“Yeah . . . okay,” I jump in. “I know you’ve got a lot going on, Addie, but I could really use a few more letters for the paper if you have time to answer them for the next edition.”
Addie’s puffy face lights up. “Really?”
“Totally,” I say, handing her a dinner napkin.
She sniffles bravely, and wipes off her face. “How about tomorrow morning?”
“Perfect.” I pull out another napkin and wipe a tiny snot streak off her cheek.
Virgil peers out from behind his copy of his book. His bushy eyebrows are raised into his hair. He grins at me and I nearly lose my train of thought.
Stewie says, “I’ve heard, like, five people talking about that Dear Addie thing. You’re, like, famous.”
Addie smiles at Stewie. “Really?”
Sondra says, “You’re like the West End Oprah.”
“Oh, you’re just saying that to cheer me up,” says Addie, beaming now.
Bret says, “I could tell you another fart joke . . .”
Addie says, “I’ll pass.”
“I think I just did,” says Stewie, groaning. Then we all groan.
When I stop writhing from the smell, I say, “Seriously Addie, don’t worry about Kenner. It’ll all work out. People just say stuff. I mean how could he live without you, right? You made him a quilt. Guys are just like that. They show off a little and then get over it. The good guys anyway.”
“Do you think so?”
I see Virgil tilting his head out from behind his book. He dips it back in but it’s too late, I saw his smirk. I stare down at my lunch and cover my happily blotching neck with my hair.
Dear Addie,
This girl keeps calling my house late at night. My mom gets way mad at me. The girl acts like I like her but I don’t. It’s like she’s stalking me.
Bugged
Dear Bugged,
That’s totally weird. Everybody needs their space. That girl needs to Respect your personal bubble.
Addie
I finally get some mail:
Dear Wolf Notes,
The way you write about wolves makes me laugh. You might as well write a column on skunks. They’Re more “endangered” in the park than wolves but maybe the people in Washington like wolves because they make them feel more at home when they come to visit.
Save the Skunk!
Dear Save the Skunk,
I don’t know about the people in Washington, but I agree with you about skunks. They are more endangered in the park than wolves. The Rangers killed them by the hundreds back in the 1870s, along with wolves, cougars, and wolverines. A Skunk Reintroduction Program? Why the smell not?
Wolf Notes
PRETTY IS AS PRETTY DOES
ADDIE SHOWS UP twenty minutes before class wearing white cords and a cream sweater. She could sell toothpaste.
“Sorry, I would have come sooner but have you ever tried to do three little girls’ hair? It’s like braiding porcupines. And Riley and Landon are getting toilet trained, so it’s just one big poo fest around my house.”
“You get your brothers and sisters ready for school every morning?” This kind of thing has never occurred to me. “Is it fun? Having such a big family?”
“Sisters whine and brothers smell. Guess I’d miss ’em if I got the chance, but not this morning. What are we working on?”
“I’m editing your column. Do you want to look at mine? I just wrote a short wolf update.”
Addie sits down next to me, looking affectionately at her letters. “My parents told me to stay out of the political stuff.”
I’m dumbfounded. “My articles aren’t political . . . they’re informative.”
“KJ, you write about wolves.”
“I’m writing about what they’re doing; that’s not politics.”
Addie scoots over into the chair next to me to get a better view of her letter. She says, “Like, do you put in all the bad stuff they do?”
“
Like
what bad stuff?” I say, scooting off the chair.
“Well, you know, like, eating people’s cattle and dogs and kids and stuff. You haven’t done any articles on that.”
“They don’t eat people’s kids. And Kenner wouldn’t talk to me about his dog.”
Addie looks up patiently, through her perfectly curled eyelashes. “Whatever, KJ. Why do you get so into it? I mean you’re pretty now.”
I am seriously regretting inviting Addie to come early to school. “What does being pretty have to do with anything?”
“Well, I’m just saying that writing about wolves makes you seem hostile, and guys don’t normally like hostile girls.”
“Who says I’m hostile?”
“It’s just that wolves bother people,” she says. “I don’t see the point.”
I chew on my pen. “The point is they belong here. When they’re gone the elk eat everything to a nub, streams erode, and then the whole place starts to fall apart.”
She smiles. “Did you know it takes more than seventy-two more muscles to frown than to smile?”
I frown. “That’s a myth.”
Addie holds up her finger like she’s actually doing the toothpaste commercial, “Do you feel relaxed right now?”
I slump down in a chair across the room to start work on Stewie’s stickman comic strip about a killer toilet. I guess we all write about what we love. “Your letter about avoiding onions on a date is done,” I say. “I’m sure Mrs. Baby will want it on the front page.”
“Oh, good,” says Addie. “I know exactly who wrote that one and I don’t want them to miss my answer. Stink-er-roo if you know what I mean.”
I look at Addie. She’s undeniably beautiful, and smart about a lot of things I’m not. She helps her family, and she writes a column that everyone loves. I say, “So you’re telling me that if I would write about something besides wolves, people would like me more?”
“I’m just saying that if you would just ease up a little . . . Now’s your chance, you know. And if you want to come over to the house some night I bet I could fix you all up. A little petal pink blush might even soften your frown muscles.”
“That’s nice, Addie. But I’m okay.”
“Maybe I’ll write a column about that, ‘Pretty Is as Pretty Does.’ What do you think?”
I think I’d rather write about wolves than onions.
Mr. Muir hands back the quizzes in math. Two out of five. I’m going to have to study more, but at least I feel like it might do some good. He writes a note at the bottom, “Love the wolf column. Do your math homework.”
During class Joss and Mandy pass notes. Ten minutes before the bell Mandy tosses one of the notes to me. The letters are big and curly. “The newspaper sucks butt.”
Joss and Mandy hate me. I tuck the letter into my binder. It’s important to savor life’s small pleasures.
After school Virgil is waiting for me by my locker.
“We need some more wolf pics this weekend. I’m going out with my mom right now. Do you want to come?”
“Now?” Even if they left right now it will be dark by the time they get to Lamar Valley. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“My mom met a guy with a camper who said it was fine. He’s cool.”
I imagine this story going into my dad’s ears. “I have to work. Inventory.”
“So meet us in the morning. Slough Creek. Maybe we can find Cinderella.”
“I’ll figure something out,” I say.
Even Cinderella didn’t have to borrow the car from her dad.
When I get home, Dad is finishing on the phone. “That was your math teacher.”
“What did I do?”
“He wanted me to let me know you currently have a Bin the class.”
“He called you to tell you I’m
not
bombing math?” I feel antigravitational devices moving under my feet.
“Well, I asked him to . . . periodically,” says my dad calmly. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“KJ, knock it off. How should we celebrate? You name it.”
“Anything?” I say.
“Anything that costs less than twenty dollars and won’t get me arrested.”
Sometimes you just have to roll the dice when you’re feeling lucky. “How about letting me take the car to the Lamar tomorrow?”
Dad eyebrows pinch together. “That’s a long drive.”
We both know how I drive.
He says, “You could get snow.”
We both know how he feels about bad roads. I may as well start folding T-shirts, but I don’t.
“I need a new wolf article.”
“Mr. Muir says you’re doing a good job with that, too. Says it’s about time kids hear both sides of this thing. Guess I should actually read what you’re doing.”
Visions of Mr. Martin dance in my wee little head.
He says, “How about I drive? I’ll hang a sign on the door.”
“You’re going to take off work just because you don’t trust me to drive?” I say.
“Pretty much.” He smiles, but he’s not kidding.
Q: Why did the Yellowstone wolf cross the road?
A: She was ready for her close-up.
THE LEADER OF THE PACK
IN OCTOBER THE tourists are long gone, and if we’re lucky, like today, we still have a few red and gold mornings before the snow locks up the roads in the park. The light softens, and the air is crisp and fresh with the promise of storms. We hear elk bugling in the meadows below Mount Haynes. We see their outline in the meadows between Madison and Norris Junction but it has been warm, so the elk are more sparse than usual for this time of year. Just below the Chocolate Pots, right up next to the road, we see two bull elk fighting. We pull over and listen to the clap of their horns thrusting against each other.
I like to drive with my dad. I can sleep. With other people I feel like I have to watch the road, so they will be careful. I know my dad will be careful. I like to think my apprehensive attitude is left over from my mom’s accident. I’d like to think I remember something about her, even something bad.
On the other hand, I wish Dad didn’t worry so much. He has good memories of Mom to remember her by. At least I think he does.
The pink light of the sunrise makes its entrance at Slough Creek right as we do. Dad pulls in and parks right next to Virgil getting out of Eloise’s car. Virgil waves. I sort of forgot to mention Virgil. I sort of forgot to think this through.
“Friend of yours?”
“That’s Virgil.”
“Virgil?”
“You know . . . the guy . . .”
“
The
guy?” my dad says with drama.
I can feel my skin changing color already. “No . . . Don’t, okay?”
Dad bounces out of the car and introduces himself to Virgil while I sit in the car and hyperventilate. Then he comes back and tells me to get my lazy butt out of the car and find a wolf.
“Nice,” I sneer.
Dad smiles. “He seems perfectly manly to me.”
“You know, Dad,” I say with utter sincerity, “I really hate it when you take an interest in me.”
I get out of the car, and Virgil walks over and takes a picture of me telling my dad I don’t need a coat. “I love family portraits,” he says.
We all walk up the hill to the viewpoint. Eloise is already in position with a half dozen other people. Everyone in this crowd has a thermos, a scope, and a handheld radio. We reverently join the faithful.
Eloise looks from her scope just long enough to whisper, “Two wolves and a griz. The wolves think it’s their kill, but they’re about to lose breakfast.”
“Hi, Eloise,” I say. I’m amazed at how much I’ve missed her. She looks so perfectly Eloise today. Her cheeks and lips are pink from the cold air, and her straw-colored hair is tossed around her head.
She says, “Hey, honey, thought you’d never get here.”
“This is Eloise Whitman, Virgil’s mom. She’s a wolf biologist,” I say to Dad. He gets a funny look on his face. Maybe he’s not used to seeing women over forty that look like they’re a roadie.
“Are you here guiding today, Mr. Carson?” says Virgil.
“No,” says Dad cheerfully. “Today is strictly pleasure.”
Eloise looks up annoyed. “Virgil, you’re missing it!”
Virgil goes back to his scope quickly and starts snapping off shots. Dad sets up for us so I get to watch all three people disappear into their work like water into sand.
“Nice views,” whispers my dad.
After a few seconds he lets me look. I see a good-size grizzly swatting at two adult wolves. There’s not a chance that these wolves are going to get back breakfast, but they seem to be making a point about the bear’s manners.
Dad touches my arm. “My turn.” He’s as excited as I am. This cracks me up, since he’s old. Well, he’s not that old. But he’s my dad, so that’s old to me.
I hold my binoculars up to try to get an outline. I can see the grizzly lean back without moving his body away from the carcass. The wolves circle, one darting while the other distracts, but the bear is having none of it. He lets out some snorts and then a real roar. The bear lunges across the carcass and nearly gets a piece of the darting wolf. The wolves retreat. The bear is slower than the wolves but not too slow to chase them for a good hundred yards. The wolves disappear into the trees, and the bear plods back to his breakfast. It occurs to me that it was the wolves’ breakfast, too. And they have expended a lot of energy, twice, for nothing. Being a predator isn’t for wimps.
“Cutting it close,” says Virgil.
“It’s what they do best,” says Eloise. “Now who is this guy, KJ?” She smiles at my dad like he’s a new car.
Dad straightens up ever so slightly. “Glad to meet you, Eloise. Samuel Carson.”
I don’t like this posture-adjusting one bit. I’ve seen as many old movies as any other sixteen-year-old girl in America, but chemistry is not allowed between Eloise and Samuel. I saw Virgil first, and I don’t double with parents.
What I have going for me is that Eloise isn’t really my dad’s type. If he ever dates, which is never, he goes out with skinny women with tidy hair who think he is the smartest person on Earth, because they definitely aren’t. Eloise probably knows more about wolves than wolves do. And she’s not exactly a supermodel under all that flannel.