Notes From a Liar and Her Dog (5 page)

My mom and dad are in the living room talking. I open my mouth to say my dad’s name, but something
about the tone of his voice makes me close it again. “I’m sick of this, Evelyn,” he says. “The last thing I want to do is get on an airplane and fly to Atlanta tomorrow, believe me. But do you think Dave cares about that?” My dad makes a noise like he is pretend spitting. “All he cares about are the numbers. And frankly, with the job market right now, I can get a new job”—my father snaps his fingers—“like that. I got headhunters calling me every week. I don’t have to put up with this.”

Uh-oh. Not again. Please not again. My stomach starts to churn. This always happens. At first, my dad is happy with his new job and everything is GREAT. Then, his boss starts to bug him or the people he works with or the way the computers are set up or how the sales territories are divided, and he gets UNHAPPY and then he CAN’T STAND IT, and then he quits. And we move somewhere else and the whole thing starts all over again.

“But you’re not going to quit tomorrow,” my mother says, her voice uncertain. My mom is sitting on the couch. Her back is to me. My father is in his chair. I am in his line of vision, but it’s dark and there’s only one light turned on, plus my dad is so caught up in what he’s saying, he hasn’t noticed me yet.

“I do the work, Dave gets the credit. I was in a meeting with all the top guys on Friday: Joe Marcioni, Nancy Rapier, Robert Cordoba, everyone. And there’s Dave reporting the numbers on the Albuquerque office without even mentioning me. He acts like—”

“But we’re not going to move! You said we were
going to stay here!” I blurt out. I hadn’t planned on saying this. My mouth decided on its own.

My father jumps. “What are you doing down here?” he asks.

“Antonia, you know how I feel about eavesdropping,” my mother says. She is turned around. Her hand is resting on the back of the couch.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was standing right out in the open. You just didn’t see me.”

“Well, why didn’t you say something?” my mother asks.

“
Dad
, are we?” I look hard at him.

“No, honey, we’re not. I’m just talking to your mom, that’s all. What did you come down here for?”

“Pistachio is sick and we have to take him to the vet.”

“Antonia, for God’s sake! Give it a rest,” my mother says. She takes a sip of wine.

“Not you, Mom. I’m asking Dad. Irene would want us to, you know. We owe it to her. If Pistachio dies, you’re going to need to tell Irene. That would really upset her. She might quit working for you and everything.”

“Antonia, your mother is right. Let’s give the dog a few days, then see how he is. Besides, it’s eleven o’-clock on a Sunday night. No animal doctor is going to be working—”

“Yes, there is. There’s an all-night clinic in Terra Linda. I saw it in the Yellow Pages.”

My father groans.

“You walked right into that one, Don.” My mother laughs.

My dad rests his chin on the palm of his hand. “It’s not going to happen, Antonia. I’m not driving to Terra Linda tonight.”

“Dad,
please!
”

“You know, Antonia, I’m gone for six weeks and you don’t even come out of your room to say hello. And then all of a sudden you need something from me and I’m supposed to rush out at eleven at night.”

“He’s sick, Dad. Punish me. Don’t punish him!”

“I’m sorry, Antonia.”

“Will you at least come see him?”

My father follows me up the stairs. I open the door of my room and pull the chain on the overhead light. Pistachio is curled in a ball on my pillow. He blinks his eyes and hides his head. The light is too bright.

“He’s sleeping, Antonia.”

“Pet him,” I say.

My father gives me a funny look. “Does he bite?”

“God, Dad.” I roll my eyes. I take his big soft hand and put it on Pistachio. “Pet him.”

My dad pets in short stiff motions, as if he is stamping Pistachio with his hand.

“This is silly,” my father says. He snorts and pulls his hand away. “Antonia, the dog looks fine. Go to sleep.” He pulls the chain on my light and closes the door.

“Promise me you’ll be okay,” I tell Pistachio. I hold the raspy side of his little paw and breathe in his warm smell like mud and raisins. “Swear to God, okay?”

Pistachio pulls his paw away and curls himself into a tighter little ball. I rest my ear by his nose and listen to his breathing.
Phuuu. Phuuu. Phuuu.
Even if I fall asleep like this, I’ll be able to hear if anything is wrong and I will wake up right away.

I’
m sitting on a wooden planter outside the veterinarian’s office waiting for them to open. I peek through the window. The office has wood walls and a busy design on the linoleum, probably so no one will notice when a dog pees on the floor. There’s a bunch of animal pictures on the wall and a bench that runs along two sides of the room. On a table in the corner, there are magazines and a plastic heart all covered with fake spaghetti.

I’m wondering what the fake spaghetti is supposed to be, when the receptionist arrives. She has a long ponytail and she’s eating a Pop-Tart. A fluffy white dog is following her. The dog is waiting, his eyes glued on the girl. He seems to know the last bite of Pop-Tart will be his. He is not on a leash. This is a good sign. It means this vet doesn’t run what my dad calls “a tight ship.”

I expect Pistachio to perk up when he sees the dog, but he doesn’t seem to care. I tell the receptionist girl how sick Pistachio’s been and how worried I am. She wipes red fruit filling from the corners of her mouth
with the back of her hand. “Okay, leave him and I’ll have the vet check him out when she gets in,” she says. She doesn’t ask anything about money. So far so good. I give her a backward address and phone number and tell her I will stop by after school to pick up Pistachio and find out what the vet says to do. The phone rings. The receptionist picks it up and nods at me as if everything has been squared away. I hand her Pistachio. He is whimpering pitifully, and my heart clutches up tight.

The receptionist puts her hand over the phone and gently strokes Pistachio’s fur. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him.” She winks at me.

I feel a little better, but when I go outside, I hear Pistachio cry even louder, now that I’m gone. I put my hand in my pocket. It feels empty and light. I want to go back, but I know it’s better not to. I don’t want the vet to come and ask a lot of questions. Lying only works if you keep it short.

When I get to school it’s already art class. Cave Man is teaching math to the other sixth-grade class and Just Carol is in our room, showing everyone how to make peacocks out of Styrofoam balls, fake feathers, and pipe cleaners. I don’t like peacocks. They remind me of Your Highness Elizabeth—pretty and always showing off. Harrison likes this project, though. He is standing so close to Just Carol, she can hardly move her arms. He listens to Just Carol as if she were telling him survival information. But when he does his art projects, they don’t turn out like hers. They turn out better.

I smile when I think of this because it reminds me of the first day I came to school in Sarah’s Road. We had just moved here from Las Vegas, and, as usual, we moved in the middle of the school year, after everybody has already made friends. I don’t think we’ve ever moved in the summer, the way other people do. Anyway, no one was expecting me, so there wasn’t a seat in Mrs. Betterman’s class. “Antonia, take the empty desk in the back for today,” Mrs. Betterman said. “It’s Harrison Emerson’s seat, but he’s out sick. His math book should be inside. Could you turn to
page 209
and read us the definition of perimeter?” I opened Harrison’s desk, pulled out his math book, and turned to
page 209
. Only there was no
209
. Harrison had cut out
pages 175
through 230 and replaced them with drawing paper covered with these amazing sketches of chickens—roosters, hens, baby chicks, close-up drawings of chicken feet, chicken beaks, chicken feathers—every chicken part was present and accounted for in Harrison Emerson’s math book.

I’ve never really liked chickens, but these drawings were so beautiful, I changed my mind on the spot. I couldn’t believe a fourth grader could draw like that and I wasn’t about to get this person, whoever he was, busted. So I hit my forehead with my palm and I said, “Oh no! I forgot my glasses! I’m sorry, Mrs. Betterman. I can’t read a word without my glasses!”

The next day when Harrison came back to school, the girl who sat beside him told him what I did. Harrison and me started being friends that day. And we have never stopped.

I get my Styrofoam ball and start sticking feathers in it. My hands are working, but my mind is back thinking about Pistachio. I worry about him all alone at the vet’s.

“Ant? Ant? ANT?” Just Carol is calling my name. I blink my eyes. Uh-oh. She motions with her finger to follow her. I walk to the back of the room by a bulletin board filled with ocean animals cut out of bright construction paper colors. Harrison is right behind Just Carol. Maybe he needs more pipe cleaners, although it is more likely he wants to eavesdrop. “Did you call me on the phone on Friday?” Just Carol asks as she sorts the leftover pipe cleaners by color.

“Why would I call you?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but every time I answered, whoever it was hung up.”

“How do you know it was me?”

She shakes her head. Her dangly earrings tinkle. “I don’t.”

“Well, first off, I don’t know your number. But even if I did, I’d never call you. I don’t even like you.”

Just Carol’s face gets pale. I feel a pain as if something is squishing my toe. Harrison is stomping my foot.

“Look, I know you’re angry with me,” Just Carol says. Her eyes are green like algae and full of feeling. “And I can’t say I blame you. If I were you, I’d be angry, too. That discussion in Mr. Borgdorf’s office did not turn out the way I planned it. I thought I was helping, but the whole thing blew up in my face. And now I’m sorry I said anything at all.”

I look away, surprised. I’ve heard teachers apologize to right a wrong before, but never because they felt bad. Almost never, anyway. Once we had a substitute who apologized all the time, but Mr. Borgdorf asked her to leave because he said we “walked all over her.”

But this is different. Just Carol isn’t usually like this. She sends kids to the office all the time. In fact, when Just Carol is in a bad mood, nobody dares cross her. “I don’t have to put up with this,” she’ll say for something little like hogging the glitter, and then whoever it is will be sent to the other sixth-grade class to do math with Cave Man twice that day.

“I want to try to make it up to you,” Just Carol continues, fussing with her bracelets. “It seems as if you and Harrison really love animals.” I look over at Harrison. His whole face is glowing. “So I was wondering if you would like to be a part of Zoo Teens.” Even before she finishes saying this, Harrison begins nodding.

I have no idea what Zoo Teens are, but I am very pleased to be asked to be a teen anything.

“What do they do?” I ask.

“It’s a program on Saturdays where kids get to help the keepers take care of the zoo animals.”

“Like lions and bears and elephants?”

“Like lions and bears and elephants, yes.”

“Would I get to brush them and ride them?”

“No. They’re wild animals. We feed them, clean the night houses and the exhibit areas, and help with enrichment.”

“What’s that?”

“Enrichment? It’s making their lives more fun so they’re happier in confinement. It’s different for every animal. For the tiger we spray the log in his exhibit area with musk oil. You should see him when we do. He rubs his cheeks all over the log so lovingly. It’s very sweet.”

“So I’m supposed to help them be happy
in jail …
is that it?”

Just Carol smiles. “Something like that. Interested?”

I shrug. “I guess,” I say warily, trying to act as if I don’t much care either way.

“Good,” she says, and she is smiling again. A big smile, like the sun is shining after a long rain.

This makes me angry. I feel as if I’ve been bought off. I start to tell her that I have changed my mind and I don’t want to be some prison guard after all, but she has already floated off in a tinkle of bracelets and a sweep of her big colorful skirt. Then she is busy with the other kids and I forget about the mean things I want to tell her, because I’m wishing she would come again to talk to me.

O
n Saturday, Just Carol picks me up at my house. Harrison is already in the car. I hope my mom doesn’t see this. She said it was fine for me to go to the zoo, but I didn’t exactly tell her Harrison would be there, too. I think my mom is still up in her room, so probably I’m all right. Elizabeth is outside, though. She’s waiting for my mom to come down and take her to dance class. When she sees Harrison, she turns her head away and holds her nose. “L’air du salami,” she says.

“Shut up!” I tell her. But actually, I’m happy to see Elizabeth. I was hoping she would see me get in a teacher’s car. I have always thought teachers should drive station wagons or minivans or buses maybe. Not sports cars. But Just Carol’s shiny new two-seater is clearly making a big impression on Elizabeth and I am suddenly glad this is what Just Carol drives.

Harrison and I sit together in the front seat with one safety belt around both of us. I’m wearing a jacket, although I’m too warm in it. I have to wear it because it’s Pistachio’s favorite jacket. The pockets are big, so they fit him better. I turn my hips toward
the door and slip the seat belt up high so it doesn’t squish him. I put some of my mom’s perfume on, just in case Pistachio is smelling too doglike today. I even tried to put some on him, behind his ears, but it only made him sneeze.

I smile and wave at Elizabeth as if this is no big deal, we do this every Saturday. Elizabeth ignores me.

I know I should have left Pistachio home, but I couldn’t bear to. When I picked him up at the vet’s, I got little white pills for his heart. The vet said to give him one little white pill, three times a day. Just Carol said we would be at the zoo all day, so the only way I can give him his middle-of-the-day pill is if he comes with me.