A simple plan.

“I like your plan,” Trevor said. “I like your plan a lot.”

The plan was so perfect, he was comforted by it.

Two days later, after the boys ate their lunch, they rushed to the soccer field for a quick game. Trevor was chasing the soccer ball when it bounced off the fence. And there, behind the fence, watching the game, sat a spotted dog. The ball startled the dog, and it turned to bolt down the alley.

But not before it grabbed the stuffed ladybug that was lying between its front paws.