Strays (7 page)

At home, I felt exhausted, and there was little more I could do than collapse on the couch and watch my animal shows until Dad came home. When he arrived, he was carrying a work suit encased in plastic wrapping.

“What's that?” I asked.

“My promotion suit. If they're gonna give me the position, I've gotta look the part, right?”

“I guess,” I said. My show was just getting to an interesting part about a battle between two disputing ant colonies living in the rain forest in South America. The dominant colony had taken in prisoners to work as slaves. For a moment there, I had forgotten it was even a show about ants at all—it looked just like some epic Hollywood blockbuster. But Dad was making so much noise taking the plastic off the suit that I got up to take a closer look.

“It's an Armani,” he said proudly.

Dad had never been one to care about brand names before.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means it's expensive.”

I looked at the price tag dangling from the sleeve. Fifteen hundred dollars.

“Sheesh! No kidding!” Here I was using his bike because he refused to get me a working secondhand replacement while he was splurging on clothes.

“You leave the finances to me, Iris. My new salary can afford me this suit, and if you get through the summer without getting into trouble, I will get you a brand-new bike. Any kind you want.”

He had said the magic words. I had been dreaming about a black Pake Urban six-speed for years. I would keep my mouth shut about his suit.

The phone rang, cutting our conversation short.

“It's for you,” said my dad.

“Who is it?”

“She says her name is Talbot. Who's Talbot?”

“Dog training friend,” I said, grabbing the phone. “What's up?” I made my way to the private confines of my bedroom.

“I got your number from Kevin. I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow?”

Though I had refused her past invitations, I was glad she had called. Maybe it would be refreshing to have a new friend who didn't know about the recent events of my past. Someone who thought I still had a mother.

I asked Dad if I could go.

“You just met her,” was his response.

“But we'll be spending the next five weeks together.”

Dad put the plastic covering back on his suit. “Well, what did she do to land herself there?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But if it was really bad, she'd be in jail.”

He nodded, carefully hanging his new suit in his closet.

I ran back to my room.

“I'm in!” I said.

“Yeah!” said Talbot. It felt good to have a friend actually cheer at the prospect of hanging out with me.

A
t the park on Friday, it was Kevin who was running late. The rest of us sat in the grass waiting for him to arrive. A cool breeze passed through, and the fog hadn't quite lifted that afternoon.

“Knock-knock. Anyone home?” said Talbot, rapping on Oak's covered head.

He pulled the strings tighter so that his hood practically enveloped his entire face.

Randy plopped down next to me. “Where do you go to school?”

“Santa Cruz High,” I said. “So does Hood—” I stopped myself from saying
Hoodie Boy
and corrected myself. “So does Oak.”

“Me, too,” said Randy. “Just graduated.”

I couldn't believe I had gone to the same school but had never even noticed him.

“I'm starting my junior year at Santa Cruz High,” said Shelley.

“How is it we've never seen each other before?” I asked.

“Maybe we have?” said Shelley.

In my head I ran through all of my classes from the previous year and inserted a visual image of Shelley. But her presence in my classes wasn't ringing a bell.

“How about you, Talbot? You a Cardinal, too?” asked Randy.

“First of all, that has to be close to the lamest mascot ever, and no, I don't go to SC, I go to Clark Academy.”

Randy and Oak both reacted by rolling their eyes.

“Whoa, fancy pants. Well, excuse me,” said Randy.

“It's not like that,” she said. “I'm not like that.”

Clark Academy was where the rich kids went. They lived in big houses and wore uniforms and their parents bought them brand-new cars as soon as they turned sixteen. You could tell a kid went to Clark just by the car they rolled down Pacific Avenue on a Friday night.

“What kind of car you drive?” asked Randy. I could tell he was eager to get under her skin.

“I used to drive a beat-up BMW,” Talbot said.

“Figures,” said Randy.

“But I don't drive it anymore.”

“Daddy took it away?” teased Randy.

Talbot looked him straight in the eyes. “More like, daughter totaled it drunk driving.”

My stomach clenched, thinking about how my mom had been killed by a drunk driver in Topanga Canyon. I didn't know much about the guy who killed her. Dad didn't want me at his sentencing. All I knew was that he was sitting in jail—maybe for life.

And here I was, not far behind his path: my own court hearing under my belt, paying my dues for my own crime. I wondered if anyone had been hurt in Talbot's drunken accident. What innocent victim had she affected? Whose life had she forever changed?

“Was anyone hurt?” I had to ask.

“Just yours truly. Concussed head. Shattered glass. Broken arm.” She pointed to her arm, which was covered in a smattering of scars, reminding me of Roman's battered fur.

“You could have killed someone,” said Oak.

“Okay, Mother Teresa, what brought you here?” Talbot asked Oak.

“Stealing,” he said.

“That's original,” she said. “What did you take? Sweatshirts?” She tried to pry his hood off, but he moved out of the way just before she could reach him.

“I hacked into people's credit card accounts and stole enough money to help out this nonprofit my buddy was working for.”

Incognito computer genius meets Robin Hood. I was intrigued.

“No way!” said Randy. “That's awesome! You're a computer nerd!”

“It wasn't so awesome once the Feds caught on.”

“The Feds?” asked Shelley.

“Yeah, I guess they thought I was the leader of a big hacking ring they'd been trying to nab for years. They felt pretty stupid that it was just me—a sixteen-year-old working out of my bedroom.”

The lines were so blurred between good and bad. I mean, Oak's objective had been really benevolent. And in my own situation, there had been no malicious intent—yet here we were, branded as trouble.

“What did you do?” Talbot asked Shelley, taking a marker to her already decorated high-tops and adding squiggles and hearts.

“Graffiti. On a few highway overpasses. Cops caught us.”

“Do you know someone named Scott?” I asked, remembering the guy who was sentenced before me at the courthouse.

Shelley's eyes widened. “Scott Haydon? Hell, yeah! He's like the king of the wet wall! You know Scott?”

“I saw his trial. It was right before mine. The judge did not like him.”

Shelley laughed. “Nobody likes him. Not even his friends. They're all scared of him.”

“What about you, Randy? Punch anyone?” asked Talbot.

Randy got a solemn look on his face. “Worse.”

“What did you do?” asked Shelley.

“C'mon, tell us,” said Talbot.

He leaned in close, and we all mirrored his body language. “I killed someone,” he whispered.

Before I could control my breath, I gasped and looked at Talbot.

“That's some heavy stuff, man. Does Kevin know you did that?” Oak seemed genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you're even supposed to be out of jail?”

Randy started laughing out of control. “You guys! I'm just joking!” His laughter grew. “I didn't kill no one! But you all believed me!”

Talbot was the first to laugh. Then Oak. Shelley and I were both hesitant.

“So what did you really do?” I asked.

“I pulled a knife on a guy in a fight. But I never used it on him. I should have, though, because apparently you still get time just for ‘brandishing a weapon.' This whole system is so stupid. I've already had two misdemeanors. And now that I'm eighteen, it's serious jail time if I do anything else. I mean, do I look like an angel?”

“Do any of us?” asked Shelley. When she spoke, she didn't look at us but at some far-off place. Here was a person who seemed to be more in her own head than I was.

Talbot gazed down at her mismatched shoes—one black and one green. We were a group of mismatched misfits, all here for very different reasons, now forced to work toward a common goal.

“What are you in for?” Randy asked me. I should have known this was coming, but it still managed to take me by surprise. Up until now I hadn't had to explain to anyone what I'd done. I hated the way it felt, this invasion of privacy.

My heart raced. I could feel
the
waters
start to swell
and my cheeks flush. I wanted to run and hide, but I knew I couldn't. I had to answer Randy's question. Everyone else had fessed up. Why was this so hard for me?

“I wrote a hit list.” I watched their eyes widen. “It was just in my journal. Just for my eyes—a list of people I hated at that moment. I might have said I wanted to kill a teacher. People at school thought I was really planning on going through with it.”

As scared as I was to confess the truth to the group, they had all been brave enough to share with me. They weren't going to be judgmental or act superior, since they had experienced something similar.

I continued, “Then there was this teacher—she found the list, and I tried to get the book back, and I accidentally hurt her.”

Randy jumped to his feet. “You're the one who attacked Mrs. Schneider? You're like a legend! I can't believe that was you! People have been wanting to kick her ass for years!” Randy looked starstruck.

“It was totally unfair.” Oak jumped in.

I remembered seeing him that morning, sitting next to me.

Oak continued, “Mrs. Schneider had it out for you that day. She knew you weren't cheating—she just wanted to bust someone for something. Since when is it a crime to express how you feel? That whole thing was total censorship, if you ask me.”

I was so thrilled that someone else understood what had really happened that day.

Just then Kevin appeared out of the rec center building, walking our five dogs on their leashes. Between Roman's missing leg and Tinkerbelle's pathetic pint-sized body and the drool oozing out of Bruce's mouth, they looked like a particularly sorry bunch.

I wondered if the dogs were thinking the same thing about us—that we were all a bunch of strays.

“Sorry I'm late, guys,” Kevin said while doling out a dog to each of us. The only one ecstatic to see her dog was Talbot, of course. I hesitantly took Roman's leash and tried to stay calm when he came over to sniff me. He found a spot on the grass and leaned into my body, the nub of his missing leg resting on my bare calf. It was so gross, but I was too afraid to shift my position, worried that he may see it as a sign of aggression and defensively attack.

“So what do these animals all have in common?” asked Kevin.

“They're dogs,” answered Randy.

Obviously.

“Aside from that,” said Kevin.

“They're super cute!” said Talbot, scratching Garrett between the ears. How was it that she was so at ease around dogs?

“They're mean,” offered Shelley.

“
Mean
implies that they know what nice is and that they are choosing not to be nice,” Kevin said. “What I'd suggest to all of you is that dogs who have been through the sorts of traumas these dogs have are always in survival mode. Eat or be eaten.”

“Kill or be killed,” I added. I couldn't help myself. Pit bulls were ferocious. Even ones with missing appendages. I didn't care what Kevin said.

Kevin was hell-bent on driving home his point. “You have to remember that these dogs weren't born this way. They learned this behavior—and if they can learn it, then they can unlearn it. So that's our job.”

“So they're going to school to ‘unlearn,'” said Randy.

“Precisely. These dogs are now all spayed and neutered, which helps,” said Kevin.

I knew that this could drastically reduce aggression, especially in males.

“I know a few guys who could use some neutering,” said Talbot. I wondered who she was talking about. I knew of one ex-boyfriend named Andy Dunn I'd like to add to that list!

Kevin talked over our laughter. “So there are a few different types of aggression, but the ones we're going to focus on are dominance and fear.”

“Wait, so you're trying to tell me that puny little Tinkerbelle here has an aggression issue?” asked Randy.

“Absolutely.”

Randy shook his head. “Hers has to be fear. She's got to be afraid of everything! I mean, she kind of should be, considering her size and all.”

“Actually, hers is dominance-based,” said Kevin. “She is particularly food aggressive. If you go anywhere near her when she's eating, or if another dog gets in her space, she'll attack.”

“Thatta girl,” said Randy. Tinkerbelle rolled over on her back.

“Most of the dogs here have dominance-based aggression. Except for Roman,” said Kevin.

Of course. My dog would be the exception.

“His issues are fear-based.”

Roman was apparently afraid of everything, and the person who was supposed to get him over his fears was afraid of him. We were a perfect couple.

“And Iris, if your dog still doesn't listen, you need to do an adjustment,” said Kevin.

“How do I do that?” I asked.

“Keep control of the leash and bring your thumb and middle finger to the dog's rear and gently place some pressure on it.”

I watched Kevin do this, and Roman immediately sat down.

“Don't forget to praise your dog!” Kevin reminded us.

When it was our turn, we each found our own area of grass to work on.

“I think my dog has rabies!” I heard Shelley say. Her bulldog was constantly gathering large amounts of foamy saliva at the sides of his mouth and compulsively drooling.

“That's just the breed!” shouted Kevin. “He comes from a long line of droolers.”

Roman was doing pretty well on the leash. He wasn't pulling or tugging as badly as the day before. I decided to try my hand at making him sit.

“Sit.” I said. It came out as a whisper. I tried again. “Sit!”

Roman stopped walking and looked at me. But all three legs stayed standing on the grass. I attempted a correction, bringing my fingers over Roman's back. But before they could make contact with his fur, he began growling and snarling and jumped (on his one hind leg) up to my arm, which, in my state of panic, I was able to move out of the way quickly enough. I dropped the leash and ran toward Kevin, who was already moving quickly in my direction.

“I'm done dealing with that dog!” I yelled at him. I didn't know if I wanted to cry or kick something. I felt humiliated. Defeated. Scared. How many more times was this dog going to intimidate me?

I walked over to a big cypress tree and sat down, leaning on the flaky bark. I watched as Kevin tugged and yanked on the leash until whatever anger had possessed Roman passed and he snapped back to reality. Kevin walked him to the office and then came back out to me.

“What did you do with him?” I asked.

“I think he's had enough for the day. It's not an easy process for him.”

For him! What about for me? How could the dog be both an aggressor and a victim? It didn't make sense!

I looked at Kevin. “Considering the fact that he almost bit my arm off, shouldn't you be mad at him instead of feel sorry for him?”

“But I do feel sorry for him. He's been through a lot. Remember, he was abused. Beaten repeatedly. When you brought your hand down, did you bring it over his head where he could see it? Or over his back?”

I tried to remember. “Over his back, I guess.”

“That was probably it,” said Kevin.

“So it was my fault?”

“I'm not placing blame,” said Kevin. “I just want you to start viewing things the way Roman sees them. When he saw a hand coming out of nowhere, from his own life experience, it was a signal that he was about to get beaten up. The hand wasn't a part of you. Do you understand?”

Nothing made sense anymore. Trying to understand this dog was a waste of time. “I guess.”