Strays (17 page)

I
t was amazing how much easier it was to concentrate on English when there were no distractions. Things were good with Oak, Roman was safe, and I tried my best to stop myself from thinking about Talbot's lying. And, just like with Ashley and Sierra, I was back to avoiding Talbot's texts and phone calls. I knew I had to confront her, but I didn't know how to bring it up.

Even better, the cable had been inexplicably turned on, and the delinquent notices ceased to gather in our mailbox. I was ecstatic that Dad had actually followed through on something. And somehow, with all the work I had on my hands, I exhibited enough self-control to limit my TV viewing to an hour a day. With all the experience I'd gained over the summer with the dogs, I felt as though I could be hosting my own show on the animal network.

I had been working for two hours straight and had about a five-page rough draft. Everyone in “Wolf-Alice” seemed so shocked when she learned compassion all on her own, not just because someone else told her to be that way. I immediately thought about Roman and the first few days when he'd ignored my commands. He didn't trust me then. Why should he have listened to me? What authority did I have?

I was just hitting my stride when the phone rang. I shouldn't have answered it, but my instincts got the best of me.

“Emergency field trip. Right now,” said Talbot.

“What are you talking about?”

“I just discovered the cutest pet store ever down on Pacific. Meet me here in ten.” She hung up before I could say anything.

Maybe it was a good idea to take a break. Besides, Perry had recently told us that in order to complete mental tasks, it was imperative that we take breaks. And I really wanted to get something special to give to Roman for his graduation.

As I strapped on my bike helmet, I got a text from Talbot.
Meet me at Pergolesi. Dying for something iced
.

Fifteen minutes later, I was locking my bike to a parking meter down the street from the coffee shop. I took off my backpack and removed a stack of papers.

“Hi! What's that?” Talbot asked, referring to the paperwork now cradled in my arms.

I had been doing some thinking, and since I wasn't going to be hired for any babysitting gigs anytime soon, I'd decided to print up some flyers advertising my services as a basic dog trainer. The flyers were nothing fancy—just a photo of a golden retriever I found online, along with the words
Iris Moody: Dog Trainer
and my home phone number. I'd also printed some extra flyers that Kevin had given us announcing our Ruff Rehabilitation graduation ceremony.

Talbot helped me staple them to telephone poles and trees as we walked toward the coffee shop.

Pergolesi was packed with people on the porch enjoying the afternoon sun. I had a feeling of rushed excitement, which I got whenever summer was coming to an end—this need to cram everything in. And, with what limited time I had each day, I also felt this driving desire to make up for lost time.

As luck would have it, Ashley was working. It's not that things were bad between us now. They were tolerable. But that's what made me feel so awful about the whole situation. I didn't want our relationship to pass muster. I wanted it to be comfortable.

As we got closer and closer to the front of the line, I wondered how she would react to seeing me today. Friend or foe?

“Hey, Eye!” said Ashley, when I reached the front. I was relieved she was receiving me with kindness.

“Hi,” said Talbot.

“Oh, sorry. Ashley, this is Talbot. She's doing that dog rehab thing with me.” It was weird introducing the two of them—my two different worlds colliding at the coffee shop.

“Iced coffee, Eye?” Ashley asked, knowing this was my favorite mid-afternoon drink on a hot day.

“Can I make it an iced green tea?” I asked.

“Really?” She was surprised.

“It's a new thing I'm trying,” I said, not wanting to go into all the details about Oak.

“Not me. I'll have the biggest iced coffee you have. With extra whipped cream!” Talbot licked her lips like a kid about to devour a banana split.

As Ashley gave us our drinks, Talbot handed her one of our graduation flyers.

“What's this?” asked Ashley.

“It's what we've been working on all summer,” I said. “With the dogs. They're showing off all their tricks,” I explained.

“And getting new homes,” interjected Talbot.

“You hate dogs!” said Ashley.

“I
hated
dogs,” I said. “People can change.”

As Talbot and I left the bustling coffee house, I hoped that Ashley thought I had changed into the kind of person she wanted to hang out with again.

We walked to Talbot's discovery, The Golden Leash, an upscale pet boutique on Pacific.

“What are you thinking of getting him?” asked Talbot.

“I don't know.”

I looked around at everything they had to offer: leashes in every color, argyle sweaters, ice cream for dogs. People sure spent a lot of money on their pets.

“What about this?” Talbot held up a bejeweled pooper-scooper.

“No way,” I said.

“I think I'm gonna get this for Garrett,” said Talbot, holding up a bottle of bright pink, glittery doggy nail polish.

“You think Kevin will be cool with that?”

“Just for graduation. I mean, he has to look good for his new owners, right?”

I had been avoiding thinking about Roman's new owner. More than anything, I wanted him to be adopted out to a new family. But I was also deeply jealous that someone else would get to see him every day. No one could love that dog like I could. And what was more troubling was the possibility that no one would want to adopt him and he would be back in the same predicament—back to the pound, waiting to be killed. No amount of hacking could save him from an eventual death if he ended up back at that shelter.

We wouldn't be meeting the dogs' new families until graduation day. And in most cases, we wouldn't even know if they had been adopted out before the actual ceremony. A lot of scrambling was involved on behalf of Ruff Rehabilitation—they couldn't officially start looking for adoptive families until the dogs completed their training program (our last class), which was a week away, and then Kevin had between then and graduation, one week later, to secure homes for the dogs, which included a home visit and two meetings with the potential owners.

After scanning the shelves, I finally saw the perfect gift. Among the snazzy and over-the-top pet products was a perfectly understated orange collar. I liked that the box said it was made out of something called “pleather” and that no animals were used or harmed in the making of the product. But the best part was that etched on the inside of the collar, where no one else could see, were the words
I am loved
.

It would be my constant message to Roman, and it made the possibility of him being taken home by another family a little more bearable.

“How much is this?” I asked the woman at the counter.

“Twenty-five bucks,” she said.

“For a collar?” I complained. It seemed awfully high.

Talbot came over to me. “We're at a high-end pet store. What did you expect? We can run to Petmart if you want?”

“They won't have that collar there, miss,” said the cashier. “These are a special import from Germany.”

I didn't care where it was made; I needed to have it. Roman had to have this collar.

“I'll take it,” I said, pulling out my wallet and giving the woman my debit card.

She took it and ran it though her machine. After a beep, the woman handed the card back to me.

“This card has been declined. Do you have another?” she asked.

I showed her my wallet. Aside from a few crinkled-up receipts and my driver's license, which I never had real use for except as photo identification, the wallet was empty.

“I don't understand,” I said, both to the woman and to Talbot.

“Maybe it's because you haven't used it in a while. You always use cash,” said Talbot.

That was true. But the account had over $20,000 in it—all of the money my mom had left me. It seemed like a little twenty-five-dollar dog collar wouldn't be enough to confuse the bank that much.

“What would you like to do?” asked the cashier with an attitude; it was clear she was growing annoyed with us. “It's the last collar, you know.”

“Nice sales tactic, lady,” Talbot said to the woman, who raised her eyebrow at her in return. Talbot reached into her bag. “Look, Iris, I'll spot you the money.”

“You don't have to do that,” I said.

“Yes, I do. That's what friends are for. And then we'll go straight to your bank and figure this out.” She handed the cashier the money and waited for change. I took the collar and put it in my backpack.

Grabbing one of my flyers, Talbot handed it to the cashier. “The least you could do is hang up one of these behind your counter.”

The woman eyed the flyer before pinning it to the bulletin board behind her cash register.

Outside, the sun glared down on us. I had forgotten to put sunscreen on before my ride and knew I would regret it.

There was a long line at First Pacific Bank. Talbot filled out some informational card for me (that girl loved filling out forms), and I grabbed a cup of the free coffee. I knew it was a step back in my caffeine-weaning process, but the situation was stressing me out. The coffee was overly roasted and too acidic; I didn't even enjoy it.

“That stuff has got to be gross,” said Talbot.

“But it's free. And if you load it up with sugar, it masks how awful it is. Want some?”

Talbot leaned in to sniff it. “No thanks,” she said.

“Wanna hear something gross?” I asked.

She nodded.

“These Styrofoam cups weigh less after you drink from them, which means your body is ingesting some of the Styrofoam.”

“Shouldn't that be illegal?” asked Talbot.

We had a seat on a couch in the small seating area next to other people holding their little pieces of paper with their number on it.

A girl, maybe a year older than us, was signing up for a college bank account with her mom and dad—yet another scene that, in my life, would never be played out.

“Number forty-one!” a voice finally called over the loudspeaker.

“That's us!” said Talbot.

I filled my cup back to the top and proceeded to our assigned teller.

“Identification,” said the man, who couldn't have looked more bored.

I gave him my license.

“Ms. Moody, what can I do for you today?” he asked.

It had been a while since I'd had coffee, and it hit my system at warp speed.

“I just tried to use my bank card at the pet store, and it was declined. It was only for twenty-five dollars, so I was wondering why.”

“Can I please see it?” the man asked.

I handed him my card. He quickly typed digits into his computer.

“In order to be able to withdraw twenty-five dollars from your account, you have to have at least twenty-five dollars in the account, Ms. Moody,” he said with a snarky grin.

“What?” I was dumbfounded.

“Your account is nearly empty, Ms. Moody,” the teller said. “That's why your card was declined.”

I wanted to sock him in the face. But before I could get enraged over his attitude I had to get to the bottom of why the computer was saying the account was empty.

“Are you sure you have the right account? I mean, I just got a statement from you like two weeks ago saying that there was over”—and I leaned in to whisper, not wanting everyone to hear my personal finances—“twenty thousand dollars in that account.”

The teller leaned in and whispered back to me, “Perhaps you made a large purchase in the last two weeks that you are forgetting about.”

That was it. This guy was officially a royal jerk, and I was running out of patience. Talbot stepped in to save me from clobbering him. I moved aside and tried to focus on a deep-breathing technique that Doug had given me.

“Jake,” Talbot said, reading his nametag. “You look like a man who is well-versed in computers. Can you please look at Ms. Moody's account activities over the last two weeks and see if perhaps anything unusual happened between the time that statement was mailed to her until now?”

My hands were suddenly damp; in my rage, I had clenched my fingers around the coffee cup so tightly I'd punctured a hole in the Styrofoam. The keys on Jake's computer clacked away.

“Ah, here we go…perhaps it slipped your mind that you withdrew twenty thousand dollars last Thursday?” He swiveled the screen around so that I could see it. I squinted my eyes, analyzing the data in front of me. The account balance was $10.41.

“But I didn't do that. I've never even been in here before, except to open the account with my dad.”

“How old are you, Ms. Moody?” asked Jake, who was now my mortal enemy.

“Sixteen. Surely you can do the simple math to figure that out, given the fact that my birth year is glaring you in the face.” I motioned toward his computer screen. If I couldn't overtly pummel him, at least I could do it verbally.

Talbot took over. “Have you had any breaches in security recently?” she asked. It made me laugh. I thought about Oak and how he could probably have hacked into my account or anyone else's if he wanted to. But he'd never do something like that again. Not even for me.

As I buried my head in my hands, Talbot put her arms around me. I shimmied away, recoiling at her attempt to console me.

I had helped her overcome her fear of the ocean. I had to let her help me here. I thought about what Oak had said about how letting someone come to your aid wasn't the same as being rescued. I realized it was okay to have my friends help me out.

I felt desperate. “This just makes no sense! It's my bank account! My money! I never spent it.”