Dog Beach Unleashed Page 8

  “Uh-huh.” Calvin’s looking at me as I talk, as if he’s really listening.

  “And it reminds me in this weird way of what people do with their feelings. We divide them up. Sometimes we show one person one part of us, and show another person another part of us,” I say. “People only see one little room, when in fact there’s all this other hidden space around it.” As I’m talking, I wonder if I’m making any sense whatsoever. But it still feels good to say it. It’s been in my head for so long, it’s a relief to tell someone.

  “I think you’re right,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I mean, like, you guys don’t know everything about me,” he explains. “I’m a different way around my friends at school. And I’m different around my dad than I am around my mom. That kind of thing.”

  “So you get what I’m saying?” I ask.

  “Totally.” He smiles.

  I think that’s the most important thing in a friend—to know that he or she understands you.

  Right then, Micayla and Bennett arrive with the rest of the dogs, and in a way I’m sad to end our conversation.

  “What’s up?” Micayla asks when all the dogs have settled down and are enjoying their morning snack with the boys.

  “Claire’s sick,” I tell her. “Calvin told me.”

  “Oh. Anything else?”

  “Nuh-thing,” I say, sounding more defensive than I’d planned. But it seems as if Micayla knows there’s something I’m not telling her.

  “Sheesh, okay!” She laughs. “Guess you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “No, no,” I say, defending myself. “I’m fine. I just don’t have much else to share at the moment.” I stare off at the sea, happy to be alone with my thoughts. All I can think about is that conversation with Calvin.

  “Remy, your head is in the clouds again today,” Micayla says. “I can tell. So here’s something to zap you back to earth.”

  “What?”

  “You know how everyone keeps saying this is gonna be a bad hurricane season?”

  I nod. Well, that was quick. She completely zapped me out of my happy thoughts.

  “What if we have to evacuate?” she asks me.

  “Come on. Don’t think about that,” I plead. “There’s always hurricane talk, and besides, we can’t know in advance. We don’t need to worry about it now.”

  “Well, I do worry about it,” she says. “I have no idea where we’ll go if we have to evacuate. It didn’t really occur to me until yesterday, when I overheard my parents talking about it in a joking way while they were making dinner. We don’t have our New Jersey house anymore. My grandma moved into an assisted-living place. We’ll be homeless!”

  “Mic, come on. They were joking. You said so yourself.” I try to rein her in. “Plus, your parents have a billion friends. Worse comes to worst, you’ll move in with us in New York.”

  “Come on. Really?” She glares.

  “Yes, of course. You can sleep on my top bunk.”

  She nods. “Okay, thanks. Good backup plan. But, seriously! I was just getting used to being a year-rounder.”

  “I know.”

  I guess that’s something about life that’s hard to understand. Just when you get used to something, it can change.

  I wake up covered in sweat, my heart thumping. I was dreaming that I was trapped underground on the subway between two stops for hours and hours. It’s a recurring dream I have whenever I’m worried about something. And I hate it. Truthfully, I’ve only been stuck on the train a few times, and usually not for that long. But in my nightmare, we’re stranded in the pitch-darkness, and people start screaming, and no one can get off the train.

  Downstairs, my parents are drinking lattes from the new coffee place, Seagate Sips. They usually make their own coffee, but they love morning walks, and they can’t resist supporting a local business.

  “If we have to evacuate Seagate, the Walcotts are coming with us,” I declare, as though it’s a law and there’s absolutely no debating it.

  “Um, well, evacuating is really a worst-case scenario if that low-pressure system making its way up from the south actually turns into a hurricane and hits us; no one has said anything about that yet,” Dad replies. “But we’d certainly help them in any way we could.” He finishes his latte. “I’m not sure they’d want to come back to Manhattan and live in such a small space with us, though.”

  “There’s no other choice!” I cry. “They have nowhere else to go. They sold their New Jersey house.” I go on and on about Micayla’s grandma in assisted living and how they’ll be homeless if they have to leave the island. “They’ll have to go back to St. Lucia. And then I’ll never see my best friend again.”

  “Remy, you’re getting way ahead of yourself,” Mom says in her please-calm-down tone. She seems to use this tone more and more lately.

  “Yeah, but everyone keeps saying how it’s gonna be a bad hurricane season,” I remind them.

  With a sigh my mom says, “It will be okay. Just relax.”

  If I had a dollar for every time someone told me to “just relax,” I’d be able to buy a new apartment for myself in Manhattan.

  I grab Marilyn Monroe and we walk over to check on Claire. She hasn’t responded to my calls or texts, and I’m worried that she’s really sick. After that, Mari and I will go get Lester, since he seems to have much better days when I pick him up.

  I ring the doorbell at Mr. Brookfield’s house, and he comes to the door a few minutes later.

  “Hello, Remy,” he says in his trying-to-be-cheerful tone. Then he screams his famous scream. “Aaaaheeeeoowwwww!”

  I try to mimic it, but my effort can’t compare.

  “I wanted to check on Claire,” I tell him.

  “She’s upstairs. You can go on up.”

  I wonder if Calvin’s home, too, or if he’s already on his way to Dog Beach. I seem to be thinking a lot about him these days.

  “Claire?” I say softly through the closed door to her room.

  Nothing.

  “Claire? Are you okay?”

  Marilyn Monroe’s little Yorkie ears perk up, and she looks up at me as if she’s concerned, as if she has something to tell me.

  “What do you want, Remy?” Claire asks.

  Not the greeting I had hoped for, but that’s okay. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  I walk in and find Claire lying in bed, under her covers, a pillow over her head.

  I sit down on the very edge of the mattress. “I came to check on you.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “I was thinking about what you said. About how you were once a family.” I pause. “And you still are. Maybe you’re a little broken now. But, like, here’s the thing I was thinking about. My aunt Evelyn made a quilt for me before I was even born. Patchwork. It had all these beautiful pastel squares, some with patterns, some solid. Anyway, I slept with it every night. And little by little, it started to tear. My mom tried to sew it, but she’s not the best sewer, and eventually a piece of it completely came off. I was four then, and I was all upset. I said I didn’t want it anymore, but deep down, I did. After I was done being mad, I realized that the quilt was still good. And it had some advantages—like, when I slept away from home, at my grandparents’ house in Connecticut, or at my aunt and uncle’s in Baltimore, I could easily bring the little piece with me. Both parts of the quilt were special in their own way.”

  Claire throws the pillow to the edge of her bed. I think she was trying to hit me, but she missed.

  She sits up and glares at me. “Remy. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  I guess it was kind of dumb. But I stand by it. “A broken thing can still be a happy thing. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I understand,” she says, not overly thrilled.

  “Well, get up. We need you at doggie day camp.”

  “It’s pouring out,” Claire reminds me.

  “I know. Rain
y-day headquarters.”

  Claire takes too long to get ready, but we’re finally out the door and on our way to get Lester.

  “Thanks for picking him up,” his owner-dad says. “The kids are driving him crazy. We think maybe he’s scared of loud noises. We’re looking into some kind of dog psychiatrist for him when we get back from Seagate.”

  “I see.” Scared of loud noises? I’m not sure. He liked that record Josh put on, and it was pretty loud. Still, I guess a dog psychiatrist is worth a try. “Well, it’s no problem for me to pick him up. I think it helps him.”

  Claire, Marilyn Monroe, Lester, and I hustle as fast as we can over to the hotel.

  We find the rest of the crew inside. The Improvimaniacs are practicing with Tabby, Potato Salad, Oreo, and Ritzy. Some kind of doggie game show. Bennett and Calvin are in the back of the room, fully cracking up. Literally falling on the floor in laughter.

  It’s funny, but not that funny.

  Micayla’s on the window seat, getting the dogs’ morning treats together.

  “I have to talk to you,” I whisper to her when I know Claire’s distracted. “Remember when you said Calvin liked me? And I kind of ignored it?”

  She nods.

  “He’s been talking to me more and more. I think he does like me.”

  “Obviously.” She arches an eyebrow.

  “But what am I going to do?” I whisper. “I think I like him, too. What about Bennett? I thought I liked him. But I don’t anymore.”

  “I think this is what’s commonly known as a love triangle,” Micayla jokes, but I wish she’d realize this isn’t a joking matter. “You have to tell Claire,” she says. “It could be really awkward for her.”

  I nod. “What about Bennett?”

  “You should tell him, too,” she says.

  “But remember when you said that Bennett told Calvin that he should just go for it?” I whisper and look around, nervous someone will overhear or come up behind me when I’m not paying attention. My stomach twists around itself in a spiral like one of those giant, colorful lollipops.

  “Yeah, but he might have just been saying that to be nice—and to not give away his own feelings. You know guys,” Micayla says. “But, Remy, you’re freaking out. Let’s talk later.”

  I peek out the window and see a glimmer of sun coming from the north. “Looks like the weather is clearing up. We can get the dogs outside soon.” I’ve only been here a few minutes, and I’m grateful we have a rainy-day headquarters, but I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.

  “Lester! Come back! Lester,” Bennett yells as he runs through the lobby, out the open door, and onto the sidewalk. The screen door slams behind him.

  Things with Lester haven’t improved at all; in fact, I’m pretty sure they’ve gotten worse. He always seems to be running away every chance he gets. At first I thought it had to do with Ritzy, and then maybe loud noises, as his owner-dad said, but now I’m not sure. He runs away when things are quiet, too. I’m beginning to think the dog psychiatrist is the only way we’ll ever really find out what’s troubling him.

  “Any idea where Lester might be running to?” Calvin asks.

  “Mic, Claire, stay here with the dogs, okay?” I say. “Calvin, come with me. You run faster than I do. We need to go look for him.”

  Micayla groans. “Fine.”

  Calvin and I run as fast we can to catch up to Bennett, who’s running super fast to try to find Lester.

  “Anyone see a cocker spaniel run by?” I ask people as we pass.

  They shrug, offer worried expressions, and tell us they’ll let us know if they see him.

  Finally, after checking Dog Beach, Daisy’s, and Mornings, we find him.

  “I guess he wants to learn how to read,” Bennett offers.

  Lester is curled up in the sandpile under the bench outside Novel Ideas.

  “Lester.” I bend down and scoop him out.

  “He’s a big fan of the store,” Mr. Aprone says, popping his head out the door. “He likes biographies.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, so I smile and pet Lester’s head. I notice how relaxing it is in the store, with beautiful classical music playing through the aisles of books. “He comes prepared, you should know. Like he’s planning to be here a while. He usually has half of someone’s breakfast sandwich in his mouth.” Mr. Aprone laughs. “You’re prepared for anything, Lester. Aren’t you?”

  I sigh, exasperated. “Thanks, Mr. Aprone. See you soon.”

  As we’re walking back to headquarters, I keep thinking about the whole concept of being prepared. In a way, it’s all we can do. And being prepared can make you feel calmer. But on the other hand, how do you decide what to prepare for when there are so many things that can go wrong?

  I expected everything to be smooth and easy this summer. But it’s not. The weather’s weird, Claire is sad, and I seem to be getting squeezed into a corner of what Micayla called a love triangle.

  It’s like this mint-green dress I have—no matter how well it’s ironed, the minute I put it on, it looks wrinkled, as if I’d just picked it out of a pile of dirty laundry on my floor. It almost feels pointless to iron it, but Mom does it anyway.

  This summer feels like that dress. The season started out all ironed and perfect, but now it’s more wrinkled than it’s ever been before.

  The rain. Claire and Calvin’s family. My feelings about Bennett and Calvin. Wrinkle, wrinkle, wrinkle.

  “Swim lesson?” Bennett asks me. We’ve had a short string of sunny days, and we’re all walking home together after dropping the dogs off at their houses.

  I have to tell him. This is the time. I feel as if I’m carrying a backpack of bricks.

  “Sure,” I say, and Bennett looks a little shocked. He expected me to say no after I had canceled so many times. Bennett tells me he’ll meet me at my house in fifteen minutes. He has to run home and change.

  “Wait, so what’s happening now?” Claire whispers to me as we’re walking.

  “Bennett’s giving me swimming lessons,” I say. “Or trying to. I mean, it’s barely been swimming weather. But I think I may want to try out for the team.”

  She laughs a little meanly at the idea of me on a swim team. Then she asks, “You and Bennett, alone, in your pool?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “Why not? We’ve been alone in a pool together a million times.” I decide to play it cool and act carefree, just like Calvin would do. I can’t tell Claire what I’m about to tell Bennett. I need to tell Bennett first. That’s one thing I know for sure.

  “How are you doing?” I ask her. I genuinely want to know, but I also want to take a break from my own worries.

  “Fine.” Claire shrugs. “Why?”

  “I mean, really, how are you doing?” I look at her, but she continues to stare at the sidewalk. “We haven’t really talked since the day I told you about Aunt Evelyn’s quilt.”

  “Oh yeah, everything is still terrible,” she says. “I wake up every day thinking it’ll be better. But it’s not. It’s like that conveyor belt at the airport that goes around and around and around with your luggage.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “It’s just an endless loop of the same bad stuff. Now my parents are fighting about custody of Calvin and me. But it’s such a joke, because my dad is always traveling. And my mom has late meetings all the time. So it’ll be bad either way.”

  Sometimes all it takes is hearing someone else’s problems to realize that your problems aren’t actually problems at all.

  “That sounds so terrible,” I say, afraid that I sound as if I’m reading from a script.

  “It is terrible.” Claire looks at me finally. “It’s not fair. My parents chose to get married, and they chose to have Calvin and me. And now they’re choosing to get a divorce. Why don’t Calvin and I get any choices in the matter?”

  I’ve never thought about it like that, and it makes me sad. Claire must feel even less in control of her life than I do!

/>   Claire continues, kicking a pebble on the path as we walk. “And they’re always saying how it’s not our fault and they still love us. But they’re still divorcing. It’s not like their love for us is making them stay together. Now I have to be the girl with the divorced parents.” She wipes a tear away. “I don’t want to be that girl.”

  I nod. I know the best thing I can do right now is listen.

  “Kids have no rights, and we have no say,” she tells me, as if she’s making a protest speech in front of hundreds of people. “It doesn’t matter what we think or what we want. Adults do what they want to do.”

  “You’re right. It totally stinks. And it’s totally unfair,” I say.

  “But what can I do?” She ties her hair back in a ponytail. She’s getting sweaty and fired up talking about this. “Nothing.”

  “You could start a support group,” I suggest. The words are out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they sound.

  “Yeah?” Claire asks. I can’t tell if she’s about to be sarcastic or if she wants to hear more. That’s the issue with Claire—sometimes she’s very hard to read. Even for me.

  I continue. “Yeah, like, so many kids go through this, and they probably all feel powerless and helpless and that everything is so unfair. Because it is,” I tell her. “And they probably need to talk about it, too. You know, get their frustrations out.”

  Claire is quiet.

  “I mean, do you feel better talking to me about it?” I ask her.

  She waits a second before replying. “I think so. I mean, yes. I do.”

  “So that’s a start,” I tell her. “Everyone needs to vent and get things off their chest. Sometimes even complaining helps.”

  “You think so?” Claire giggles in her charming Claire way, and things feel instantly better.

  “Definitely. And not everyone has an amazing friend like me to complain to!” I look at her and see that she’s smiling and her shoulders don’t seem so hunched. Maybe I’ve helped. Oh, please, please, let me have helped.

  “I could call it the complainers club,” she says. “And people could complain about whatever they wanted.”