Treading Water (11 page)

A
t first, Sage was going to take just Maggie and me to Farmer Ziemian's to release the ducks. But Zoe heard that Sage was driving and wanted in. No problem, there; Zoe brings the fun with her, after all. Everyone else is working at the clinic today. I've brought my camera so we'll be able to tell—and show—them all about it.

When we get to the farm, Farmer Ziemian points to the pond. It's beyond the empty pasture and right before the rye field. Sage stays behind to talk to Farmer Ziemian about his sustainable farming techniques, and we girls head to the pond.

We take turns carrying the crate. The ducklings take up so much more room in the crate than they did a month ago. It isn't exactly heavy, but it is awkward. Besides that, the ducks keep scooting back and forth, shifting the balance of the crate.

“I thought he said this was an empty pasture,” Zoe says. She is taking tiny steps and slowing us down.

“Doesn't it look empty to you?” Maggie says. “No cows, no sheep, no nothing.”

I look around. What is Zoe talking about? Maggie is right. No animals, only scrub plants from when the previous animals chewed it down.

“There is dried manure everywhere!” Zoe says.

Maggie rolls her eyes. “Somebody should have worn the right shoes,” she says.

“Well, how was I to know we'd be stomping through manure?” Zoe looks before taking her next tiny step.

I don't see all this manure she's so afraid of. But then, I wore my barn boots, so I'm all set.

Maggie shakes her head. “Did you think the pond would be surrounded by a paved parking lot?”

“I wasn't really thinking much about it at all. I just thought it would be fun for us to spend some time together with Sage and the ducks,” Zoe says.

Maggie shoots me an amused look. I think we both know this was a flirting expedition for Zoe. Oh well. It comes with the package.

When we finally get to the edge of the pond, we search for a place to sit. High reeds and grasses surround most of the pond, but there is a nice little “beach” section, as well. A few big flat stones dot the area, giving us a place to sit with clear views of the entire pond.

The pond is large. I would have called it a small lake. Trees shading the far side and lily pads dot the shore closest to us. I set the crate down, Maggie opens it, and the ducks file out behind their little leader. She looks back and quacks at me. I wonder if she is telling me off for putting her in a crate again.

We laugh and watch the ducks head for the water. But they stop before they get too far. The leader lies down, so the others do, too. They sample some of the tall grasses and cast glances at the water.

“Do you think we should give them a pat like we did when we waterproofed them?” Maggie asks me.

“I think we should wait. Give them a little time to adjust.”

Zoe picks a tall, slender stalk of grass. She puts it between her thumbs and blows. The whistle sounds like a train.

Maggie says, “Where'd you learn to do that?”

“I have all kinds of hidden skills,” Zoe says. She wets her lips and whistles through the grass again.

“Teach us,” Maggie says.

We practice positioning the grass like Zoe shows us, but neither Maggie nor I quite get the hang of it. Ours sound more like the whine of a boy duck than a train. We watch the ducks get closer to the water's edge, and the three of us whistle in our own ways. Maggie gets pretty close. But her whistle is higher and inconsistent.

Mine generally sounds like I'm just spitting. Every once in a while a tone comes out, but then I need to take a breath and I'm spitting again.

Maggie puts down her stalk. “You know, your friends from the Outdoor Club are pretty cool. Yesterday, they taught me a few compass skills. And they showed me how to identify some edible plants at the edge of the woods.”

“I'm glad you liked them,” I say.

“The boys from the Outdoor Club are especially nice,” Zoe says with a smile. “They thought serving grilled asparagus was brilliant.”

“I'm sure they did,” Maggie says, rolling her eyes once more. I look at the cousins. They are so different from each other and yet such a perfect pair.

The ducks are on the water's edge now, dipping their bills in but otherwise staying dry. Baby steps, I guess.

I turn to Maggie and Zoe. “I really am sorry for making you think I was choosing those high school kids over you. I would never do that. I couldn't ask for better friends than you guys. Than all of the Vet Volunteers.”

“That's okay,” Maggie says. “We get it now. Some high school kids are cool.”

“I know I'm impatient. I'm ready for whatever's next, and I want to drag you all along with me.”

“You're not impatient when it comes to your picture taking. Especially your wildlife photos.”

That's true. I'd never really considered that before.

“Have you ever heard of playing to your strengths?” Maggie asks.

I shake my head no.

“It's what my basketball coach teaches us,” Maggie begins, “In a game, Coach has us play the positions we're best at. Take the shots we're good at. In practice, she has us start with what each of us does best and then work on what needs to improve. It helps with confidence. And it helps the whole team out if each one of us plays to our strengths.”

“Okay, I get that. But what does it have to do with me?” I ask.

Zoe looks as if she doesn't completely understand, either.

Maggie says, “When you get a new idea, you want to drag us along with you. That's usually a good thing. You make us jump in and find out about something we don't know. That's playing to your strengths.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I make you pretty miserable with that. Moving everybody too fast,” I say. I wonder where Maggie is going with this.

“But we're playing to our strengths, too. We ask questions. Sometimes we put the brakes on you. You take the harder shot. It's good for the team.”

“I get it,” Zoe says. “We make Brenna work harder and figure things out more before she leaps, right?”

“Yup!” Maggie says. “We all improve. You drag us forward. In the end, it's a good thing.”

Wow. Maggie has been doing some pretty deep thinking about this.

I try my grass whistle again and then wipe the spit off my mouth and say, “We'll all be up at the high school soon enough, anyway. Middle school is flying by.”

Zoe nods her head. “Before you know it, we'll all be away at college and then doing whatever it is we're going to do with our lives. What do you guys want to do?”

I ask, “You mean, what do we want to be when we grow up?”

We all laugh at that lame question. Adults seem to ask it whenever they don't know what to say to you. But today, beside the big pond, it's a very good question.

“I wanna be a vet like Gran. I want to work with her here. School is hard for me though. College and vet school are going to be tough.”

“You'll do it,” I say. When Maggie wants something, she works hard to make it happen.

I look at Zoe. “How about you?” I ask.

“I want to be a fashion designer. Or an actress like my mom,” she says, striking a pose.

“I thought you would want to be a chef,” I say.

“No, no, I want to be an actress or a fashion designer, and when I go on talk shows I will wow them with my culinary skills. And then I'll write a celebrity cookbook. I've got it all planned,” Zoe boasts.

“I guess you do,” I say. Zoe talks as if the matter is settled. No doubts at all. I wish I were like that.

“And you?” Maggie asks, looking at me.

“I really don't know,” I say. “Help my parents run the rehab? Become a science teacher, maybe. I'm not sure.”

Maggie and Zoe look at each other with puzzled expressions.

“What?” I ask.

“Everyone thinks you're going to become a wildlife photographer,” Maggie says.

“A famous one,” Zoe adds.

Everyone thinks this? Who is everyone? I've never considered it.

“Can you really be a wildlife photographer as a job?” I ask. “Are there people who can make enough money to live on?”

“Why wouldn't there be?” Maggie shrugs. “I don't know. Google it.”

“I will. If we know nothing else about my strengths, we know I'm a good researcher.”

We laugh again and then look out at the pond. The ducks are in the water. We missed the moment when they actually got in. But doesn't that seem to be the way things go? It's hard to know when the new thing starts. You often realize it only when you've gone far enough to look back a little and know that you've moved on.

The three ducks paddle close by us and then finally set out for the far shore.

I
still think you need a cat, Sunita,” Zoe tells me as we bounce along in the school bus. We're going to Dr. Mac's Place, the veterinary clinic where we volunteer. It's the perfect way to start the weekend.

“Forget about it,” I say. “It's useless. My mother won't let me. End of story.”

“You're giving up too easily.” Zoe fixes the butterfly clips in her hair. “You like cats more than anyone I know.”

She has a point. I've always loved cats. Long-haired, short-haired, tabby, Siamese, or stray. I adore them all. I can watch cats for hours—the graceful way they move, that mysterious look in their eyes, the twitching tail, the cute whiskers—everything about them fascinates me.

My mother, however, doesn't like them. I think they scare her, though she won't admit it. Instead, she gives reasons like “They shed” or “They'll ruin the furniture with their claws.” She has made up her mind. No cats in the Patel house.

“You just haven't asked the right way,” Zoe continues. “Parents expect you to ask a million times so they know you really, really, really want something. You've probably only asked, like, a thousand times.”

Zoe's mother is an actress. I'm sure she doesn't mind if Zoe gets a little dramatic when she wants something. That doesn't work at my house.

“My mother isn't the kind of person who likes being asked a million times for anything,” I explain. “She's a doctor. She wants facts.”

Zoe's redheaded cousin, Maggie MacKenzie, leans across the aisle. “The fact is you're great with cats and you deserve a pet,” she says.

David Hutchinson turns around in the seat in front of us. “Tell your mom that a cat would eat the mice in your basement,” he says.

“Yuck!” Zoe protests. “That's disgusting.”

Brenna Lake, sitting next to David, punches his arm lightly. “Sunita doesn't have mice, you bean head.” She twists around to face Zoe and me. “Write down all the reasons why you want a cat and give the list to your mom. Make sure you have lots.”

“I doubt that would work,” I say with a laugh. “My mother wants a cat that doesn't have fur, claws, or teeth, or need a litter box or food. In other words, she'll let me have a stuffed animal.”

“But she let you volunteer at the clinic,” Maggie says. “Remember how much that surprised you? Maybe you should give her a chance.”

She's right about that. I didn't expect Mother to let me volunteer with the others. But she did. At first I thought helping at the clinic would be enough. If I got to be around cats at Dr. Mac's Place, I wouldn't want one of my own so badly. But being around them makes me want one of my own even more. There has to be something I can do to get Mother to change her mind.

The bus slows as we approach our stop.

“OK, you guys,” I say, turning to my friends. “You've convinced me. I'll try asking mother again. But I have to find the right way to do it. Now let's get to Dr. Mac's Place.”

Dr. Mac's Place is run by Dr. J.J. MacKenzie, Maggie and Zoe's grandmother. We call her Dr. Mac. She invited Brenna, David, and me to volunteer at the clinic with Maggie and Zoe last month, and it's the most spectacular thing that has ever happened to me.

Being at the clinic is amazing. We see all kinds of animals, from cats to canaries, puppies to pot-bellied pigs. My favorite parts are when the veterinarians let us help them during examinations and when we learn about things like X-rays and blood tests.

It's not always fun, though. Some of the work is boring and smelly, like cleaning cages or mop-ping floors. But every job is important—that's what Dr. Mac says.

Since my dream is to be a vet when I grow up, I'll do whatever she asks. I want to know everything I can about animals. Especially cats. Whenever I have any free time at home, I devour the cat books that Dr. Mac lets me borrow, or surf the Internet to find Web sites about cats.

All this reading may explain why Socrates likes me. Socrates is huge. Twenty pounds of muscle and attitude. His fur is a blend of orange, rust, and yellow that reminds me of apricots. You can see faint stripes on his tail. I bet he had a tabby cat for a grandfather.

Socrates has the reputation of being an aloof, “worship but don't touch me” cat. Maggie says that he rarely lets her pet him or pick him up. He likes to sleep on Dr. Mac's desk or on the receptionist's counter, but he takes off if anyone tries to scratch under his chin or between his ears.

That's why Maggie and Dr. Mac were so surprised when Socrates hopped into my lap a few weeks ago. He had never done that to anyone else before. It's like he picked me to be his favorite human. He always walks up to me when I enter the clinic and lets me pet him for a few minutes. If I sit down, he sits with me. Maggie thinks he likes the smell of my shampoo. (I have long black hair, and he does like to play with it.) Dr. Mac says he cuddles with me because I'm a calm and quiet person.

I have a different idea. Socrates knows how much I want a cat of my own. He can tell that I love him. I think he's adopted me. I guess I've adopted him, too. I've adopted him in my heart. He's like my pet away from home—until I get my own.

We round the corner, and Dr. Mac's Place comes into sight. Dr. Mac's house is a two-story brick building with dark green shutters and a matching green door. The clinic pokes out of the left side of the house, a one-story addition. It has its own door and two windows that face the street. A garden of spring flowers blooms along the entire front of the building. Dr. Mac says that animals enjoy flowers just as much as people do.

Socrates shoulders his way out of the daffodils to greet me as we get closer. He butts his head against my shins, and I crouch down to pet him.

“Hello, Socrates!” I say.

He purrs loudly, like a lawn mower engine, and rubs the corner of his mouth against my knuckles. Cats have special scent glands on their faces, and when they rub against a person like this, it's a way of marking their territory. It's kind of nice that Socrates thinks I'm part of his world.

“You should feel how warm his fur is,” I tell the others as I lay my hand on his back. “I bet he's been lying in the sun all afternoon.”

“Cats have all the fun,” David says. “Eat, sleep. Eat, sleep, sleep, sleep. Eat some more. Wish I could do that.”

“Hey, look!” Zoe says, pointing to the corner of the yard. “Another cat. Do you think Socrates has a girlfriend?”

The new cat steps delicately onto the grass and walks toward us. It's a tuxedo cat, mostly black with white paws and a patch of white on her chest. It's easy to see this is a she-cat. She's very pregnant, with a heavy belly that almost touches the ground.

Socrates stiffens and growls. I can feel the vibration of his warning call under my fingertips. He doesn't want her here, and he's telling her she should leave.

“Shh,” I say quietly. “She's not going to hurt you. Just relax and be friendly.”

Socrates is not in the mood to be nice. He steps away from me to face the black cat, his ears flat against his head. His tail whips back and forth, warning the other cat.

“Hisssss!”

It looks like fur is going to fly.