Me & Jack (8 page)

chapter 13

D
ad and I were in the driveway, washing and waxing our new Gran Torino. Well, not exactly ours—the air force had given it to Dad because of all the driving he had to do as a recruiter. Definitely cooler than the old station wagon. The Torino's steel-blue coat gleamed in the sun and the hubcaps shone like mirrors. And if that weren't cool enough, the air force insignia on the driver's side made the car look way important.

Jack kept us company on the run Dad had put up for him. Tiny bubbles floated out of the bottle of dish soap when I squeezed it. Jack tried to eat them.

The mailman saw us by the car and walked up the driveway. He handed the mail to Dad and talked for a minute before walking away.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Dad said as he riffled through the envelopes. “Hmm, here's something for you.” He handed me a letter. “ADBA, wonder what that is.”

“ADBA?” My heart leaped. “The dog club!” I snatched the letter out of his hand and tore it open.

Dear Joshua,

I was very excited when I received your letter and the picture of your dog, Jack. Jack is a Pharaoh hound, a rare breed in the United States. The president of the Royal Hounds Club of America told me that a Mrs. Weiss, who lived in your area, imported a Pharaoh hound about a year ago. Unfortunately, Mrs. Weiss recently passed away. There was no record of the dog's sale after her death. After comparing Jack's photo to a photo of Mrs. Weiss's hound, I am certain they are the same dog.

You have a very special dog there! Pharaohs are extremely loyal and affectionate. They are fierce hunters, hunting by scent as well as sight. Jack's ancestry goes all the way back to the hounds in King Tut's palace. These dogs were valued for their ability to put meat on the table. The glowing ears you mentioned are a characteristic distinctive to Pharaoh hounds.

I'm glad Jack found a home with someone who loves him. Here's something you might find interesting: Jack's first name was Sweet Prince William.

Sincerely,

Eugene Morrows

Regional President, American Dog Breeders Association

I read the letter again and again.

“What is it?” Dad asked.

“I … it's a …” I handed the letter to him.

He scanned it quickly, then smiled and handed it back to me. “Well, I'll be,” he said. “That's really something.”

I looked at Jack in amazement.
Sweet Prince William.
This news was too big, too excellent. “Can I go to Ray's house?” I blurted.

“He's out back with Alan,” Ray's mom said, holding the screen door open. I choked back a groan. Why did
he
have to be here? But maybe that was a good thing. He'd hear that Jack was a purebred, and that Jack's ancestors could be traced all the way to the palace of King Tut. Bet he couldn't say that about any of his
horses
.

Mrs. Miller held out a plate of peanut butter cookies, the kind you press a fork on to make hash marks. I took two. She must have just baked them because they were warm, and the peanut-butter smell left a trail in the air. “Just go around the side of the house, okay?” She smiled and bit into a cookie.

I broke off a tiny chunk for Jack before biting into one myself. Oh, man, so good. And it didn't have nuts in it; I hate them in cookies or brownies.

Speaking of nuts, Prater was sitting on the concrete pad at the back of Ray's house. I bit into the second cookie and looked around, but I didn't see Ray.

I tried to act casual. “Where's Ray?” I asked, causing Prater to startle. I smirked before realizing it.

He clucked his tongue. “How come every time I see you, you're eating?” he said. He held something that looked like a nail, and he had a piece of leather on a cardboard in front of him.

Okay, so this was how it was going to be. I made my voice flat. “Do you know where Ray is?”

“Yeah,” he said, picking up a mallet. “We're doing something.”

Well, duh. Everyone's
doing
something, even if it's just breathing. Jack and I stepped closer. Prater was making some kind of drawing on the leather.

He shrank away from us, his eyes flitting over Jack. “Don't come over here! You almost made me make a mistake.”

We weren't even that close. But I backed away from him anyway, tied the leash to the railing, and sat on the stoop with Jack to wait for Ray. Jack panted while looking at me expectantly.
What's next?
his eyes said.
What're we doing?
I ruffled his ears to let him know it was okay—we were just waiting for a few minutes.

On the concrete, Prater seemed to have forgotten us. He dragged something that looked like a screwdriver across the leather, and thin strips rippled up. Brushing them aside, he repeated what he did, then picked up a different tool and turned it on the leather in short strokes. The tip of his tongue stuck out between his lips.

The back door creaked open. “Hey,” Ray said as he ambled down the steps. “What's going on?”

I pulled the letter from the dog club out of my back pocket. I couldn't help smiling as I handed him the envelope. “Look what I got!”

He slipped the letter out and began to read. “Wow,” he said, glancing up for a second. I liked that he sounded impressed.

“What is it?” Prater demanded.

I shrugged. “Something about Jack.” Something
great
about Jack.

He laid his stuff down and stood beside Ray. I could see his lips moving as he read over Ray's shoulder.

“Give me that.” Prater snatched the letter from Ray.

“Don't tear it,” I said and tried to grab it.

Prater jerked his hand away and finished reading the letter. Then he started laughing, a fake, overly hearty laugh. “You got some dead old lady's dog!”

How did he do that? How was he able to make everything sound so stupid?

Ray said, “That's not what it says.”

“Yes, it does.” His eyes gleamed—this was fun to him.

I clenched my teeth. “Give it back to me,” I said and held out my hand for the letter.

He snapped his arm back, holding the letter out of my reach. A challenging smile spread across his face.

I lunged, nearly falling, and Jack let out an uncertain woof. He pulled against the leash, stretching it to its full length.

Prater focused on Jack. “He better not get loose.”

“So what if he did?” I countered, though I didn't want Jack to get loose either.

“Oh, my God,” Ray said, treading toward Prater. “Give me the letter; you grabbed it before I had a chance to finish it.”

Ray made a move for it, but Prater dodged him, laughing.

I took a step closer to Prater. “You're just jealous.”

“I'm not jealous!” He snorted. “I don't even care about your stupid dog.”

“Then give me the letter.”

His eyes lit up. “Then come and get it.”

I sprinted across the grass, and as I did, I stumbled over his tools, heard something crack, and knocked over the bowl of water.

Prater's mouth fell open. “You did that on purpose!”

“I did not!” I said, and at the same time, Ray said, “No, he didn't.”

Prater looked from me to Ray and back to me again. He picked up the now-soaked leather, scowling. “
I
was just playing around, but
you
did it on purpose. You ruined it,” he said, shaking the water from the leather. “This was going to be a present for my aunt.” Then he scanned the grass. “You broke my best knife!”

“It was an accident,” Ray said. “You should've given him the letter.”

Prater's eyes constricted, and before I could stop him, he tore the letter into long shreds and threw them down. “There you go,” he spat. “There's your precious letter.”

My mouth fell open, then clinched shut. I stared disbelievingly at the pieces by his feet.

“Oh, man,” Ray said. “You didn't have to do that.”

Prater lifted one shoulder. He answered Ray but stared at me. “Now we're even.” The set of his jaw challenged me to do something.

Every neuron in my brain fired like pistons—hit him, hit him! And I wanted to. My hands curled into fists and my blood boiled. But then the scene flashed by me like a movie: I shove him; he hits me; I punch him back. A bloody nose or a black eye later, his knife is still broken, and my letter is still ripped. Fighting wouldn't change that. Fighting wouldn't settle whatever was between Prater and me.

I took a step toward him and he braced himself. Then I leaned down and picked up the pieces by his feet.

As much as I wanted to, I didn't leave. Leaving would feel like running away, as if I were backing down to Prater, and there was no way I was going to do that. As I scooped up the last shred of paper, I relaxed the muscles in my face and turned to Ray with an almost pleasant expression. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light, “do you have any tape?”

chapter 14

T
he letter lay on Ray's kitchen table. Lucky for me—if you can call it that—Prater had ripped the letter into strips. I'd been able to tape them back together like a puzzle.

“What's his problem?” I asked when Mrs. Miller left the kitchen. I ironed the letter flat with my hand. Mrs. Miller had this huge cutting board and rows of cookies lay cooling on it. The whole kitchen filled with the warm scent of peanut butter and sugar.

Ray stood and glanced through the window. Prater was still out there, starting on a new piece of leather. I'd worried about leaving Jack anywhere near him, but Ray insisted Prater wouldn't do anything to Jack.

Ray sat, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and looked down.

“What?”

“Well …” He closed his mouth again.

He wanted to tell me and he didn't want to tell me, but I definitely wanted to know.

“Come on, I won't say anything.”

When someone's about to spill, all their fidgeting stops. They kind of lean toward you, and they level their eyes with yours, making a bridge of trust. That's what Ray did now.

“Remember when CeeCee said Alan is scared of dogs?”

“Yeah …” I fiddled with the bottle cap from the pop Ray gave me, spinning it across the table and catching it. Never look eager when you're waiting to hear a secret; it makes the other person anxious, like maybe they should just keep quiet.

He stared straight at me. “You can't tell him I told you this.”

Mrs. Miller rounded the corner. Man, she walked quietly.

Ray shook his head.
Be quiet.

Mrs. Miller had fixed a bandanna around her hair and was carrying a dusting rag, which she set on the counter. She was probably around the same age my mom would've been. I wondered if they might have become friends.

“What're you boys doing in already?” she asked as she loaded the percolator with water and coffee. She didn't seem to need an answer. Looking through the window above the sink, she chuckled. “Alan's such a perfectionist.”

Well, I could think of a few other words to describe him.

She lit the stove and flames encircled the coffeepot. Leaning against the counter, she brushed back some loose hair with her hand. “So how are you and your dad doing?”

Oh, no. Any other time, talk to me any other time, but not when I'm about to hear Prater's biggest secret. “Fine,” I said. Adults like to hear positive things. But they also like details. “My dad just got a new car from the air force.”

“Ooh!” she said approvingly. “Good for him!” She whisked up her rag and padded out of the kitchen.

I pressed the edge of the bottle cap into my palm and looked at the zigzag impression it made. “So you were saying?” I prompted Ray. “Something about Alan being scared of dogs?”

“You
can't
tell him I told you.” He emphasized his words by widening his eyes. I shook my head quickly. Heaving a big sigh, he said, “When he was six, one of his dad's friends brought his big dogs with him to go hunting. Alan was outside, alone with the dogs, when one of them attacked him.”

He clasped his pop bottle. “I was supposed to be there. He wanted me to go, but I didn't want to. Anyway, the dog bit his head, tore part of an earlobe, and ripped his side open. My uncle had to beat the dog off; it wouldn't stop. Alan was in the hospital for a few days.”

Mrs. Miller called out from the other room. “Ray, get me the Pledge, okay?”

“Okay,” he called back.

After he left the room, I couldn't stop thinking about Prater. The whole time Ray had been talking, it happened in front of my eyes like a movie. I imagined him about the size of CeeCee, terrified and bloodied by a ferocious dog, no one around to help. No wonder he was scared of Jack.

When Ray came back and sat down, I asked, “What happened to the dog?”

“Uncle Bruce and his friend shot him.”

I nodded. You couldn't keep a dog like that—it might've killed Prater if his dad hadn't come out in time. I folded the letter, rubbing my finger along the creases to settle the tape. We sat there, as what Ray had just said played in our thoughts. The coffeepot percolated, making clanky metal sounds and filling the room with the dark smell of coffee.

Ray cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Don't tell him I told you.”

I frowned and shook my head. “So you think that's why he ripped up my letter?”

“No, he ripped it up because you stepped on his knife and you also got that leather really wet.”

“But it was an accident!”

“Yeah, but he doesn't think so.”

Mrs. Miller strolled in and tousled Ray's hair. “Someone needs a haircut!” Ray smirked and shook off her hand. A pang of sadness hit me. I deflected it by thinking of something else, anything else.

“Hey,” I said to Ray, “can you show me some of those yo-yo tricks?”

“Yeah!” He leaped up from his chair, but then his mom caught his arm.

“Don't forget about Alan,” she said, then turned to pour herself a cup of coffee.

Ray rolled his eyes. “I'm just going to get my yo-yos and we'll go outside.”

“Good.” She sipped her coffee.

Actually, it
was
good we were going back outside. I didn't want to lose face with Prater, and even more important, I didn't want to leave Jack alone with him too long. Mrs. Miller went back to her chores, and when Ray came in with his yo-yos, I said, “He'll probably be mad at you for coming inside with me.” It was a fact that he was already mad at
me
.

Ray pocketed one yo-yo, looped the other, and threw it down. “He couldn't stay mad too long. He doesn't really have any other friends.”

I sat up straighter and leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, he's always, like, picking on people.”

“He doesn't pick on you.”

“He always makes fun of me because of the yo-yo. My mom says he's jealous, but she's wrong. He thinks it's stupid. I'm sick of it.”

“My mom always said to ignore people like that.”

“My mom says that, too.” He wove the string around his fingers and looped it around his thumb. “Shooting star,” he said.

I could see it. “Cool!”

Ray gave a little grin and shrugged. He dropped the star and brought the yo-yo up into his hand. “I never make fun of the stuff he does. Some cousin.”

I had seen the way Prater treated Ray. To him, they were more than just cousins—they were best friends. Which would be okay, except he didn't want Ray to be friends with anyone else. “I thought you guys were best friends.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just cousins. Our mothers are always putting us together because
they
are best friends.” He seemed to think about that for a second. “I mean, we
are
friends. I just—well, sometimes he can be a real butthead, you know?”

Exactly. Except the word that came to my mind was shorter and more precise.