New York, New York! (11 page)

Mr. Clarke didn't say another word to me the entire time we were at the Cloisters. He walked by me twice and checked out my work, but then he just moved on. Good. I was sending silent signals to him. The signals warned, "Keep away. Don't talk to me. Keep away. Don't talk to me." They must have been pretty strong.
When the time came for us Falny students to leave the Cloisters, I was exhausted. I don't think I had ever worked or concentrated so hard. I staggered onto the bus. I wasn't sure where Mal was, and I didn't care.
Halfway down the aisle, I saw her. She was about to slide into the empty seat next to Mr. Clarke, but when he looked up and spotted me, he said, "Oh, excuse me, Mallory." He jumped up. "Claudia, I'd like to talk to you." Oh, fabulous. This was just fabulous. What a way to end the day. I was only thirteen years old, and someone was going to tell me that my career as an artist was over — before it had even started.
I was an eighth-grade failure.
I wondered if there was a future in knowing the contents of every single Nancy Drew book ever written. That was my only other talent.
I plopped myself down in a seat next to the window. Mr. Clarke sat beside me. I waited for him to deliver the bad news and wondered if I could make it back to Stacey's before I began to cry.
"You worked very hard today," Mr. Clarke began.
Was this some kind of trick?
"Yes," I said cautiously.
"May I see what you worked on?" As the doors to the bus closed and we eased out of the parking lot, I opened my pad and showed Mr. Clarke the three-and-a-half-hour drawing.
He looked at it for a long time. (During that time, I thought, Nurse? Cab driver? Professional baby-sitter?) At last he said, "Now this is what I've been waiting for, Claudia." "What?" "I knew you could do it. I knew you could settle down, concentrate, and show some discipline. This is one of the finest pieces of work I've ever seen. And from such a young student, no less." I must have looked completely confused, because Mr. Clarke went on, "I'm sorry I've been so hard on you, Claudia. I know you've been upset. But you are one of the most gifted artists I've had the pleasure of working with." "Really?" Mr. Clarke sure had an odd way of letting people know he was pleased.
"Yes." He nodded. "You are also distracti-ble and undisciplined." "Oh." I paused. Then I asked, "Is Mallory Pike disciplined and — and — " "Focused?" Mr. Clarke finished for me. He lowered his voice. "I suppose so. She certainly concentrates. And she tries very hard. But you are talented. However, to be a success, you have to be disciplined, too. Put you and Mallory together and we'd have one great artist. If you continue to work as you work now, your talent will go to waste. But you can de- velop discipline. Talent cannot be developed." I thought about Mal. She wanted to learn to illustrate. She wanted to draw cute bunnies and mice. Maybe she could do that. But if I didn't concentrate and learn to become disciplined, I would not become an artist. Was that why Mac pushed me so hard? Because I had potential?
I checked it out. "You pushed me because I have potential?" I asked.
Mac nodded. "Great potential." "Thank goodness. I didn't really want to be a cab driver." "Excuse me?" "Nothing." The bus rolled on. We were in midtown Manhattan again.
"How much longer will you be attending my classes?" asked Mac.
"Just tomorrow. Then I go back to Connecticut." "Do you have a good teacher there?" "Not as good as you." Mac smiled. "Thank you. Will you promise to study hard?" "Yes." What else could I say? The one and only McKenzie "Mac" Clarke had just told me I had enormous talent. I felt like throwing my arms around him, but of course I didn't.
A few minutes later, we filed off the bus.
"See you tomorrow!" I called to Mac. "Hey, Mal! Wait for me!" I had to wait longer than I'd expected. Mal said she needed something from the classroom. She returned looking subdued. But as we rode back to Stacey's, I couldn't stop grinning. I knew that lots of hard work lay ahead of me, but so what? I could do anything.
"Claudia?" said Mal tentatively, as we flew along a side street. "I don't think this serious art stuff is really for me. I'm glad I tried it, but I'm going back to my animals and mushrooms and raindrops. My kind of art." "Mal, I'm sorry," was my reply. (I meant for being so mean.) She must have understood because she said simply, "That's okay." Kristy.
Chapter 19.
You'd think that with all the Sonny signs we'd put up, and that with the millions of people who must have walked by them everyday, I'd have received more than one call from someone wanting a dog.
That one call came on Monday evening. Laine's father answered the phone. Then he said, "Kristy, this man saw one of your signs. He wants to talk to you about Sonny. He sounds pretty interested." "Oh!" I said. I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or sad. I needed to find a good home for Sonny, but in the back of my mind I was hoping it would be at our house in Connecticut.
I took the phone from Mr. Cummings. "Hello?" I said.
"Hello?" answered a voice. "I'm calling about the collie. I saw a sign ..." The voice trailed off.
"Is he your collie? Did you lose him?" "No. I'm looking for a pet for my children." "Well, Sonny is very good-natured," I assured the man. "He's gentle and he loves to play. And even though he's a stray, he's healthy. I took him to the vet. No mange or anything." "How old is he?" asked the man.
"Three." "Three months?" "No, three years." Sheesh. I had put that on the sign. Didn't the guy read?
"Oh. Sorry. I guess I'm not interested then. I'm looking for a puppy for my kids." "Okay." I hung up. Sonny was sitting beside me. I bent down to scratch the spots behind his ears. "You wouldn't have wanted to live with that family anyway," I told Sonny. "The father is an airhead." By Wednesday, though, I almost wished that the airhead had decided to take Sonny. But only because no one else seemed to want him. The Cummingses liked Sonny all right, but they were serious about not getting a pet. Mr. McGill was interested in Sonny, but didn't see how he could care for him by himself. "Who would walk him while I'm at the office all day?" he asked.
Good point.
On Wednesday, in an attempt to un-tizzy myself, I decided to take Sonny for a walk in the park, just the two of us. I was clipping his leash to his collar when the phone rang.
"It's for you, Kristy!" called Laine's mom.
"Okay!" I looked at Sonny. "You wait right here," I told him. "When I come back, we'll take our walk. Maybe I'll buy you an ice cream." I ran to the kitchen, where Mrs. Cum-mings handed me the phone.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hello?" answered a small voice. It belonged to a child.
"Who is this?" I asked. I didn't think it was Karen or Andrew.
"This is Brandon." "Brandon?" "Mm-hmm. I saw your sign about the dog. I want one. Mommy and Daddy said I could have one. I'm nine years old. I'm very responsible." I smiled. But then I remembered the other phone call. "The dog's name is Sonny," I told Brandon, "and he's three years old. He's not a puppy." "Oh, good. So he's trained, right?" "Right." "Phew. Daddy doesn't want to have to train a dog. He says it's too much work. Especially in an apartment." "I guess that's true." "I've been wanting a dog for a long time," Brandon informed me.
"Well, would you like to meet Sonny?" "Sure!" "Great. When?" "Right now. I want to meet him right now." I hesitated. I'd been hoping that Brandon couldn't see him until the next day. Then I could spend a little more time with Sonny. I also knew that the sooner I met Brandon's family and saw their apartment, the better.
"Okay," I said to Brandon. "Where do you live?" (Maybe he lived in Minnesota. Or in a building that doesn't allow pets.) Brandon gave me his address. He lived just four blocks from Laine. And, he said, practically everyone in his building had a pet.
Oh.
"Mrs. Cummings?" I called after I'd hung up the phone. "That was a little boy who wants to see Sonny. I'm going to walk him to Brandon's apartment." I gave Mrs. Cummings the address, and she said she'd come pick me up in an hour. I didn't know whether I wanted to be with or without Sonny then.
"Good luck," called Mrs. Cummings.
"Well, boy," I said as I walked Sonny down Laine's block, "you're going to meet someone named Brandon. He might be your new owner." Sonny gave me a doggie smile.
"Be on your best behavior," I went on. "Mind your manners." Sonny and I reached Brandon's block, which wasn't as fancy as Stacey's. The buildings were smaller, and some looked rundown. But Brandon's building seemed nice enough. I led Sonny up a flight of stairs and through a doorway. In the vestibule, I saw a panel of buttons. I pressed the one marked 3B — Leech.
An excited voice blared over the intercom. "Is that Kristy? And my dog?" "Yup," I replied.
"Okay. Come on up. We're on the third floor." Brandon buzzed the inner door for me, and I pushed it open. "Come on, Sonny," I said. The door closed behind us. I looked at the hallway. It was dark and shabby. Also, there was no elevator. "You're going to get a lot of exercise if you move here," I told Sonny.
We walked up two long flights of stairs. Sonny was huffing and panting by the time we reached the third floor. (So was I.) I was beginning to peer at the numbers on the apartment doors, when one door flew open and a little boy bounded into the hall.
"Hi, I'm Brandon," he announced.
"I'm Kristy," I replied, "and this is Sonny." Brandon knelt down. He looked seriously into Sonny's eyes. "Do you like to play ball?" he asked.
Sonny stretched forward and licked Bran-don's nose.
Brandon laughed. "Come on inside," he said. He took Sonny's leash.
I followed Brandon and Sonny through the open door and into a small apartment. A man was standing in front of a couch. He stuck out his hand. "Hello," he said. "I'm Mr. Leech, Brandon's father." I introduced myself, and then Mr. Leech told me about Brandon and his family. Mrs. Leech was at work, he said. (Mr. Leech worked at night.) Brandon had no brothers or sisters and was occasionally lonely. His father thought a gentle dog would be good for Brandon, and anyway, Brandon had been asking for a pet.
While Mr. Leech was talking, Brandon was patting Sonny and tossing a ball to him. I couldn't tell whether he'd been listening to his father. At any rate, he soon spoke up. "I promise, promise, promise I'll take extra good care of Sonny. I'll play with him and I'll remember to feed him and I'll walk him a lot. I won't forget to fill his water dish or anything. Honest." I looked around the Leeches' apartment. It was small. The furniture was old and worn. But someone had crocheted afghans for the couch, and dried flowers were arranged in vases. Plus, Mr. Leech obviously cared very much for his son, while Brandon already cared for Sonny.
I smiled at Mr. Leech and then at Brandon. I knew I had found the right home for Sonny, Son of Louie.
"What are you going to call Sonny?" I asked.
"You mean I can keep him?" replied Brandon.
"If it's okay with your dad." "He's all yours," Mr. Leech said to Brandon.
"All right!" cried Brandon. He threw his arms around his father, then around me, and finally around Sonny.
"So what are you going to call him?" I asked again.
I could barely hear Brandon's answer, since his face was still buried in Sonny's neck. But I think this is what he said: "I'm going to call him Sonny, of course." Mallory.
Chapter 20.
Enough is enough. All right already. Basta! (That's Spanish for enough, I think.) If I had to draw another building or statue or cardboard box, my head would explode. It would not be a pretty sight. (Of course, I've never seen an exploded head, but I can't imagine that it would be a pretty sight.) Wednesday was the next to last day of classes at Falny for Claudia and me. (No Friday classes, remember?) I went, but not because I particularly wanted to. I went because my parents had paid for two weeks of classes and because I liked Mac and didn't want to hurt his feelings by not showing up. Also, we were taking a field trip to this place called the Cloisters, and I was curious to see actual old buildings that had been shipped to the United States from Europe and rebuilt stone by stone.
We took a bus to the Cloisters. I sat with Mac. (Claudia sat in the back of the bus by herself, looking pouty.) "Read any good books lately?" Mac asked me as the bus lurched through the city streets. He asked me that every day.
"I started a new one last night," I replied. "It's really good. But it's very sad. It's called A Summer to Die, and it's about this girl whose older sister is dying of leukemia." "Who's the author?" asked Mac. He had reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad. He wrote down the title and then waited for my reply.
"Lois Lowry," I said. "She's written tons of good books. I bet your daughter would like them. She wrote the Anastasia books and Find a Stranger, Say Good-Bye, and . . ." Mac and I talked about books all the way to the Cloisters. That was the fun part. The boring part was the rest of the day.
After I had looked around the museum and seen the ancient monasteries and stuff, I knew I had to start drawing.
I found Claudia.
I watched her for awhile as she sketched.
How does she do it? I wondered.
I asked Claudia about her work, but she was so grouchy.
I settled myself in front of the rebuilt corner of a stone building. I liked that corner. It was handsome. But I didn't feel like drawing it. How boring. I looked around. Mac was nearby. With a sigh, I began to sketch. A few minutes later, Mac was looking over my shoulder.
"Very nice," he said. He smiled and went on.
When he was out of sight, I looked for a long time at my drawing of the stone wall. It was nice. So I added some tufts of grass in front of it. Fuzzy little mounds of grass, the stalks waving in the breeze.
Then, next to a grass tuft, I drew a field mouse. It was a boy mouse, so I put a cap on his head. Then I erased the top of his body and gave him a baseball jacket. I decided he should wear glasses, like me. I added a pair of round spectacles.
Then I gave him a bat.
And a baseball.
This is Ryan Mouse, I told myself. He's a country mouse. And he's waiting for his girlfriend, who lives in a town. Her name is Kara Mouse. No, Angela Mouse. No, Meaghan Mouse. That's it. Meaghan Mouse.
I began Meaghan. I gave her a hip mouse outfit — a huge sweat shirt and leggings. But I had to erase the leggings. They were not meant for mouse legs. I gave her high-tops instead. And some jewelry.
Now, I thought, Ryan and Meaghan are going to have a picnic in the forest. Only — an evil gnome is after them.
I drew an ugly, warty creature with fangs and claws.