I close my laptop. The sound-shape of the lid clicking shut is the exact shape of the hollow, sad satisfaction inside me.
24
We Need to Talk
Daniel
My house looks warm in the cold dusk. It’s felt so empty and sad the past two months, but standing on the sidewalk with Chewbarka in my arms, knowing if she stays outside one more night in this weather, she’ll die . . . well. It’s enough to make my house look not so bad. Or maybe I cried so much in the tent that I’m all cried out and I don’t know what to feel or think anymore. My heart and brain are fried. Frazzled. Empty.
Maybe it’ll help. Mom rolls her eyes when I get teary these days. And then tortures me with her tearjerker Disney flicks playing nonstop.
While I’m trying to figure out exactly what to say, the front door opens. Mom covers her mouth. Then she rushes out like she’s going to hug me, but stops short when she sees the dog. “Daniel, come inside. We need to talk.”
I swallow hard and follow her into the house.
“Sit.” She points at the couch.
I sit. Chewbarka seems to grasp the gravity of the situation. She’s calm and still. Or maybe she thinks she’s been told to sit.
Mom sinks into the chair across from me. “Are you okay?”
That . . . is not what I expected to come out her mouth. “Yes. I don’t know. Not really. Maybe?” Good lord.
“The vet called.”
I duck my head.
“Dad called.”
I search her face for a sign, any sign. “He did?”
“Mitchell says you’ve been acting strange. Going someplace after school.”
I press my lips together. Chewbarka licks my wrist with her dry little tongue.
“Daniel . . . just . . . what in the world?” She folds her hands and leans toward me. Her knuckles go white like each hand is gripping the other so they don’t fly apart. “You biked all the way to your dad’s pulling a trailer. Without telling anyone what you were doing. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“I couldn’t let her die.” I sound like a pathetic mouse. Not a guy who’s as tall as his dad.
Mom rubs her forehead. “Where have you been keeping her?”
There’s no point in lying anymore. “Our old tent. In the woods behind the gas station.”
“I know you think this dog is the most important—”
“It’s not her fault!” I burst out. “She doesn’t deserve to die!”
“That’s not the issue—”
“I couldn’t save Frankie. Or you and Dad. Or my friendship with Cole or anything. I had to save something!” My eyes water. I should enter the freaking world championships of crying. Gold medal winner right here.
Mom’s face is a battleground between anger and sympathy. “I know things have been tough lately. But this—”
“You think I’m pathetic every time I cry.” I grind my teeth. “You want me to be like Mitchell. Not like me.”
Her brows go down. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You let your feelings get the best of you so much. I worry you’ll—”
“You make me feel guilty about feeling stuff. Well, I don’t feel bad about this. I won’t let them kill her!”
Her face hardens. “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in. What you’ve done could ruin Dr. Snyder’s reputation and have a serious impact on his business. He threatened legal retaliation.” She rubs the back of her neck like it hurts. “We’re going to the vet’s office immediately after school tomorrow. I’ll have to take the afternoon off. I told him you’ll return the dog and apologize.”
“I can’t do that—”
“You will.” Her voice has an edge. “You can sleep in the basement with her tonight. She can stay in Frankie’s crate tomorrow while you’re at school and I’m at work.” She stands up. “I’m sorry, Daniel. This is how it has to be.”
I hug Chewbarka. “You’re not sorry.”
“There’s no other choice. You cannot keep this dog.”
The last sliver of silvery hope slips out of me. It floats up, and away, and it’s gone.
I sink to the floor with Chewbarka.
Our basement has cinder-block walls and a concrete floor with a drain that smells like roadkill. I snuggle with Chewy in Dad’s old sleeping bag in the corner as far as I can get from the drain. I’m exhausted and still sore from the bike ride, but my head’s so full that sleep is impossible.
I can’t stop thinking about how much I miss Cole. When we were friends, he’d have been the first person I went to for help with this. Even if he couldn’t do anything, it would have been so good to know he cared.
I feel even worse now than when everything went sour with Cole. Than when I wrecked things with Ash.
I can’t think about Ash right now. It’s too big. Too confusing. I need to focus on something else. Project managing seems to keep Mom sane. I need a mental project to manage.
I can work out how to tell Cole I’m sorry. It’s better than lying here hating myself.
I search how to apologize on my phone and find a list. Admit you were wrong, the first point says.
Well, I can do that. I made a mistake—or two, or actually three if you count waiting so long to try to make this right.
Describe what happened from the other person’s point of view. That’s encouraging at least. My bike-ride revelation about focusing on Cole and not myself when I apologize is on the right track.
Offer a plan to fix what you did wrong has me stumped. I can’t un-kiss Fiona. I can’t un-forget his birthday.
But . . . I could tell him I’ve realized I’m too self-involved, and that I’m working on paying attention to how other people feel. I want that to be
