Aces Wild (4 page)

As Allie knew, my parents had surprised me by giving me Ace-the-dog as an early birthday present. What Allie didn’t know is that when they did, they made one thing clear: This was it. No asking for anything else for a really, really long time. So even though I wanted all sorts of other things too—like a cell phone and contact lenses and pierced ears—I knew there was no way. But a sleepover party didn’t seem like such a big thing to ask for. Right? Everybody had parties. For Sam’s birthday in August, my parents took him and a whole carload of his friends to Sally’s Pizza and let them get so many soda refills that, well, put it this way: the backseat of our car now smells like dryer sheets. And it’s not just because of my dog!

That evening, my parents offered to take me and Sam out to Bove’s for dinner. The dryer sheet smell in the backseat reminded me that I had something to ask them. Hoping that Allie’s psychic success was not limited to lunch menus, I brought up the idea of me having a sleepover as casually as I could.

“Absolutely not!” said my mom.

“Why not?” I asked. I tried to catch my dad’s eye in the rearview mirror to see if I could enlist his help, but when he glanced up, I could tell that he was going to be on my mom’s side.

“I think you know why,” said my mom. “Three letters:
A-C-E
.”

“Grandpa can stay in his room while my friends are over.”

“Ha!” My dad laughed out loud at that. “Not that Ace, Zellyboo. The four-legged one.”

“We know he’s just a puppy,” said my mom. “But with all the accidents and destruction and willfulness … You saw what he did to Ace’s room yesterday. Your dad and I feel like it’s not such a good idea to entertain yet.”

“You wouldn’t have to entertain,” I promised. “It would just be my friends. They don’t care.”

“But we do,” said my mom. “Look, sooner or later, he’ll be trained. And then we’ll see.”

“We’ll see when? If I do it, can I have one?”

“If you do what, can you what?” asked my dad.

“What’s on second,” offered Sam eagerly. Ever since Ace taught him this corny old comedy routine called “Who’s on
First?” Sam looks for any opportunity to launch into it. So does Ace.

“Sam!” I said. I took a deep breath and tried again. “If I train Ace, can I please have a sleepover?”

“Wellllll,” said my mom, looking at my dad.

“We’re reasonable people,” said my dad. “Write up a proposal.”

I couldn’t help it. A little groan escaped.

“What?” said my dad.

“Everybody else’s parents just say yes or no. Why do I always have to write up a proposal?”

“Would you rather have a no?” asked my dad.

“No!” I practically shouted.

Fine, I’d write up a proposal.

The way writing up a proposal works in my family is, you have to make a list of the reasons something should go your way. Occasionally, it works. Like when I got them to move lights-out thirty minutes later in the summer than during the school year, or when I got them to agree to let me and Sam each get a pack of sugarless gum at the grocery store if we both help out at the checkout and don’t whine for junk food the whole trip.

More often, though, it doesn’t work. Like when I made a proposal about going to sleepaway camp with Allie.

This one
had
to work. But how? The last time I did a proposal, Jeremy suggested I ask Ace to help me. “That way, you’ll have an Ace up your sleeve. Get it?” And he laughed his horsey laugh, with all his braces showing.

At the time, I ignored him. But now his words came back to me.
An Ace up my sleeve might be just what I need
. Ace was a former courtroom lawyer and a retired judge. Ace could out-argue anyone, as far as I knew, and he had an answer for everything. Plus he loved being asked for his opinion. Fine—what did I have to lose?

So I asked Ace for a judicial consult, and when he agreed, I showed him what I had written:

Proposal for Training Ace
by Zelly Fried

Ace looked it over, then ordered, “YOU WANT EIGHT? PUT SIXTEEN.”

“Grandpa! My parents will never let me have sixteen girls sleep over,” I told him.

“EXACTLY!” said Ace. “YOU GOTTA HAGGLE. SIXTEEN’LL GET YOU EIGHT, YOU WATCH.”

“Why can’t I just ask for eight?”

“DOUBLE IT,” he ordered. “JUST DO IT, DON’T ASK ME WHY.”

There was no way sixteen was going to fly, but after some back-and-forth, I agreed to change
eight
to
twelve
.

“YOU WATCH. TWELVE’LL GET YOU SIX,” insisted Ace. “IF IT DOESN’T, I OWE YOU A NICKEL.”

“Maybe you could be there when I present this to them,” I suggested. “You could be the judge on the case?”

Ace shook his head. “NO CAN DO, KID. CONFLICT OF INTEREST.”

I must have looked confused, because he explained. “A JUDGE HAS TO RECUSE HIMSELF IF HE HELPED ONE OF THE SIDES PREPARE THE CASE. OR IF HE’S ROOTING FOR ONE OF THE SIDES TO WIN.”

“You are?” I asked.

Instead of answering, Ace asked, “YOU EVER HEAR THE ONE ABOUT SHLOMO THE SCHLEMIEL? HE PACKED A SUITCASE TO GO TO THE COURTHOUSE?”

I had heard all of Ace’s jokes before, but this time I shook my head and let him tell it again.

“SO SHLOMO’S GOT HIS SUITCASE AND HE’S HEADED OUT THE DOOR. ‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING?’ ASKS HIS WIFE. ‘I’M TAKING MY CASE TO COURT,’ SAYS SHLOMO. NEXT MORNING, SHLOMO’S HEADED OUT THE DOOR AGAIN, AND HE’S GOT THE SUITCASE, BUT THIS TIME HE’S GOT A LADDER TOO. ‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW?’ ASKS SHLOMO’S WIFE. ‘I’M TAKING MY CASE TO A HIGHER COURT.’ THAT DAY, IT GETS LATER AND LATER, AND STILL NO SHLOMO. FINALLY, AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT
NIGHT, HE SHOWS UP. NO SUITCASE, NO LADDER, JUST A COAT HANGER. ‘WHAT HAPPENED?’ DEMANDS HIS WIFE. AND SHLOMO SAYS …”

“I lost my suit,” I chimed in with him.

“So, how exactly are you going to train the holy terrier?” asked my dad. He was reading my proposal while scratching Ace behind his floppy ears, which seemed like a good sign to me. “Are they actually going to let him reenroll after his ‘leave of absence’?”

“I think so. He’s ready to go back,” I said. “And so am I.” I had looked it up ahead of time because Ace said I should come “armed with information.” “A new session of classes starts this Thursday at seven,” I continued. “I just need you or mom to go with me, like last time.” This was a rule of the dog-training program. Kids ten and up could attend and learn how to train their dogs, but you had to have a grown-up in the room. My dad had been looking for a job when we tried to take the class the first time, so he sat in the corner, pen in hand, reading the want ads the whole time.

“Thursdays at seven?” said my mom. “That’s actually a little tricky, sweetie. Your dad’s teaching Tuesday and Thursday nights now, remember?”

“Oh, right,” I said. In New York, my dad had worked in a research lab, but the job he ended up getting in Vermont included the chance to teach night school students. “Okay, well, you could come,” I said.

“Maybe,” said my mom, “but Sam goes to bed at seven-thirty. Who’s going to put him to bed and stay with him?”

“Grandpa?” I suggested.

My mom and dad both smiled indulgently at that idea. Ace and Sam got along great, but on many occasions Ace had proved himself a total failure at the key objective of babysitting Sam: actually putting him to bed. Once, my parents had taken me to see a play at the Flynn Theater and brought me home so late
I
fell asleep in the car—only to find Ace snoring in a chair and Sam watching
Saturday Night Live
.

“What about if Ace went with you?” asked my mom.

“He kind of has to go with me,” I said, playing dumb. “How else are they going to train him?”

“Ha-ha,” said my mom. “I think you know who I’m talking about. The other Ace. The two-legged one.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

“He’d just have to sit there and read the newspaper, like I did,” said my dad. “He’s a pro at that. Seriously, Zelly, why not?”

“Um, lots of reasons,” I said, my heart starting to beat faster. “I mean, for starters, isn’t he kind of, um, too old?” I
didn’t want to say the other reasons, like the fact that he’s also too loud, too weird, and
way
too embarrassing.

“Well, they say some dogs are too old for new tricks,” said my dad. “But in Ace’s case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he proved them wrong.”

I looked from my dad to my mom. “Do I have to?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said my mom. She took the proposal from my dad and looked it over. “But if you really want to have a slumber party, it seems like you’ve made a good case for it.”

“So, that’s your answer? If I want to have a sleepover, I have to take Ace to class and take Grandpa with me?”

“Nate?” asked my mom, passing the proposal back to my dad.

“Yes,” said my dad. “And Ace has to pass the obedience test. Ace-the-dog, that is. If all that happens, you can have some of your friends sleep over.” He glanced down at what I had written one more time. “But, Zelly?”

“Hmmm?”

“Twelve girls is too many,” said my dad.

“Eight?” I asked, trying not to smile. I clicked the ballpoint pen Ace gave me for “sealing the deal.”

“Six,” said my dad.

“Yesss!” said Allie when I told her the next morning on the way to school. “See! I told you so! Ohmygosh, it’s gonna be awesome! And you have to invite everyone—seriously, everyone. I mean, not
everyone
, but everyone who’s anyone—”

“Zelly, hey! Wait up!”

Allie and I hung out at the corner while Jeremy looked both ways before crossing and shuffled up the block dragging his huge backpack. It looked like one of the straps had broken.

“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I whispered.

“Why?” Allie whispered back.

“Just ’cause,” I said. There were some things about Jeremy that couldn’t easily be explained. Like the fact that he always invited me to do stuff with his other friends, even if it meant I’d be the only girl. Even though he’d probably understand why I wanted an all-girls party, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by talking about it in front of him. Lots of boys don’t care about stuff like that, but Jeremy isn’t exactly like lots of boys.

So it wasn’t until Allie came over to my house after school that I could tell her the details. “They said yes, but here’s the deal,” I said, rummaging around for Ace’s leash while he cantered and twirled in place, ready to explode with excitement for his afternoon walk.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“I have to take Ace to dog obedience class first. And pass a test. Before I can have the party.”

“So?” said Allie. “You trained dogs all last summer!”

“I
walked
dogs,” I said. “It’s not the same thing. Plus Ace has already been kicked out of class once, remember? For being hopelessly untrainable.”

“Oh. Right,” said Allie.

“But that’s not the worst part,” I added.

“PLANT A RADISH, GET A RADISH, NOT A BRUSSELS SPROUT …,” sang Ace as he wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer.

“O-kay,” I said, giving Allie a look but knowing full well …

“… THAT’S WHY I LIKE VEGETABLES, YOU KNOW WHAT THEY’RE ABOUT!”

… that Ace was incapable of stopping once he started.

“FANTASTIC!” Ace crowed, pulling a screwdriver out of the drawer and holding it up triumphantly.

“It’s … okay. For a screwdriver.”

“NOT
FANTASTIC
, KID. FANTASTICKS! REMEMBER, YOUR GRANDMA AND I CAME TO NEW YORK FOR A VISIT AND TOOK YOU?”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling a pang as living in New York and still having Bubbles around came rushing back to me. It felt like a million years and five minutes ago all at the same time. “It’s a Broadway show,” I told Allie, pushing the memory aside.

“OFF-BROADWAY,” corrected Ace. “THE LONGEST-RUNNING OFF-BROADWAY SHOW IN HISTORY. YOUR GRANDMA STILL HAS THE TICKET STUBS. I MEAN—” Ace looked flustered for a moment. I hated it when he messed up and talked about her like she was still alive, even though I sometimes did too. “SHE KEPT THINGS LIKE THAT. WHADDAYA-CALL-ITS, MEMENTOS,” he said.

“Cool,” said Allie.

Before Ace could mistake her politeness for actual interest,
I said, “C’mon, Allie!” and opened the door. With one big yank, Ace-the-dog dragged both of us out into the freezing cold.

Outside, I told her the rest of the sleepover requirements, including the part about six girls, not twelve, and the part about having Ace-the-grandpa go to dog-training class with me. Meanwhile, Ace-the-dog bounded as far as his retractable leash would let him, hopping over piles of leaves like a rabbit. Then he dropped into a squat and froze for a moment.

“Is there something wrong with him?” asked Allie.

“Yes, obviously!” I said. “And you know that in a group of people like that, he’s going to be extra loud and bossy and opinionated and—”

“Not your grandpa Ace,” interrupted Allie. “This one. He’s a boy dog, right? Isn’t he supposed to go like one?”