Acting Out (6 page)

Ashley gives me a teacup and a cookie, both made of plastic. Next she hands the same to David. He quickly puts his on her floor like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“No, David, do it the way you’re supposed to,” Ashley chastises.

Supposed to? Sounds like they’ve done this before. David blushes. I bet he doesn’t want me to know he plays tea party with his sister. He takes a small, pretend sip.

“Come on, the right way!” Ashley says. “The
right
way,” she repeats.

David holds the teacup in one hand and extends his pinky. Oh my gosh, he
has
done this before. He takes a sip and makes a teensy, almost proper, sipping sound. With his other hand, he takes the fake cookie and dunks it daintily into the plastic teacup and then…he gobbles, gobbles, gobbles as loud as he can, just like Cookie Monster.

“Cookie, cookie, cookie!” he growls.

Ashley falls over laughing. “That’s the right way!” she says. I can tell this is a favorite game for both of them.

“Nice work, Hutchinson, nice work,” I say. David blushes. I pretend not to notice and gobble my cookie, too. I’m not as loud as David, but Ashley still laughs.

“You’re not going to mention this to any of the guys at school, are you?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.

That’s when we notice that Rover is panting. From beneath the bed, his breathing is quick and fairly loud. David looks under the bed, clicks his
tongue, and calls softly, “Come on, Rover, nck, nck, nck.” I can tell that he’s alarmed but that he doesn’t want to upset Ashley.

“You sound like you’re trying to get a horse’s attention,” I say. “Try this: Ppsss, ppsss, ppsss.” I wiggle my fingers at Rover.

Rover looks at us but stays put.

My mind is racing. Rover doesn’t look like he’s in really bad shape like Puff did, but I really want to get him to the clinic. “Maybe we can move the bed away from the wall and you can reach him,” I suggest.

“You can use my stuffed animals like a fence so he can’t get by,” Ashley suggests. “If you use the biggest ones it should work.”

“Great idea,” David says. “Of course, if Rover actually felt fine, a fence of stuffed animals wouldn’t be anything to him. He’d sail right through.”

But the way Rover looks now he’s unlikely to even hop over Ashley’s Barbie dolls. Ashley and I gather up all the dolls and stuffed animals from the floor. She lays on her stomach and scoots halfway under the bed. David hands her the toys one by one to build the fence.

“Get the pet carrier before we move the bed,” I say. “Then we can tuck him right into it.” David
nods and goes to fetch the carrier from downstairs.

Ashley and I finish setting up the stuffed-animal fence. It begins under the bed and makes a path for Rover to follow.

David returns with the carrier and closes the door behind him. “So he doesn’t escape,” he explains.

I guide Ashley away from the bed. “Stay beside me while David gets Rover, okay?” Ashley’s eyes are huge, but she just nods and holds the carrier, open and ready. David gets into position to move the bed. I’m crouched down with my hands ready to scoop Rover up as soon as he does. I sure hope this works.

David counts, “One…two…three…” and he lifts. Rover is curled into a tight ball. The cat gets to his feet and looks around, but he’s stopped by the stuffed animals. I bend down and pick him up before he can figure out what’s going on. Ashley holds the carrier door open and I slip Rover in.

“Whew. No problem at all.” David looks relieved.

“Let’s head over,” I say.

“Can I come? Can I come?” Ashley begs.

“We couldn’t have done it without you. You’d better come,” David says. Then he turns to me and whispers, “I’m babysitting, she has to come.”

True, there is nobody to stay with her here. Mrs. Hutchinson is still gone, and Brian hasn’t showed up, either. Looks like I wasted one of my best outfits on a tea party and a cat rescue.

I
n the Dolittle Room, Gran checks Rover all over. She listens to his heartbeat and breathing with her stethoscope. Rover sleeps through this part. Gran gently feels every inch of him. I know she is checking his skeleton and also checking for any odd lumps or bumps he might have. She checks his reflexes, which wakes him up. The tapping of Gran’s tiny rubber hammer must be hard to ignore. She looks in Rover’s ears, eyes, and mouth with her scope. She’s checking for mites and signs of infection.

“Will he be all right?” David asks worriedly. “Did his heart sound okay? His reflexes worked, right?”

I put my hand on David’s elbow. He takes a deep
breath and stops asking questions. With my other hand, I squeeze Ashley’s shoulder. She’s being surprisingly quiet and well-behaved during the exam. Maybe doctor’s offices make her nervous.

Gran continues her exam. She listens to Rover’s lungs and heart again.

“I’m not sure what is making Rover so sluggish.” Gran flips her stethoscope back up around her neck. “I’m going to do some blood work to see if I can get some answers. I’d like to keep Rover overnight so I can keep an eye on him.”

David looks pale. “Do you think it’s serious?”

“When an animal suddenly becomes lethargic—that is cause for concern. Animals slow down as they age, just like people do. But Rover isn’t very old, so sudden changes in behavior absolutely need to be checked out.” Gran pats David on the shoulder.

“What about antifreeze? Zoe said that kitten died from it.”

“I’m including that test in the blood work.”

I wish I could make David feel better. I turn to him and say reassuringly, “So it’s good you brought him in, then.” He looks at me and half-smiles.

Gran picks up Rover. “David, do you want me to call your mother, or can you convey this all to her?”

“I’ll tell her. It’s fine.” David scratches Rover under his chin, waves to me, and leaves the exam room. I see Ashley take David’s hand as they walk out of the clinic.

Before we can finish sanitizing the exam room, we have an emergency. Seconds after we hear the jingle of the door and panicked voices, we rush out to reception. It’s a dog, vomiting and making a horrible crying sound. Gran passes Rover off to me. “Cage six, far from the kittens,” she says, turning to this new dog and taking him into the Herriot Room. I hear her send his family into the waiting room.

I quickly put Rover in his cage, making sure to tuck a warm towel in with him. It’ll keep him warm and should comfort him, too. I latch the door and head quickly to the Herriot Room.

The dog is beautiful—or should be. He’s a chocolate Lab with short deep-brown hair, and he must weigh about a hundred pounds. But he looks so weak. Luckily, Gran is the best vet around here, so he’s in good hands now.

Gran is listening to the dog’s breathing and heartbeat. “Call Maggie to help with the family,” she instructs.

“Do you want me to get their information?”

“No, I need you here. Call Maggie,” Gran says
without looking up from the poor animal. I’m totally focused on the dog, but I can’t help thinking that it’s nice to feel needed.

I call our home line from the clinic phone. Before I can get back to Gran, Maggie is rushing in to work with the family. She’ll get the dog’s health history and more information on what happened before they brought him here.

Back in the Herriot Room, things look bad. The dog is still throwing up. Yuck, I will never get used to that. I whisk away the gross cloths and replace them with clean ones. I stand back, wondering what else I can do. But I know not to ask questions, that Gran will let me know what she needs.

Maggie scoots in the room. “Three-year-old Lab. Been throwing up for a few hours. They said he looked drunk earlier. They imagined it was just something he ate. But he started crying about a half hour ago and walking stiffly so they decided to bring him in. Oh, his name’s Jinx. Do you want me to get his dad?”

“Yes,” Gran says, “this is a very sick dog.”

“Reminds me of Puff,” I say.

Gran and Maggie nod. Gran begins an IV, and Maggie leaves to get the dog’s owner.

“Okay, Jinx,” Gran coos to the dog, petting his neck. “Let’s find out why it all hurts so much.”

An hour later, Gran has stabilized Jinx. She lets us have a break while she talks to the dog’s family, so my cousin and I head to the kitchen. Saving animals makes you hungry!

Maggie pulls out the box of Pop-Tarts. “Want one?” she asks, taunting me.

“Sure,” I say. Maggie is surprised. So am I. Curiosity has gotten the better of me, I suppose. How bad can they be? And Maggie loves them. It would be nice to share something with my cousin other than popcorn.

The toaster springs up two lightly browned rectangles. Maggie hands me one wrapped in a napkin, warm and smelling of strawberry. It’s frosted and covered in red and pink sprinkles. I’m sure it doesn’t need all that extra sugar to top it off, but it does look pretty. Maggie pours us each a small glass of milk and flops down in the chair opposite me.

“Oh come on, take a bite,” she says, and chomps a mouthful. I nibble the corner. It doesn’t taste like much. I take a bigger bite and the warm strawberry filling oozes pleasantly into my mouth. Uh-oh. It’s delicious. Now I know why Maggie and Gran are hooked on these things.

“It’s…not bad,” I lie.

Maggie raises her eyebrows and gets up and
puts two more Tarts in the toaster. She sits back down and starts spinning her empty glass of milk on the table.

“So what do you know about your mom’s movie?” she says, looking at her glass, not directly at me.

“It’s an independent film with a small budget but some big stars,” I reply. I’ve gotten so used to people asking this question, the response comes automatically.

“Is your mom one of the big stars?” Maggie stops spinning her glass and looks up.

“Not even close. But she hopes this movie will get her closer to becoming one.”

“Gran really hasn’t told me about it. I have the feeling she knows practically nothing about what’s going on.”

“I know practically nothing, too,” I say, a little sullenly. Then I reconsider. “Well, maybe that’s not entirely true.” I take a sip of my milk and continue. “It’s a trilogy. I overheard her talking to her agent about the filming schedule. If the financial backing comes through, they’ll film the three movies one after the other without a break.”

Maggie hands me another Pop-Tart and refills our glasses. “So what else is there to know, then?”

I take a big sip of milk and choke on it a little.
“My mother hasn’t told me any of this. If I hadn’t overheard her conversation I’d assume I was just here for the rest of the school year. And maybe I am; who knows? But then there’s summer, and she said I can visit on set then. Visit, because I’m living here? Or visit from some apartment Mom and I are sharing in Vancouver?”

I bang my glass down, and a little milk splashes up and onto the table.

“Oops,” I say.

Maggie jumps up from her chair and says, “Lemme get it.” She starts wiping the table with the dishcloth and nods for me to continue.

I start toying with my napkin. “Filming is stressful for Mom. She loves it, you know? But as time goes by, she becomes less and less of a mom and more of…well, a distracted and messy roommate.”

Maggie nods. “I guess that’s why it’s good that you’re here.”

“But for how long? Wouldn’t it be nice to know at least that?”

“Just ask her,” she says. “Just ask your mom how long she thinks you’ll be here. And if she doesn’t know, ask her when she
will
know.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Listen, Gran is great, but if I
had
a mom, I
know I would talk to her about important things.”

I shake my head. “Mom—”

Maggie interrupts again. “Your mom is fun, funny, and bighearted—but she is impulsive. And you? You’re stubborn, like me, I guess. What can it hurt to ask her directly?” She sighs and turns away.

I don’t know. I guess Maggie’s right. I have a right to know how long I’ll be in Ambler. If Mom gets mad that I’m asking, at least there are three thousand miles between us. She really can’t punish me from Vancouver. What can it hurt?

I look over at my cousin. She’s petting Sherlock, who has wandered in from another room. I realize that as frustrating as my mom can be to deal with, I should be grateful that I have her. Maggie’s parents died in a car crash when she was a baby. All she has is Gran. A great veterinarian, a wonderful grandmother, but still, Gran is not Maggie’s mother. I’ve heard Maggie tell people that Gran is a great mom
and
a great dad. But Maggie doesn’t really know what it’s like to have a mom who was her own age not so long ago. A mom who knows the latest fashions. A mom who knows which bands are cool and which magazines to buy. A mom like mine, when I have her.

We finish our Pop-Tarts in silence. Sherlock settles his big old self beneath Maggie’s chair.
Soon, he is huffing and snoring away.

I decide we need to have a big salad for supper after all that sugar and fat. Maggie pulls out the homework she’s been putting off during spring break. She sits down at the kitchen table and huffs just like Sherlock. Bored already, I guess. Maggie has never liked schoolwork all that much.