Guinea Dog Read online

  Because I was Murph’s best friend, I ended up getting stuck with Dmitri a lot, which would be fun only if I loved getting put down and laughed at a lot, which I don’t. It’s like Dmitri was on some campaign to prove to Murph that I was the worst choice ever for best friend and that he was a much better candidate. Luckily—so far, anyway—Murph didn’t seem to be buying it, or even paying much attention. That was one good thing about Murph: he only added friends; he didn’t subtract. It was also one bad thing about him.

  Finally, Ms. Charp regained control of her classroom and convinced Murph to take his seat, which was between Shireen and Kiesha, two of the nicest girls in class. They both smiled at him. I stared at the three of them for a while, then peeked over at Dmitri, who was looking at them, too. He stopped and peeked at me when I stopped and peeked at him, then we both quickly looked away and tried to act cool. True, he and I didn’t have much in common, but one thing we did have was that we both wished we were Murph.

  6. School flew by that day, just to make me mad.

  Wasn’t that always the way? If something supercool was going to happen after school, time moved like a glacier, but when something even worse than school was waiting for you—WHAM!—your teacher was sick and you got some pushover sub, or there was a field trip. That day we had Marketplace. Marketplace is noisy and crazy and it sure beats regular school, but it was the last thing I wanted that particular day. I wanted a long, slow, dull day. Figures.

  For Marketplace, everyone brings in stuff to sell and then sets up booths to trade “goods and services” with one another. The goods could be old toys or games or stuff, or they could be art projects or handmade jewelry or baked goods—you know, real quality items. The services could be something like painting faces or fingernails, or reading palms or guessing people’s weight. Of course, we don’t use real money. We use school money, which is essentially play money. Counterfeit cash. Totally worthless outside of school.

  I hadn’t remembered about Marketplace, so I didn’t have anything to sell. I thought quick and decided to mix up kids’ full names into something funny using old Scrabble tiles. (I buy old sets online for next to nothing; it’s kind of a hobby and is definitely not worth going into right now.) After I anagrammed the names, I glued them onto wooden paint stirrers my mom brought home from work. (This is part of the hobby, but again, it’s not worth going into detail about now.…) I charged one fake school buck each.

  This was exactly what I did last Marketplace, so I still had tiles and stirrers I never got around to taking home in my locker. I didn’t exactly have a line of customers out the door. Murphy came by (MURPHY MOLLOY = ROY HOLLYMUMP), and Dmitri Sull (SIR DULL TIM), and Linus Axelbrig (BRAILLE SIXGUN), and Lurena Shraits (ARTHURLESS ANI, though she said she preferred her own RUTHLESS NAIRA; she’s kind of an anagram freak herself).

  Murph did magic tricks. He knew all kinds—cards, rope, coins, balls and cups, you name it—and had been doing them for years. He liked knowing how to do things that grabbed people’s attention. He called himself the Amazing Roy Hollymump (he used the stirrer as a sign) and had a long line all day. He would have gathered up everybody’s money if he didn’t close up shop so often and go and blow his earnings at other booths. I mean, how many times did a dude really need his palm read in a single day? Especially by some ten-year-old girl (Shireen) who can’t even spell? I’m the one who can spell! Me and Lurena—the anagram freaks.

  Of course, Murph spent money at my booth, too, and did tip pretty generously.…

  So anyway, before I even knew what was happening, the final bell rang. It was 3:35. The school day was over. I had to go home. To Dad. And to Fido.

  Wasn’t there a little more long division we could do?

  I actually asked Ms. Charp if she needed any help around the classroom after school, and said that I’d be happy to stay to make up for being late. I suggested sweeping up stray phony money and other trash from Marketplace, or maybe clapping whiteboard erasers together.

  “This guy just can’t get enough education, Ms. Charp!” Murph laughed, grabbing me by the belt. “I’ll be sure to get him back bright and early tomorrow!”

  “On time would be nice, Mr. Molloy,” Ms. Charp said as Murph dragged me out the door and into the hall.

  “So what did Shireen predict?” I asked.

  “Shireen?”

  “She read your palm.”

  “Oh, that. She said we’ll be late for school every day this week.”

  “Why did you have to go back so many times to hear that?”

  “Because of the way she blushes when she holds my hand.” He pretended to be in love. Yuck.

  “Did you get your future told?” he asked.

  “No, but I did buy this sandwich bag filled with dog biscuits.”

  “You don’t have a dog, Roof.”

  I squinted at him. “Thanks for reminding me. They’re for Buddy. Can I feed them to him, though?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  “My dad said I had to come straight home from school today.”

  “But you just volunteered to stay late and help Ms. Charp.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Why would I do that?”

  I was biding time, trying to think of a way to get my big foot out of my mouth. I wanted to come clean, My mom bought me a guinea pig instead of a dog—can you BELIEVE that?—and I gotta go home and relieve my dad from taking care of her, but I don’t really want to; in fact, I don’t want to so bad that I volunteered to stay late at school.

  Instead, I said, “Sometimes staying after school with Ms. Charp is better than going home to my dad.”

  Sadly enough, Murph bought this hook, line, and sinker.

  You see, Murph’s dad was cool, like Buddy, and Murph’s mom. She would never bring Murph home a guinea pig if what he really wanted was a dog. No way. His parents were normal people who acted normal and understood why boys wanted normal things like dogs. They weren’t like my parents at all.

  “I’ll come with you to your house then,” Murph said.

  “No!” I said way too urgently.

  “What is the matter with you, dude?”

  “On second thought, you take the biscuits and give them to Buddy. I’ll go home alone. I…I…I always end up late when I hang out with you.”

  “You gotta point there,” Murph said.

  “By chance are you talking about the top of Roof’s head?” said Dmitri, walking up behind me.

  “My head isn’t pointed,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” Dmitri said. “It’s dull.”

  He looked to Murph for a reaction, but Murph was busy making goofy faces at Shireen, who was walking across the street with Kiesha. Dmitri was annoyed that Murphy had missed his wisecrack.

  “I said Rufus’s head isn’t pointy, Murph—it’s dull,” Dmitri said again. “You get it? Dull, not pointy?”

  Murphy walked away without noticing Dmitri had spoken to him. Dmitri sighed and hustled after him. Murph caught up to Shireen and started talking fast and making wild gestures with his hands. Shireen and Kiesha laughed. Dmitri tried to butt in, but Murph squeezed him out. He doesn’t like to be interrupted while performing.

  I was beginning to wonder if my best friend was outgrowing me, outcooling me, out everythinging me.

  “Bye, Murph,” I said to myself, and walked away toward home and my uncool dad and my tiny, mock, uncool dog.

  7. I heard the howling a block away.

  Okay, maybe not howling. It was too screechy for howling. But I read once that grasshopper mice howl, and if a little mouse like that can do it, why not a guinea pig?

  I took my time walking that last block, because, one, I wanted Dad to be punished for as long as possible for refusing to get me a dog, and, two, I knew he was going to try to make it seem like it was my fault that he was stuck with a guinea pig all day when it absolutely was not. A part of me hoped he didn’t get any work done at all because of Fido’s screeching, and that his nerves were
shot, and that, consequently, he would tell me the second I stepped through the door that he would be immediately returning the rodent to its place of purchase for a full refund. That part of me, by the way, was the largest part. All that was left was this little tiny part that was afraid of him and an even tinier part that felt sort of bad for him. I ignored these parts, though, because he so deserved every bad thing that happened to him for not being a normal dad who liked dogs.

  So I didn’t want to get home because I wanted Dad to suffer, but I did want to get home so I could see him all wigged out and frazzled, though I didn’t want him getting all wigged out and frazzled on me. My big fantasy was that I’d walk through the door and he’d be running around the house pulling out what was left of his hair, yelling, “YOU CAN HAVE A DOG! YOU CAN HAVE A DOG! JUST GET RID OF THE GUINEA PIG!”

  Our house is on a cul-de-sac with three other houses that look pretty much like it: two stories, big windows in front, gray shutters that don’t shut, green aluminum siding, two-car garage, steep driveway, baby trees in the yard, and a store-bought sign that read:

  SOLICITORS

  WILL BE

  PROSECUTED

  TO THE FULL

  EXTENT OF

  THE LAW.

  This was Dad’s doing. On the front door he hung a sign he made with his computer:

  There is no doorbell.

  Do not knock.

  To speak to residents,

  enter the security code,

  then press #.

  If you do not know the

  security code, please

  turn around and

  vacate the property.

  Under the sign was a number keypad.

  On the porch was a rubber welcome mat that read:

  We’re Glad You’re Here!

  This was Mom’s attempt to warm up the fortress. She bought it at work.

  I pressed the four button four times (the golf e-zine Dad works for is called Fore!), then the pound sign; I heard the clearance beep, and pushed the door open. A scowling man in a gray suit and fuzzy blue slippers was standing behind it. I jumped.

  “H-Hi, Dad,” I said as I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

  The foyer we stood in was plunged into near darkness. The only light came from Dad’s angry eyes.

  “Hello, son,” he said in a slow, sinister voice. It gave me chills. “How was school? Fine?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So glad to hear that.”

  My eyes began to adjust to the dark. I could see Dad smiling in this creepy way. He has pointy canines, too. He looked pretty vampirelike.

  Fido was still screeching, though it sounded quieter inside the house for some reason.

  “Fido missed you today, I think,” Dad said. “She’s been calling for you. She’s been calling for you all day. Ever since you left this morning, in fact. She’s been calling for you, nonstop, all day, ever since early this morning when you left, Rufus.” Then he let out a little, maniacal, “Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.”

  “I’ll g-go up and see what I can d-do,” I said, and tried to squeeze by him.

  He took a step sideways, blocking me.

  “Not up, son,” he whispered. “Out.”

  “Out?”

  He turned and walked toward the kitchen in an undead, zombielike way. At the sink, he pointed out the window. His eyes were sort of twitching and winking. I got up on my tiptoes and looked out.

  He was pointing at my tree house. I’d kind of forgotten it was there. It wasn’t a homemade tree house. It was a store-bought tree house, made of giant, fat, interlocking, colorful plastic pieces, like the kind little kids’ backyard play sets were made of. Dad bought it to avoid all the noise and mess of hammering and sawing.

  “Is that where Fido is?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Because she was too loud?”

  He nodded again.

  That was why I heard her so far away, I thought.

  “I’ll go out and try to quiet her down.”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “Do.”

  I backed away from him. He didn’t move a muscle, except the ones in his eyes. They (the eyes) followed me as I backed away. They didn’t blink. I wondered if it was possible that Fido the guinea pig had driven my dad out of his mind in one single day. To be fair, since he started working at home, it wasn’t like she had all that far to drive him.

  “Are we going to have to take her back to the pet store?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t overplaying my hand. I wanted him to think it was his decision, his idea.

  “We will discuss that with your mother when she returns from work,” he said, still not blinking.

  “Copy that,” I said. Oops.

  He squinted at me.

  “I mean, that sounds good, Dad,” I said with a put-on smile. “Discussing it with Mom after work sounds excellent. Can’t wait.”

  Then I ran out of the house.

  8. Fido was in my tree house.

  She was in her cage. It was covered with a quilt, probably to muffle her screeches. Dad had stacked books on the quilt so that Fido couldn’t drag the quilt off. I imagined Dad carrying first Fido and the cage up the tree, then the quilt, then the books, the whole time furious that he wasn’t at his desk, editing. I wondered who he was the maddest at: Fido, Mom, or me. He should have been maddest at himself, of course. But I’ve already gone into that.…

  When I pulled the quilt off, Fido squealed. Like a pig. I guess that’s why they call them that. Then she gripped the bars and whined and panted and wagged her butt.

  “Quiet!” I said, to show her who was the boss, and she pulled her act together. I don’t mind saying it: I kind of enjoyed how obedient she was. It was fun telling someone else what to do for a change.

  I wondered if I should open the cage door. The tree house had no real doors or windows. If she wanted to escape and could climb (I didn’t know anything about the species then), she might shinny down the tree and be gone. If she couldn’t climb, she might fall out of the tree and be badly injured, even killed.

  I opened the cage door.

  She ran out, but did not try to escape. Instead, she darted up my pant leg to my T-shirt, up my T-shirt to my face, and licked my chin. She could climb all right.

  I pinched the back of her furry little neck and lifted her up. She hung there, limp and whimpering, her tiny, pink, creepy, clawed feet twitching. Her eyes were big and set on either side of her head, which made her snout look huge. The snout had a vertical white stripe running down it. This beast didn’t look anything like a dog.

  She didn’t look like a rat, either, though, or a pig, for that matter. She looked like some sort of alien life-form. Where was Guinea anyway?

  I felt bad after a couple of seconds of holding her by her scruff, so I set her down in my lap. She started straight for my chin again.

  “Down!” I said.

  She froze, then returned to my lap.

  “Sit!” I added.

  She sat.

  I wondered if maybe they sold trained guinea pigs at that pet store of Mom’s. If that was true, Dad could silence Fido anytime he wanted to. Which meant Fido wouldn’t drive him crazy anymore, and we wouldn’t have to take her back. All I had to do was tell Dad that when Fido was noisy, he should say, “Quiet!”

  So I didn’t tell him that.

  Who knows. Maybe Fido wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. Maybe she only listened to me.

  I carried the cage down out of the tree house and set it on the grass. Fido climbed down out of the tree on her own. She could have bolted easy, but she ran in circles around me, her tongue flapping out of her mouth, her butt wagging. I think she wanted to play.

  I picked up a twig and tossed it.

  “Fetch!” I said.

  She shot after it, her plump body galloping through the grass. She returned with the twig held tightly in her long rodent front teeth. Her nose twitched like crazy. I took the twig.

  “Good pig,” I said ver
y quietly, and gave her a tiny scratch on her head.

  She rolled over and exposed her belly.

  The meeting was held in the Conference Room. Yes, we have a Conference Room at home. Dad feels it’s necessary. Mom calls it the Family Gathering Room, but she never fools anyone. It’s a small room, just big enough for a small wooden table and three chairs. The walls, like all the walls in our house, are wallpapered. After work, Mom doesn’t like thinking about or seeing paint. The wallpaper in the Conference/Family Gathering Room had a harvest theme: haystacks, pumpkins, and barns. (The wallpaper in my room, by the way, has a race car motif. Vroom vroom. Pretty funny considering we own two hybrids.)

  “The issue on the floor is the guinea pig,” Dad said. “I make a motion we return it to the pet store. Do I hear a second?”

  “Wait a second, Art…,” Mom said.

  “I have a second,” Dad said.

  “I said, WAIT a second. Can’t we discuss this first?”

  Dad sighed.

  Believe it or not, I was relieved at Mom’s interruption. I mean, before I came through the door from school, I would have seconded Dad’s motion in a nanosecond. But suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Why? I don’t know, really. I still wanted a dog—and Fido definitely was not a dog—but playing Fetch with Fido had been sort of interesting, if not exactly fun. Was there some way to keep Fido and get a dog? Probably not. But I wasn’t as eager to get rid of her as I had been just a couple of hours ago.

  “Fine,” Dad said. “The floor is open for discussion. Discuss, Raquel. Discuss.”

  “I don’t think we’ve given Emmeline much of a chance to adapt to her new home.”

  “Fido,” I said.

  “Right. Fido. Sorry. I don’t think we should make any decisions until she’s had a chance to get to know us and we’ve had a chance to get to know her.”

  Very dramatically, Dad pulled a shoe out of hiding and slammed it onto the table—WHAM! Mom and I jumped. The shoe was one of Dad’s shiny black leather jobs with laces and fringe. The laces and fringe were noticeably gnawed, and there were teeth marks on the tongue. Dad glared at Mom, then at me.