Aces Wild (9 page)

“Ace! Stop it! NO!” I ordered.

“Make it positive, Zelly,” coached Mrs. Wright. “If it’s not fun for him, he’ll lose interest.”

I nodded and tried again. “Come on, Ace. Good boy. You can do it.”

Ace wagged vigorously and pounced on my shoelaces.

I gave Mrs. Wright a look like
Now what?

“Wellll,” she said, considering Ace, “have you thought about getting those shoes they make that close with Velcro?”

When class ended, I turned to Ace. “Please tell me we’re not taking the bus home,” I said.

“TOO MUCH EXCITEMENT FOR ONE DAY?”

“Something like that.”

“NOT TO WORRY,” said Ace.

“Is my dad picking us up?”

“NAH,” said Ace. “I CALLED YOUR MOTHER AND TOLD HER WE’D MADE OTHER ARRANGEMENTS.”

“Called?” I asked. “What do you mean, called?”

Ace reached into his pocket and pulled out something. It was the basic size and shape of a cell phone, but instead of a keyboard or touch screen, it had a grid of huge buttons with numbers on them. Ace held it out like he had just discovered a new specimen of giant beetle.

“They got
you
a cell phone?” I asked incredulously. Would I have to wait until I was eighty to get one?

Ace shrugged. “I TOLD HER I HAVE NO USE FOR THIS FACACTA THING, BUT SHE INSISTED.”

“Zelly, Ace? You ready?” Mrs. Wright had her coat on and was standing next to the door, with Rosie by her side. I had seen Ace talking to her during the bathroom break, but I assumed he was just rattling on about some article he had read. My dad called this “bending your ear,” but Mrs. Wright seemed to enjoy having her ear bent. Now she was staring at us expectantly, holding her keys. Rosie looked from Mrs. Wright to Ace-the-dog. Clearly, Rosie had not been consulted when the offer of a ride home was extended.

“Rufff!”
said Ace-the-dog, fidgeting excitedly. If anyone was not a worrier, it was Ace. He was always thrilled about what might happen next, even if he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what it might be. I kind of wished I could be Ace, just for a few minutes, to know what
that
might feel like.

We walked outside to the parking lot and found Mrs. Wright’s car. It was a blue Honda, a lot like the one Ace had
fender-bended. Come to think of it, Ace had bent a lot of things lately. A fender. People’s ears. The truth. Rosie hopped in the backseat first and headed straight for her crate, where she spun once, then lay down on her mat. Mrs. Wright latched the crate, then turned to me.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t have an extra crate with me. Can you just hold Ace on your lap?” she suggested.

“IF IT’S ALL THE SAME TO YOU, I’LL SIT UP FRONT,” said Ace, climbing into the passenger seat.

Mrs. Wright looked confused. Then she started to laugh. And laugh. “Oh, Ace,” she said. “You are a hoot!” Ace laughed too, and Ace-the-dog’s tail thumped and thumped. I looked at Rosie. She and I were the only ones who were not amused.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Wright to me. “That must happen to you a lot. How on earth did you end up naming your dog after your grandfather?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“THE TRUTH IS, I’M NAMED AFTER HIM,” said Ace.

Mrs. Wright started laughing again. “Zelly,” she said, “your grandfather is a sketch.”

I wanted to tell her that everyone seemed to think my grandpa was a hoot and a sketch. Except me.

“It’s very nice of you to be helping Zelly out with her training,” added Mrs. Wright. “Does your wife mind you being out every Thursday evening?”

There was a pause.

Then Ace said, “I LOST MY WIFE. EARLIER THIS YEAR.”

Lost
her? I felt like I was going to throw up. The way he said it, he made Bubbles sound like an old sweater he had left on the bus by mistake. But Mrs. Wright clearly knew what he meant because she said, “Oh!” and then, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“FEBRUARY,” added Ace. “WE WOULD’VE BEEN MARRIED FORTY-SEVEN YEARS IN JUNE.”

“Oh, what a loss,” said Mrs. Wright. She added, “My husband passed away two years ago.” She said it kind of cheerfully, like she had discovered that she and Ace both collected stamps or liked to scuba dive or something.

“MY CONDOLENCES,” said Ace.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Wright. “It never really goes away, of course. But, well, there it is.”

I couldn’t see Ace’s face because he had his back to me. But since Mrs. Wright was driving, I could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. I felt very strange. First, because Ace didn’t usually talk about Bubbles dying, or about being alone. Second, because Mrs. Wright didn’t sound sad. She sounded kind of, well, maybe not happy. But definitely not miserable. Which didn’t make any sense. Having someone you loved die felt awful.

When we got to our house, I hopped out of the car first. Actually, Ace-the-dog did—bouncing out the minute I pushed the car door open—but I followed right behind.

“Thanks for the ride!” I yelled before slamming the door.
Yip! Grrr! Yip!
went Rosie, acting tough because Ace-the-dog was no longer in the car.

I started up our front walk before realizing Ace-the-grandpa was still in the car. I paused. Should I wait for him? I kind of had to, since he had the keys, or at least I hoped he did.

A minute passed. Then another. It was really cold. I could’ve just gone and rung the doorbell to get let in, but I was sort of frozen on the spot, watching Ace and Mrs. Wright. They were talking and laughing, not even noticing that I wasn’t there anymore. Finally, the passenger door swung open. Ace steadied himself on the door and the seat and hoisted himself out.

“TILL WE MEET AGAIN,” said Ace.

“Eight o’clock Sunday?” said Mrs. Wright.

“IT’S A DATE,” said Ace, closing the car door.

Mrs. Wright giggled girlishly. Then she waved and pulled away from our house.

“A
date
?” I said incredulously.

“IT’S NOT A DATE,” said Ace.

“You said, ‘It’s a date,’ ” I reminded him.

Ace shrugged. “IT’S NOT A DATE,” he insisted.

What was wrong with him?!
Trying to add my dog obedience teacher to his gaggle of girlfriends? That was too much.

“Grandpa, you can’t go out with Mrs. Wright.”

“OH? WHY IS THAT?”

“Because …” I stopped, not sure what to say.
Because of Bubbles? Because you’ve already got three girlfriends that we know of? Because what if Mrs. Wright finds out you have three other girlfriends and gets mad and takes it out on me and my puppy. Hey, wait, that was it
.

“Because she’s Ace’s teacher,” I announced.

Ace raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing. I took this as a sign that I should continue.

“It would be a—what did you call it? That thing that meant you couldn’t judge my proposal?”

“A CONFLICT OF INTEREST?”

“Yes!”

“KID, FOR YOUR INFORMATION …”

I stopped paying attention at that point. Ace was in judge mode, bending my ears into pretzels over the legal definition of a “conflict” and how “the doctrine” was “inapplicable in this circumstance.” I thought about telling him that I wasn’t the one who said it, he was. But arguing with Ace was like playing tennis with Jeremy. He was going to win sooner or later, so sometimes it was easier to just get it over with than to take some feeble swipes at the ball and draw it out.

When he stopped, I slunk off to my room as quickly as I could. Class plus arguing with Ace was a recipe for exhaustion, but for some reason I felt angry instead. All the things I wanted to say but didn’t were boiling up inside of me. I clenched my fists, so frustrated I could scream. When did everything get so messed up? I wanted to call someone, tell someone, but who? Allie? Jeremy? Allie thought Ace was funny, and Jeremy thought he was a genius. The only person who would understand what I was feeling—and who knew Ace so well I wouldn’t have to explain—was Bubbles.

And Bubbles was gone. She had been for—how long? I unclenched my hands and counted. February to March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October …

Eight months. Not even a year.

A year ago, I realized, everything was fine. I still lived in Brooklyn and Bubbles wasn’t even sick yet! I had friends there, and I didn’t have to worry about getting invited to sleepovers because my friends were just like me—none of us had room in our apartments to have them! And my Brooklyn friends were like me in other ways too. Some were Jewish. Some had frizzy hair. Some even had frizzier hair than me! And being the new kid was never a big deal because practically everyone in Brooklyn is from somewhere else.

Of course, I didn’t have a dog when I lived in Brooklyn. But having a dog wasn’t anywhere near as easy as I’d thought it would be, even with all the “practice” Ace made me get with my stupid “practice dog,” O.J. My gaze fell on O.J., who now sat on my bookshelf, grinning his goofy hand-drawn grin as always. When I no longer needed a practice dog, I had considered putting O.J. out with the recycling—after all, he was just an old orange juice jug. But for some reason, I couldn’t do it. So I gave him a job holding all my loose change. He wasn’t such a great substitute for a dog, but as a bank, he was okay. I hadn’t put any money in him or given him any thought for weeks, but the way I was feeling now, everything about him set me off.

Put it this way: I didn’t quite see red. But when I saw O.J., I definitely saw
orange
. Everything was Ace’s fault. Ace and his
dumb ideas! I jumped up, grabbed O.J., and threw him across the room. He hit the wall so hard it knocked his cap off. Seeing his chance to join the attack, my puppy pounced from my bed, grabbed O.J. by the handle, and shook him vigorously from side to side.

Shucka-shucka-shucka …
Coins rattled loudly, causing Ace to drop O.J. and stare at the jug in alarm.

Ace’s reaction surprised me and momentarily took my mind off my anger. Curious, I picked up O.J. and gave him a big shake.
RAH-KAH-RAH-KAH-RAK
rattled the coins, echoing inside O.J.

“Hrnnnnnn!”
whimpered Ace miserably, sinking to the floor. With his little shoulders hunched up, he lay there, whimpering and shaking.

“Acey, honey, I’m sorry. You okay?” I asked. It was weird—he’d never reacted like this to anything. Ace relaxed, then shook it off and chomped his squeaky banana like nothing had happened. Just to check, I picked up O.J. and gave him another, smaller shake.

“Hrrrnnnnn!”
whined Ace again, dropping once more.

Very weird
, I thought. Even O.J. seemed surprised.

Well, that got his attention
, his grinning face seemed to say.

“You stay out of it,” I told O.J., even though I was pretty sure that talking to a plastic jug was a sign that I was completely losing it. Just the same, it made me feel a little better. And a little sorry, so I got up a few minutes later and retrieved him. No matter how much it drove me nuts sometimes to remember everything Ace-the-grandpa had put me through,
O.J. still felt weirdly real to me. So I couldn’t just leave him there on the floor, where Ace-the-dog would inevitably launch another, more successful attack.

Knowing my puppy, it was only a matter of time.

“How’s Ace doing with his classes?” asked Jeremy the next morning on the way to school.

“Not so good,” I admitted. “He doesn’t seem to be getting the hang of it.”

“Have you tried adaptive behavior therapy?” suggested Jeremy.

“Adoptive what?”

“
Adaptive
behavior therapy. It’s something my dad studies.” Jeremy found his dad’s work as a psychologist endlessly fascinating. “In order to get someone to change behavior, you expose him over time to those who can model the desired behavior until he catches on.”

“Like introducing Ace to some normal grandpas?”

“Actually, I was talking about Ace-the-dog.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But ‘over time’? How much time? There’s less than two months until the test. Plus your dad studies people, not dogs.”

“Yeah, but same diff. Think about it. You know dogs that behave better than Ace, right?”

“Pretty much every dog I know,” I admitted.

“Well, so, remember when you were walking all those other dogs before you got Ace? What if you borrowed one of
them to show Ace what he’s supposed to do when you give him a command?”

“I guess,” I said dubiously. My dog-walking business, The Zelly Treatment, had closed down when school started up. But all of the customers were my neighbors, so it would be easy enough to borrow a dog. “But there’s no way hanging out with a well-behaved dog is going to magically turn him into one.”

“What have you got to lose?” asked Jeremy.

Jeremy had a point, I realized. And if any dog could demonstrate how a well-trained dog should behave, it was Bridget. She was calm, focused, and able to do all the obedience basics, even with her limited vision and hearing. Plus Ace adored Bridget.

But that was also the problem: Ace loved Bridget. So when I brought Bridget over to our house to practice, Ace grabbed his squeaky banana, then wiggled around, teasing her, and barking. When I got Bridget to demonstrate a down-stay, Ace took a flying leap with a mighty
rrrowfff!
and jumped on top of her like it was a game.

“Ace! No! Get off!”

The next day, I borrowed Bridget again. I invited Jeremy to come over so I could demonstrate the weaknesses of his theory. “You try,” I suggested.

“Bridget,” Jeremy said firmly. “Sit.”

“She can’t really hear you,” I reminded him.

“Oh, right,” said Jeremy.

“Wait, though, check this out.” I did a hand signal, and Bridget immediately sat.

“I thought she couldn’t see, either.”

“She can’t! I mean, okay, she can probably see something. But not much—look how cloudy her eyes are. Now it’s your turn, Ace. Sit!”

Instead, Ace jumped up and pounced, landing with his front paws out, shoulders lowered, and rump in the air, in his best ready-to-play position. Bridget slid from her sit into a down by default.

“You see what I’m dealing with?” I said to Jeremy.

“Let me try again,” said Jeremy. “Hey, Ace,” he continued, his voice high with excitement. “Here, boy, look!” Jeremy raised a tennis ball high above his head. “You want this? Huh, huh, you want this?”