Alpha Dog (17 page)

“Do you hear something?” I asked, pressing the Lower Volume button on the TV remote.

“Will you stop?” Christine said irritably. “That was just the ice maker. Everything’s fine.”

We were sitting on the carpet with our backs against the couch watching a behind-the-scenes documentary of
Gilligan’s Island.
Or at least I was trying to watch it. I had left Seamus in my room with the radio on in order to test Matt’s method before tomorrow. So far it seemed to be working, but I still jumped at every teeny-tiny noise.

“Sorry,” I said, increasing the volume again.

She repositioned the stuffed wiener dog she was using as a neck pillow and slouched farther down the front of the couch. “You’re as bad as Robot when we’re making out at my dad’s house.”

“Where is Robot anyway?” I asked tentatively. I was half afraid uttering his name might conjure him up—like a perfectly timed sitcom character entrance.

“He and the guys needed to practice,” she explained. “They’re going to enter the Battle of the Bands at the Danger Zone next week.”

“Oh.” I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about.

“Besides, we needed a break. You know how it is? When you’re with your boyfriend so constantly he starts to get on your nerves?”

“Yeah.” Actually I had no idea what that was like. I’d mainly spent the last two years plotting ways to spend
more
time with Chuck. But getting Mom to ease up on curfews was like requesting leave from a prisoner-of-war camp. Of course, looking back now, I saw that Chuck always needed plenty of space—the better to arrange secret meetings with Trina, no doubt.

I grabbed a handful of Cheetos and glanced over at Christine’s sharp profile. Was she worried that Robot might be off getting to know a female fan better? Somehow I doubted it. It was weird. I always thought all boyfriend-girlfriend relationships were the same. But she and Robot were nothing like me and Chuck. She squabbled with him, bossed him occasionally, and even enjoyed time away from him—like now. My friends and I would never do that to our guys. In our circle, who you dated declared who you were—and how important you were. So you always had to treat your relationship as a sacred thing. Not so with Christine and Robot.

“So, I’ve got to ask.” I rubbed off the orange cheese powder on my T-shirt and turned toward Christine. “This morning Robot didn’t sound British at all. What’s up with that?”

Christine just sat there, concentrating on a montage of all the visitors to Gilligan’s Island: the rock band, the headhunters, Leonardo da Vinci, the Gilligan look-alike spy. . . . Finally she glanced over at me, her features set in a sour scowl.

“Okay. So he fakes it a little. So what? His mom was born in London and they fly to England every Christmas to visit relatives.”

“All right. I’m sorry,” I said, waving my hands in a surrender gesture. “I just don’t understand why he does it.”

She shrugged. “I think he started it to get girls. Now he does it because it gives the band some cool cred.”

“But don’t people know? Or won’t they find out? I mean, he can’t keep it up all the time, right?”

“But he does.” Christine sat up straight and pivoted about to face me, hugging the patchwork dachshund to her chest. “His older brother once told me that Robot started using the accent when they moved to San Antonio. I think Robot was, like, twelve and realized how popular it made him. His parents just let him do it, figuring it was his right to creative expression or something. They’re both therapists.”

“Really?” I forced myself not to laugh. Not only was Robot not from England, but the fact that his parents were both professionals sort of debunked the whole greaser-punk persona.

“Anyway,” Christine went on, “the only time he drops the accent is when he’s really sick or tired. I guess it takes too much concentration or energy or whatever.”

“But doesn’t it ever bother you?” I asked, peering closely at her. She didn’t strike me as someone who could put up with much bull.

She shook her head. “Nah. I did crap like that too when I was in fifth grade. I told all my friends my dad was a CIA agent and that was why he was never around.” She started to laugh. “I even said if they ever told anyone they would go to jail or die mysteriously. You know, like deadly germs in their glitter lip gloss or something. Actually, I think a couple of those girls still believe it!”

I laughed. Knowing Christine, I wouldn’t doubt that.

Just then, I heard a faint
clunk.
“Did you hear something?” I said, leaning in the direction of my room.

Christine whacked me on the head with her wiener dog pillow. “That was the air conditioner.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“You know, you say that a lot. It’s kind of annoying.”

“Really? I’m sor—. I mean . . . Oh.” I stared down at my orange-streaked lap. “Anyway, thanks for not ratting me out to my mom about Seamus.”

“No biggie. You won’t tell anyone Robot’s little secret, will you?”

“No way.”

“Good. Thanks.” She grabbed some Cheetos and turned back to the program. “God, I can’t stand Gilligan. He screwed up their chances to get rescued so many times, you’d think they would have barbecued him.”

I laughed. “I never liked him either. I always had a crush on the professor.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Seriously? That’s sad.”

“Come on. Out of all the men on that island, who would you pick?”

Christine thought for a moment. “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she conceded. “But then, you love that ugly dog too.”

8

I
t was my first day of the summer curriculum program, and except for my compounding lack of a good night’s sleep (my eyes were starting to look as if they’d been pushed farther into my head), everything was going perfectly.

My classes had gone well. In both history and world literature, they’d utilized the standard meet-and-greet pattern. Vital schedules and syllabi had been handed out. Teaching assistants had been introduced. And instructors launched into overviews of what we should have already learned in high school.

Whenever I would glance around the giant lecture halls, the other hundred and fifty-odd students looked as if they felt the same way I did—slightly awestruck and eager to please. Everyone cranked out several pages of notes, and there was hardly any talking. We all felt as if the word
newbie
flashed in neon across our foreheads, so we were desperately trying to give off the laid-back vibe of
real
underclassmen.

As I headed toward the West Mall, where I was supposed to meet Christine, I glanced at my reflection in the glass walls of the Flawn Academy Center. I had tried hard that morning to dress the part of a bona fide college student, deciding eventually on the following: a pair of cropped, khaki carpenter pants, lightly dusted with black fur (from Seamus); a red tank with a fresh hole in the side seam (also from Seamus); and leather flip-flops that had been chewed to the moist, spongy consistency of Twinkies (ditto). My hair was swept up into a no-nonsense ponytail, and my backpack was slung casually over my right shoulder. I was kind of glad Seamus had chewed on that as well. Shiny new packs were a dead giveaway that you were a high schooler. Only a lunch box would be worse.

Christine was already waiting for me in front of the West Mall fountain. With her unique look and who-cares attitude, she had no problem passing as older. After our conversation the night before, I felt we had a closer bond now. Maybe even a real friendship.

I was in such a good mood, I felt charged up and bouncy. As I walked toward Christine, I marveled at the faint rainbows in the spray of the fountain and how the sun gleaming through the oak leaves made dotted patterns on the sidewalk.

“You look high,” Christine said as I approached. “What’s with the big smile?”

I didn’t even realize I was smiling. “Nothing,” I said, trying to play it cooler. “I just like it here.”

We headed for the nearby intersection and blended into a crowd of about two dozen others also crossing Guadalupe Street. I glanced at everyone around me, feeling an overwhelming sense of camaraderie. These were my people. This was my world.

“Are you on crack or something?” Christine asked irritably. “Your cheesy grin is back.”

“I was just . . . checking out the guys,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes focused in front of me.

“Man, you’re a lousy liar.”

We turned the corner at Twenty-second Street and walked west, then turned on Pearl Street toward our building. As we headed for the front door, Matt walked out of it, looking amazing in a pair of blue running shorts.

“Hey,” he said, tossing his head to sweep the hair out of his eyes.

A warm, squishy sensation swept through my chest. “Hey,” I said back. Christine gave me a teeny nudge with her elbow. “Oh. Um . . . this is my roommate, Christine. Christine, this is our neighbor Matt.”

“Hi,” she said, nodding at him casually.

He nodded back. “Nice to meet you.”

“So Katie . . . ,” said Christine, heading toward the entrance, “I’m going to run upstairs and grab some lunch.” As soon as she walked behind Matt, she shot me a wide, knowing smile.

“Okay. See you up there.” I waited until she’d disappeared into the building before turning back toward Matt. “How are the rats? Still happy?”

“They’re fine,” he said, raking the hair off his forehead. “How did things go with Seamus? Did you try the radio trick?”

“I tested it last night and it worked great,” I said. “So I set it up again this morning. Have you been here a while? Heard any howling?”

He shook his head, causing his forelock to fall back across his brow. “Haven’t heard a thing.”

“Great!” I bounced on the toes of my flip-flops, then realized how spazzy I probably looked and stopped. “Thanks for the advice,” I added. “You really saved my butt.”

“Sure thing.”

Just like the day before, we smiled dopily at each other for a few beats. Then Matt clapped his hands together, breaking the spell. “Anyway,” he said, his eyebrows lifting until they disappeared beneath his bangs. “I should probably start my run before it gets too hot.”

“Yeah, I should go too,” I said, walking toward the building as if suddenly in a hurry. “Bye.”

“Later!”

From the safety of the foyer, I watched through the glass door as Matt jogged down the sidewalk and out of sight. It was an amazing view.

I was just turning around when a high-pitched scream echoed down the stairwell. An icy tingle spread over me.

“Christine?” I called out.

Another scream. This time louder.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!
I charged up both flights of stairs, two steps at a time, desperately trying to remember the self-defense moves we’d learned in athletics class. Let’s see. . . . Using your elbow was one. Using their weight against them was one. Running into danger was
not
one. . . .

As I bounded onto the third-floor landing, I saw that our door was ajar. Mustering all my courage, I flung it wide and raced into the condo, ready to crotch-kick however many masked intruders were lurking inside.

But there were no masked strangers. Not a one. Just Christine kneeling on the floor of the living room.

She whirled around and gave me the most lethal, Medusa-like death glare I’d ever seen. “Your . . .
dog
!” she spat, her cheeks the color of a Christmas stocking.

And that’s when I noticed the mess. Scattered all over the carpet were pieces of colored felt, tufts of puffy white stuffing, and various severed limbs from Christine’s wiener dog collection. It was a horrible, gruesome sight—like wandering onto the set of a Muppet slasher movie. Here lay a foot . . . there a pink tongue . . . a floppy ear . . . a big plastic googly eyeball . . . all ripped and mangled and damp with drool.

“Oh no, Christine. I—I’m so—”

“Don’t even say it! Don’t you dare!” she whispered angrily. Her face was all twisted, and lasers of pure hatred seemed to beam forth from her narrowed eyes— aiming right for me.

“I’m sorry,” I rasped, choking on the final syllable. I had to say it. It was the only thing I could say. It was how I felt.

But it didn’t do any good. Christine shot me one last heat-guided glare, marched off to her room and slammed the door behind her. And everything between us, all the friendship and trust I had felt last night, was left in smoking rubble.

I found Seamus underneath my bed, vomiting wiener dog parts. Christine’s shrieks must have freaked him out pretty good, because it took a full fifteen minutes to wrestle him out of there. Whenever I reached in from one side, he would scooch in the opposite direction. Then, when I tried the opposite side, he would go the other way. And so on and so on. Meanwhile some guy on the radio kept babbling about the failures of the educational system, and I could hear Christine cursing and throwing things in her room.

“Why do you always have to do this? Why can’t you just
be good
?” I cried out as I made another desperate swipe for him. “Don’t you know what will happen if you don’t?”

Seamus just eyed me cagily and wriggled away.

It felt like I was losing my mind. The virtual suitcase of horrors had burst open inside me—ejecting all its hideous contents. Just a half hour before, I was so happy, and now I was inches away from complete mental implosion. If one more thing went wrong, they’d find me racing down Pearl Street in my bathrobe, screaming and boinging my lower lip.

Finally I got hold of Seamus’s left hind leg. He let out a yelp and tried to scramble away, but I slid him toward me, careful to steer him around the mucky vomit.

“Stupid dog,” I muttered as I held him tight and clipped the leash to his collar. My shock at seeing the massacre was slowly wearing off, replaced by a helpless, shaky anger. “Come on!” I had no idea how Seamus had gotten out of my room, and I was in no mood to investigate. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there.

Since Seamus was in full-on passive resistance mode, I carried him down the two flights of stairs. The instant we stepped outside, his tail started wagging and he struggled to be let down. I complied, but seeing him scamper happily along the sidewalk only made me madder. He could dismember stuffed animals and destroy my friendship with Christine and then shrug the whole thing off with “walkies.” Meanwhile I was left having to pick up the pieces—literally. It was so unfair. Why couldn’t I have been born a dog?

As per our routine, Seamus pulled me all the way to the park, stopping occasionally to sniff out a smell or pee on a tree or trip me for no discernable reason whatsoever.

“Will you
stop
?” I hollered as Seamus suddenly caught a scent and charged between my legs, sending me backward into a nearby bicycle rack. I fantasized about dropping the leash and letting him run in whatever direction he pleased—and me running the other way, free of all the worry and responsibility. . . .

Only I couldn’t. I knew if I let him go he would end up hurt or killed, or back at death row in the shelter. As furious as I was, I just couldn’t allow that to happen.

By the time we entered the park and found an empty picnic table (at a safe distance from the pool), my anger was pretty much spent. I plopped down on the bench and stared off into the distance, too weary even to think. Soon something warm and wet touched my chin. I glanced down and saw Seamus stretched out across the tabletop, staring at me. He licked me again, this time right on the nose, and made a half-grunting, half-whimpering noise in his throat.

“What am I going to do with you?” I whined as I scratched the top of his head. Seamus panted gleefully. “No. You don’t understand! You’ve got to behave!” I pleaded. Hot tears filled my eyes, blurring Seamus’s face into a wiggly blob. He whimpered again and inched forward a little, sniffing me with his damp nose. “Please, Seamus. If you aren’t good, Mrs. Krantz will—”

Suddenly it hit me. Mrs. Krantz was supposed to give me her answer this evening. This was D-Day. Decision Day. Even if she had originally decided to let him stay, by now Christine had probably transformed into Pollyanna and run tattling to her, convincing her to change her mind. Not only that, but she would surely blab to Mom too the next chance she got.

Seamus was doomed, and there was nothing I could do about it.

At that point, I was just too stressed and sleep-deprived to take it anymore. Whatever flimsy pillar of strength that had been holding me up completely dissolved, and I lurched forward with a giant sob, slumping over the tabletop.

I could hear Seamus whine and feel his tongue lap against my hand. Poor guy. How would he feel when I ended up taking him back to the shelter? Would he think I was giving up on him like the creep who’d had him before? Just thinking about it tore me up inside. In my mind I could see the sadness in his chocolate brown eyes as they carried him off to the gas chamber, or lethal injection gurney, or whatever ghastly device they used, and I started crying even harder.

“Katie?”

It took me a moment to realize someone else was there. Eventually I felt Seamus strain hard on his leash and glanced up. Matt was standing at the opposite side of the table, damp with sweat, his beautiful hooded eyes scrunched with worry.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I was
not
glad to see him. Not like this, with me bawling like an infant. I knew my face was a wet, splotchy mess, and my lips and shoulders were twitching uncontrollably.

He circled the table and stood behind me. “Come on, tell me,” he murmured.

I tried to tell him I was fine, but the concern in his voice only made me feel more pathetic. All that came out was a series of shrill throat rattles that disintegrated into more sobs. I surrendered my head to my arms again, wanting to hide and hoping Matt would just get a clue and go away.