Sweetie

For Dalton, Maura, Claire, Andrew, Emily, Ula,

Sarah, Ronnie, Karlee, Kristin, Collin,

and all my other #1 readers and incredible fans!

“Brike five! You’re bonked,” Charles Peterson shouted at his best friend, Sammy.

“That was no brike. That was a stall!” Sammy yelled back. “Come on.” He waved the Wiffle blat over his head and swung at an imaginary boodja. “One more. I’m gonna hit a bipple!”

“Just try!” David was way back in the boutfield, by the rowing machine. He crouched down and jiggled from foot to foot on his tiptoes. He looked ready for anything.

Charles shrugged happily and leaned back to throw. Base-boodja. Did it get any better than this? So what if it was a gloomy Monday in February? Sure, it was cold and gray outside. It wasn’t baseball season yet, but it was definitely
time for some indoor base-boodja, which was a brand-new game never before played in the history of the world.

Charles was glad that he and Sammy had gotten to know David. When David had first moved to Littleton, not that long ago, he’d seemed really shy. He was still pretty quiet at school, where all three boys were in the same class: Mr. Mason’s, Room 2B. David didn’t like big groups. But after he and Charles had found a stray dog — and helped it find its way home — David had gotten used to being around Charles. It took a little longer for David to get used to Sammy, because Sammy was, as Charles’s dad sometimes said, “a real character” who loved to tell jokes and come up with crazy ideas.

Anyway, now David wasn’t shy at all with Charles and Sammy. In fact, sometimes you couldn’t get him to
stop
talking. He liked to tell long, detailed stories about things he and his parents had done, like camping out in Yellowstone
National Park and seeing a grizzly bear there. Charles loved David’s stories, even though Sammy didn’t always believe them.

Base-boodja was invented one day when the boys were all over at David’s house. David dug out a yellow Wiffle bat and a big purple Nerf ball. “Mom says we can play in the basement,” he reported. “We can make all the noise we want down there.”

Charles and Sammy looked at each other. Charles wasn’t so sure he liked that idea, and he could tell that Sammy felt the same way. The basement at Charles’s house was cold and clammy, with a scary toilet (it made weird gurgling noises) in one corner and the washer and dryer in another. A big clanking furnace was always roaring to life when you least expected it, and there was a permanently moist area on the floor by the outside door.

But David’s basement turned out to be different. It was brightly lit and warm and dry, with a
giant mirror that took up one whole wall. The best part was that just about the entire floor was covered in thick, spongy blue mats like the ones in the gym at school, so you could jump around, fall down, do somersaults — anything! — without getting hurt. David’s mom and dad used the basement as a workout room. The people who had lived in the house before had left behind all sorts of gym equipment. Besides the rowing machine, there was also a treadmill, and some kind of bench with weights you could pull down, and an exercise bike that looked like fun but turned out to be really boring to ride.

Soon the boys took the place over. They played down there on weekends and almost every day after school. David’s mom was always popping down the stairs to make sure the boys weren’t getting themselves in trouble, and they weren’t allowed to play on any of the equipment unless an adult was in the basement with them. But besides that they were pretty much
free to do whatever they wanted in that big, safe, padded room.

They were never sure who had actually invented base-boodja. Sammy said he had come up with the name, and David said he was the one who’d thought of the basic rules. It was all so new that the boys were still figuring the game out.

“Okay, instead of three strikes, you get five brikes when you’re up at blat,” Charles said one day, after his third brike.

“Fine, but if you get five, you’re broke,” David agreed. “Like, instead of striking out.”

Sammy was the one who had come up with the names for all the hits. “A hit to the weight machine is a bingle,” he said. “If you slam it to the rowing machine, it’s a bubble.” He pointed the blat at the bottom of the stairs. “And over there, that’s a bipple.”

“But if somebody catches a flying boodja —” Charles began.

“Or throws it at you and hits you with it,” added David, “then you’re bonked — and the next person is up.”

Another day, Sammy blasted it all the way past the treadmill. “That’s a Grand Boodjerino!” he yelled. “I win the game!” From then on, they all tried their hardest to hit Grand Boodjerinos.

Each boy was like a team of his own, and they kept track of their all-time best scores on the white wipe-off board by the light switches, tallying up every hit they ever made.

Charles was the Jackal. His lifetime score was twenty-six, including three Grand Boodjerinos. David was the Hurricane. He had four Grand Boodjerinos (although Sammy always said one of them didn’t count because it had bounced off the back of the treadmill and he had caught it) and a score of twenty-three. And Sammy was the Green-Eyed Alien. He led the league with five Grand Boodjerinos and a high score of twenty-nine.

Charles loved base-boodja. In fact, he thought now, as he wound up to pitch the boodja to Sammy on that gloomy Monday in February, it was almost as much fun as playing with a puppy, Charles’s favorite thing in the whole world.

Charles was crazy about puppies. He had one of his own (well, he shared him with his older sister, Lizzie, and his little brother, Adam, who was known as the Bean), an adorable mutt named Buddy. Buddy was brown, with the softest fur ever. He had a white patch in the shape of a heart on his chest, and ears that flopped over in the cutest way, and shiny brown eyes. Buddy was the best thing that had ever happened to Charles. He was huggable and so much fun to play with, and he never, ever told anybody a single one of the secrets that Charles whispered into his ears.

Charles was lucky to have Buddy. But his luck didn’t stop there. Charles also got to meet lots of other puppies and take care of them and play with them and teach them manners and tricks.
That was because the Petersons were a foster family for puppies who needed homes. They kept each puppy just long enough to find it the perfect forever family. Taking care of foster puppies could be a lot of work sometimes, but Charles loved it. As soon as one puppy was gone, he began to wonder and dream about the next puppy. Where would it come from? What kind would it be? Charles loved all sorts of puppies: big puppies, little puppies, furry puppies, silly puppies. Lately he had been wishing that his family would get to foster a really big puppy, like a Great Dane. A Great Dane puppy could be bigger than Maggie, a Saint Bernard the Petersons had once fostered — maybe even bigger than the Bean. That would be so cool.

“Yo, Cheese.” Sammy swung the blat. “Pitch it, pal!”

Oops. Sometimes Charles got a little carried away when he thought about puppies. He blinked
at his friend.
Cheese?
Then he remembered. “Okay, Salami, here it comes.”

Cheese and Salami were nicknames Charles and Sammy had made up years ago, long before they met David. Charles had almost forgotten all about them. He wondered why Sammy was calling him that now. Maybe to let David know that Sammy was Charles’s first best friend, before David came along?

Charles wound up again and threw.
Bam!
Sammy swung and connected. The boodja blooped toward David, who dove for it, sliding along the blue mat. He caught it on the second bounce and whirled to throw it at Sammy. Sammy did a quick little dance step to avoid the flying boodja and reached out to touch the weight machine. “Bingle!” He threw his arms in the air.

David shook his head disgustedly as he took over the pitcher’s mound. Charles ran for the blat and picked it up. He swung a few times to get the
feel of it. The blat felt good in his hands. He had a hunch he was about to hit a Grand Boodjerino.

The door to the upstairs opened. “Charles,” called David’s mother. “Your dad’s on the phone. He says he’s on his way to pick you up.”

“Now?” Charles asked. “But —”

David’s mother was on her way down the stairs. She handed the phone to Charles.

“Dad?” Charles asked. “Do I have to come home
now?
We’re in the middle of —” He stopped and listened to his dad. “Really? Cool, I’ll be ready when you get here.” Charles handed the phone back to David’s mom. Suddenly, he didn’t mind quitting the base-boodja game. He didn’t mind at all. “We’re getting a new foster puppy!” he announced.

“Is it a Great Dane?” Charles started in on the questions before he even buckled his seat belt. “Where did the puppy come from? Is it already at our house?”

“Slow down there, pardner.” His dad smiled at him. “How about ‘Hi, Dad, good to see you'?”

“Hi-Dad-good-to-see-you. So, what about the puppy?”

Dad sighed. “It’s kind of a long story. Let’s wait till we get home. Rick should be there by then, with the puppy, and he’ll explain everything.”

“Rick the rookie?” Charles asked.

His dad nodded. “That’s right.”

Charles’s dad was a firefighter. Charles knew everybody on the squad down at the station. He
could picture Rick, the newest guy. Rick was tall and strong, with a big loud laugh and a huge bristly mustache. He loved to play practical jokes, and according to Dad, he was the best cook at the station.

“So Rick found a puppy and it needs a home?” Charles asked as Dad pulled into the Petersons’ driveway. A black sports car — Rick’s car — was already parked there.

“Not exactly.” Dad opened his door. “Come on. Let’s go in and you can hear the whole story.”

When they walked into the kitchen, Charles saw Rick sitting at the table with Mom, Lizzie, and the Bean. The Bean sat next to Rick and stared openmouthed at his mustache. But Rick was not smiling or laughing, and even his mustache looked droopy. The big man sat slumped over, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. On Rick’s lap was a tiny curly-haired puppy. She sat up with her little paws on the edge of the table. Her fur was a beautiful coppery gold color,
like leaves in the fall. She looked back at Charles with the brightest black eyes he had ever seen.

Hello there!

“Is that the puppy?” Charles ran over to see.

“Hey there, Charles. This is Sweetie,” said Rick in a flat voice. “She’s a poodle.”

“A miniature poodle,” Lizzie added. “Her color is called apricot. She’ll never grow very big at all.” Charles knew that Lizzie, who knew everything about dogs, was not exactly a fan of little ones. But how could she resist this cutie?

Charles stood next to Rick and reached out to pat the puppy’s little head and stroke her fluffy ears. Her coat was springy and soft. She felt delicate, like a fancy piece of china that might break if you even
looked
at it the wrong way.

“Want to hold her?”

Charles nodded. He sat down and Rick handed the puppy over. “Oh!” said Charles. Sweetie
had to weigh even less than David’s purple Nerf ball. She wasn’t much bigger than the Nerf ball, either! Charles held her up to his face to get a closer look, and Sweetie stuck out her tiny pink tongue and licked his cheek, putting one soft little paw on his chin.

Charles smiled. It had taken only one second for him to fall in love with Sweetie. She wasn’t a Great Dane puppy, but she was definitely a very special girl. “Why does she need a home?” he asked. He could not imagine why anybody would give this adorable puppy away.

Rick heaved a long, loud sigh. “Sweetie was supposed to be a Valentine’s present for my girlfriend, Karen.” He stopped and sighed again.

Charles knew that Valentine’s Day was only a week or so away. He had already picked out the cards he was going to give to his friends. They were good ones, the funny kind, with cartoon dogs and cats. Charles waited for Rick to go
on, but the big man just sat there with his face in his hands.

“So, what? Your girlfriend doesn’t like poodles?”

Rick shook his head sadly. “No. She doesn’t like
me
anymore, that’s what. Karen broke up with me last week. And now I’m stuck with this puppy that I’m not allowed to keep in my apartment.”

Lizzie gasped. “This is exactly why it’s never a good idea to give a pet for a present,” she said. “Ms. Dobbins says that the shelter is packed every year after Christmas with pets that people didn’t really want. She says —”

“Lizzie.” Mom reached out and grabbed Lizzie’s hand. “That’s enough.”

Charles knew that Lizzie was probably right. Ms. Dobbins was the director of Caring Paws, the shelter where Lizzie volunteered every week. She knew all about unwanted dogs and cats. But
it wouldn’t do Rick any good to hear Lizzie lecture about it.

“We can help.” Charles looked from his dad to his mom. “Right? We can take Sweetie and find her a home, can’t we?”

“Help!” echoed the Bean. “We can help.”

“Well,” said Mom, “what if she turns into a spoiled little dog, like Princess?”

“Not all little dogs are spoiled,” said Charles. Anyway, so what if Princess was spoiled? Charles had loved the little Yorkshire terrier his family had fostered. And he’d even found her a wonderful forever family. He sent his dad a pleading look.

Rick sighed again. “Well, if you can’t take her, I’m sure I can figure something else out,” he began. He reached over to take Sweetie from Charles.

Charles snuggled Sweetie in his arms. “Please, please, please can we keep her?” He did not
want to give Sweetie up. She was unlike any other puppy he’d known, with her curly reddish-gold hair and bright eyes. He wanted to foster this tiny puppy. “I promise to take good care of her!”