I walked into the kitchen for some orange juice, but when I poured it, a little splashed out. I leaned down and slurped it off the countertop.
That was a trick I’d figured out after last year’s parent-teacher conference, when Mom came home saying the teacher wanted me to look for “opportunities to be more dependable.” Mom thought cleaning up when I spilled was a great opportunity.
In fact, Mom didn’t nag me about anything anymore. She just said, “What a great opportunity . . .” and I knew I had to do whatever the naggy thing was.
Suddenly, I thought, That’s it!
Walking Baxter would be the perfect opportunity because Professor Reese was depending on me. Mom would love it!
As for TJ, I’d try to convince him how fun dog walking would be. And I’d say it like Fun!—with a capital F and an exclamation point.
But if that didn’t work, there was always a bribe.
I finished my juice and hurried back to my room, which was a big fat opportunity, too. There were books and papers and clothes all over the floor, and that was a problem.
Every Sunday, me and TJ had to clean our rooms so Mom could vacuum after she read the paper. If our rooms were too messy, then we had to vacuum, which was worse.
I scooped up the papers and stuffed them into the recycling bin in the kitchen because I was pretty sure they weren’t homework. I figured some clothes were clean and some were dirty, so I split it half in the drawers and half in the laundry hamper.
But I was always careful when I lined up my books-for-being-a-vet-one-day. I had books on cats, birds, hamsters, gerbils, rabbits, horses, and even one on elephants (because you never know). But my favorites were my four dog books. Now that Baxter was staying next door, I’d need to read them even more.
I grabbed the biggest one, ran into TJ’s room, and plopped down on the end of his bed. If I read loud enough, maybe he’d get up and the Fun! could begin.
TJ liked gross, goopy stuff, so I started there. “‘Common Dog Ailments—’”
“Go away!” He rolled over and buried his face under his armpit.
I read out loud about bloat and then mange. By the time I got to heartworm (which is seriously gross and probably a little goopy, too, because worms crawl around inside your heart), TJ was saying, “Eww!”
I slammed the book shut. “Let’s go see Baxter this morning! It’ll be Fun!”
“I need to work on my short.”
TJ was using LEGOs to make a stop-motion short. (The short was short for “short movie.” But since it took eight pictures to make one second of film, for a thirty-second film he needed 240 pictures, which didn’t sound short to me at all.) He was learning how to make it in the Video Club at school, which met once a week during lunch. The club was planning a schoolwide Movie Night where families could come, and there would be popcorn, even. But that wasn’t for a while yet. “You still have three weeks,” I said.
“I only have fifty-one pictures so far. That’s only six point four seconds.”
“If we hang out with Baxter this morning, you can work on it all afternoon.”
“No.”
“TJ, please? It’ll be Fun!”
“No.” He headed for the bathroom.
My shoulders slumped. I slid like a wet noodle down off the bed and landed on his sweatshirt, which was lying on the floor.
Darn, I thought. There was only one bribe I could think of that didn’t cost money.
When he came back into his room to get dressed, I said, “How about I clean your room, and after breakfast, we go see Baxter.”
“You’ll clean my room good enough for Mom to vacuum?”
“But we have to stay for a while and take him for a walk.”
He shrugged. “OK.” He grabbed his clothes and went back into the bathroom to change.
I looked around and groaned. There were papers and clothes and books all over the place, plus a million blue and yellow and red and green LEGO pieces sprinkled everywhere, like his room was a big sloppy cupcake. Mom was always vacuuming up the littlest ones when she pushed the sucking part under his bed. As soon as he heard them clattering up the hose, he’d get mad. She’d get mad that he was mad and say that he should have cleaned better. By then, I usually went out to the front porch with a book because, seriously.
I put TJ’s papers on his desk. I piled up his clothes to put in the hamper because I figured they were probably all dirty. I stuffed his books and comic books in his bookcase. Then I crawled around, reaching under furniture to pick up every single stupid LEGO piece.
When TJ came out of the bathroom, I dumped his clothes in the hamper, and we ran over to Dad’s for breakfast.
Mom and Dad are separated, but we all still live together. Sort of. Dad’s part of the house is a studio apartment built right on top of the garage. Four years ago, when he and Mom were fighting a lot, he moved out there one weekend to “cool off” and then just ended up staying there.
My best friend Megan thinks it’s weird, but it happened so long ago that it just seems normal to me. Besides, as Dad always says, “It could be worse.” And he’s right—because even though they’re separated, I get to see him all the time. (Which is actually more than Megan sees her dad, who lives an hour away and she only sees every other weekend.) Plus, Mom and Dad hardly ever fight anymore.
We ran up the steps on the side of the garage and into his studio. Dad was at his little kitchen counter, which had a sink, a microwave, and a minirefrigerator. He didn’t cook much, but waffles were his specialty, and he made them for us every Sunday—not the toaster kind, the real
