Wild Cat (2 page)

“What’s going on?” Dakota demands.

“Two weeks!” Dad answers.

“Two weeks?” Hank glances at me, and I shrug.

“Kat’s adoption . . . ,” Mom begins.

“. . . will be final in two weeks!” Dad finishes.

Hank lets out a whoop.

Dad grabs Mom for another dance around the room.

Dakota runs up to high-five me but stops when she sees the bandages on my hand.

I want to whoop or dance or high-five too. But something won’t let me. And it’s not the bandages.

Ever since I became a foster child of Annie and Chester Coolidge, I’ve dreamed of the day I’d be adopted, officially, by them. They’re so good. They help everybody. Mom saves lives at the hospital. Dad saves lives working for the fire department.

And now
I’m
about to be a Coolidge too.

But I haven’t done anything.

Three

“Kat Coolidge,” Dakota says, grinning at me. “Katharine Coolidge. Has a nice ring to it.”

I try to return her grin. But all I can think is that now I have only two weeks to do something that could make me worth calling myself a Coolidge. I can’t become a doctor or join the fire department. Even Wes has turned into somebody people need. The old people at the assisted-living home couldn’t get along without the dogs he’s trained for them.

I know I can’t train horses like Hank and Dakota. But there should be something I can do, some way to help. Maybe if I had another chance with that pony . . .

“Kat?” Mom touches my forehead with the back of her hand. “Honey, are you feeling okay? You’re so quiet.”

“I’m fine. I guess I’m just tired.”

Dad walks up behind Mom and puts his arm around her. “Say, maybe this will help. Kat, what’s a cat’s favorite song?”

Mom gives him a fake punch. “Chester Coolidge, one of your jokes will most certainly not help.”

Hank and Dakota trip over each other in a rush to get out of the room. Dad’s pretty famous for his bad jokes and riddles. But I know how much he loves telling them, so I play along. “I don’t know, Dad. What’s a cat’s favorite song?”

“‘Three Blind Mice’!” He barely gets it out before he starts cracking up.

“I didn’t hear that!” Dakota shouts from the stairs.

“Time to go now,” Mom says, gently pushing Dad toward the door.

He obeys but turns back and shouts, “What’s a cat’s favorite car?”

“Chester!” Mom cries, shoving him with both arms now.

“What’s a cat’s favorite car, Dad?” I ask.

Mom has him out the door and out of sight. But I hear him shout, “A CAT-illac! Get it, Kat? Cadillac,
Cat
illac?” His voice fades on the stairs.

I close my eyes. I think it’s just for a couple of minutes.

When I open my eyes again, I can feel someone watching me. I look to the door, and Wes is standing there.

Wes has been at Starlight Animal Rescue just over a year. He’s small for 14, but when he frowns, like he is now, he looks older. Until a couple of weeks ago, Wes was the angriest person I’d ever met. I know he misses his mother, who’s back in Chicago, bouncing between jail and rehab. But God’s been working overtime on Wes.

“Hey.” My voice is gravelly from all the sawdust I swallowed.

Wes doesn’t move from the doorway, but Rex, his German shepherd, trots up to my bed and sticks his nose in my face. Kitten shifts from my pillow to my feet. She’s not a big Rex fan. I think the other two cats might be hiding under the bed.

“Good dog, Rex,” I say. “Come on in, Wes.”

He steps into the room like it’s booby-trapped. “They said you were okay. You don’t look okay.”

I wave my bandaged hand at him. “This is way overkill. Mom says I can take it off tomorrow. I’m just scratched and bruised.” I scoot up so I’m sitting in bed. It’s tough to get comfortable. “You can come closer.”

Rex’s tail thumps the floor.

Wes stops a couple of feet from my bed. “Hank never should have let you near the barn.”

“I wanted to help.”

“Dakota should have known better too,” he says, like he hasn’t heard me.

Rex barks once. It’s a warning. Dad calls Wes’s dog his “anger-meter.” Rex knows when Wes is getting mad before Wes does.

“It wasn’t their fault,” I explain. “It was a stupid accident. If I hadn’t grabbed the pony’s lead rope, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“But you did!” Wes snaps. “And look at you now.”

Rex barks louder.

Wes opens his mouth like he’s going to yell at Rex. Then he presses his lips together and leans down to pet his dog. Rex stops barking. I think we’re going to be okay.

“Lucky for you there’s a doctor in the house,” Wes says. His shoulders relax as he keeps stroking Rex’s head. I’ve read somewhere that animals can lower blood pressure. I’ll bet it’s true with Wes and Rex.

We’re quiet for a minute. Then he asks, “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh.”

A closed-lips grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll tell Popeye to keep his jokes to himself then.”

I don’t remember when Wes started calling Dad “Popeye.” Dad doesn’t mind. I think he kind of likes it. Plus, it fits. He’s bald, stocky, strong, and pretty much a hero.

“Tell me what’s going on at the nursing home,” I beg.

Wes comes to life. “You should see Munch. I admit that dog won’t win any beauty contests, but Miss Golf brings her in to work with her, and Munch can push Buddy’s wheelchair now! Bag barks at Rose when her phone’s ringing and she can’t hear it. And little Moxie’s learned to pick up books and pens and things when people drop them.” He keeps going with stories from Nice Manor, filled with characters like Leon and Buddy and Moxie and Munch.

I guess I must have slipped off to sleep because all of a sudden Wes is tiptoeing out of my room. “Sorry, Wes,” I say, yawning.

“Go back to sleep. You need it. I’ll bring you dinner later if you’re hungry.” He shuts the door after him, leaving me alone with Kitten stretched across my waist like a fuzzy belt.

* * *

The next time I open my eyes, it’s dark. Through the window, dozens of stars twinkle, including most of Orion and half of the Big Dipper.

I click on the lamp beside my bed and see that Mustard and Ketchup have made themselves at home on my bed, a safe distance from Kitten. Mustard is an overweight tabby I rescued from the Nice Animal Shelter. Ketchup is a sweet gray longhair I found in a ditch out front. I think the cat had been hit by a car. She was so bloody that I thought she was red. That’s why I named her Ketchup.

I need to find homes for Mustard and Ketchup, but I’ve been holding out for an owner who will take both of them. House rule is that I can’t rescue more cats until I find homes for these. Kitten’s different. Mom agreed I could keep Kitten forever.

I sit on the edge of my bed a minute before heading to the bathroom. When I stand, I’m a little dizzy. And when I walk, every part of me aches. I wonder if this is what Gram Coolidge feels like when her arthritis acts up.

“Kat!” Dakota runs into my room and puts her arm around my waist. “You should have called me. I tried to stay awake.”

“I’m okay. Just stiff. Thanks.” She walks me to the bathroom. “I can take it from here, Dakota.”

“You sure you’re all right?” she asks. I nod. “Then I’ll go down and get you something to eat. You missed dinner. All they could talk about was your adoption being final. Are you hungry?”

I shrug. “I’m kinda thirsty.”

“I’ll bring something up.”

When I come out of the bathroom, Dakota’s already back with a sandwich, milk, and cookies. It’s 2:17 a.m. by the cat clock.

I sit on the bed and drink half of the milk in one gulp. “Thanks, Dakota. You can go back to bed.”

She sets the sandwich and cookies on my dresser. “Are you sure you’re okay? I could get Annie.”

“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I’ll finish the milk and go back to sleep.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, yawning.

I do try to fall asleep. Only I can’t. I keep thinking about my adoption being final in two weeks. That’s not very long. Not if I want to do something to prove to myself that I belong in this family.

I roll over, scooting Kitten off my pillow. When I close my eyes, I see the spotted horse with scabs and scars on her flank, the gray mare with her ribs sticking out, that scared-looking sorrel. And the chestnut pony. I try to imagine how he got that limp. Or the long scar on his head.

I wish I knew more about horses. Understanding cats has always come naturally to me. I’m not as great with them as Hank’s cousin Catman. But Catman’s taught me a lot through our e-mails.

Suddenly, more than anything, I want to e-mail Catman Coolidge. I’m not sure why I think he’ll understand. Hank calls his cousin “a man of few words,” and Dad agrees. But in our e-mails, Catman has a way of saying just the right thing.

I say a quick prayer for super strength and stand up again. Mustard and Ketchup stay where they are, on the foot of my bed. Kitten curls around my feet, ready to follow. Taking a deep breath, I start the long trek downstairs to the computer.

My knees feel a stab of pain with every stair step, but the thought of writing Catman makes it worth it.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I come downstairs and sit in the dark and soak up what I call the “Coolidgeness” of our home. I love the smell of the living room. When Dakota first moved in, she said the house smelled like rain. She meant it as a slam, but I love that smell. It’s what I imagine most grandmas’ houses smell like.

I never met my biological grandmother. My bio mom gave me up when I was four. Every time I try to remember what she looked like, all I come up with are her eyes. Her eyes were tired. Tired and sad. I can almost picture her lying on an orange couch, her back to me. I think she’s crying, but I don’t understand why. She’s wearing an orange nightgown or maybe an orange T-shirt. I see my hand reaching up to touch her shoulder, but she shakes it off. She has a cigarette between two fingers, the tip orange, like her gown.

I hope she’s quit smoking.

Without meaning to, I reach for the two scars on the inside of my left arm. They’re rough and soft at the same time, like tiny stones the ocean hasn’t finished smoothing yet. My old doctor, the one I had before I met Mom, told us they were scars from a cigarette.

But they’re not. I think I’d remember a thing like that.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing at the foot of the stairs, staring into the darkness. Kitten rubs against my bare legs like she’s on duty. Back and forth, back and forth. I pick her up and turn on the light. “Come on, Kitten,” I whisper. “Let’s write Catman.”

I pour myself another glass of milk, then settle in at the computer. The screen sits on the little desk between the kitchen and living room. Mom and Dad like to keep an eye on where we go on the Internet. The screen saver flashes pictures while I drink my milk: Dakota on her horse, Blackfire. Hank riding Starlight, the first animal rescued here. Hank’s horse is blind, but you’d never guess it if you saw them galloping down the road together, like they are in this picture.

Wes and Rex come up next. Wes is holding his hand in front of his face, but he wasn’t quite quick enough to get out of the picture. His fingers are calloused and dark—Wes is African American—and they stretch across his whole face, like he’s about to change masks.

Then the old photos cycle in, and my favorite one of all time comes on the screen. It’s a picture of Hank and Catman in front of Gram Coolidge’s roses. They can’t be more than six or seven years old, and even then you could tell how different they are. It’s not just that Hank has dark hair and Catman’s is long and blond. Hank’s standing straight, focused on the camera. You get the feeling that he’s just mowed the lawn, organized the garage, and walked a dozen old ladies across the street. On the ground in front of Hank sits Catman, cross-legged, his right hand raised in a peace sign. And on his lap is a big black cat.

I move the mouse to wake up the computer. In a few seconds, I’m logging on to my e-mail with one hand. I’m a hunt-and-peck, two-finger typer anyway.

While I wait for my in-box to fill, my thoughts start running wild again. In two weeks I’m supposed to go before a judge and declare that I want to be a Coolidge forever. Ms. Bean, my social worker, explained it all to me. It’s like a marriage, where we all get one last chance to say “I do.”

I do.
Of course,
I
do. Who wouldn’t want to be the daughter of Annie and Chester Coolidge?

But what about them?

Why would they want someone like me to have their name? The name of Hank Coolidge. Catman Coolidge. They deserve the name
Coolidge
.

But me?

My spam filter kicks in and snaps up most of the messages heading for my in-box. A few pieces of junk get through. Then I see I’ve got an e-mail from Catman. I go straight to it.

Hey, Cool Kat!

Man, I dig your last list of firsts. Three cats purring in sync? Groovy, Kat!

Far out, seeing Uncle Chester petting Kitten for the first time. That cat’s coming around. So’s Kitten. (You dig?)

Standing by for more Kat firsts. Lay ’em on me, man!

Stay cool,

The Catman

It feels better, imagining Catman at the other end of cyberspace. Since Catman graduated from high school last year, he’s been on the road, off and on, filming his “cat-umentary” on cats in rural America. But he’s never failed to answer my e-mails. I hit Reply and type back:

Dear Catman,

Thanks for writing. You have no idea how much I needed to find you here. Kind of like one of the prayers I didn’t even ask and God answered it anyway.

It’s been quite a day. But I do have a lot of firsts to report.

I sit back in the chair. Typing with one hand is taking me longer than I thought it would. Plus, I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach, the way I feel a lot of mornings. I wanted to type a big list of firsts I’ve been keeping in my head for the Catman. But I’m not sure how long I can stay up.

I cut to the chase.

Kat’s Firsts for Today: