A & L Do Summer (16 page)

AS SOON AS FERRET LEAVES, I CALL MOM AND BEG HER TO TAKE
Carmine to the vet. First I tell her about his limping and being scared to go outdoors. I cap it off by saying a guy was bragging at the Sub Stop about shooting dogs from his car with a pellet gun. Of course she wants to know the guy's name, but I insist I've never seen him before.

I'd love to have Buttferk locked away for the rest of their unnatural lives. But, even with solid proof against them, nobody gets life in prison for wounding a dog. As long as the three of them are in Cottonwood Creek, poor Carmine isn't safe.

Two hours later, Mom calls me on my cell. “You were right, Aspen. Dr. Riordan took X-rays and found three pellets in Carmine's flank. Luckily the pellets were just under the skin, so he was able to give Carmine a local anesthetic and pull them out.”

The black cloud over my head gets lighter. “So he's going to be okay?”

“Carmine should be fine. Dr. Riordan said if he had been shot at close range, the pellets might have done serious muscle damage.”

Fear and anger rumble in my stomach. When those goons hurt my family, they went too far.

I hear Carmine's excited bark on the other end of the phone. “Here's a treat for you, Carmine, for being such a good boy at the doctor,” Mom croons.

Picturing Carmine's grin as he wolfs down his favorite biscuits makes me smile.

“Aspen, if that maniac comes into the restaurant again, you get his name or license number for the police. Until he's caught, Carmine will have to be tied up whenever he's outdoors. We can't trust him not to climb the fence.”

Thanks to those three jackasses, Carmine and I are both under house arrest.

After Mom and Dad have gone to bed, I call Laurel. She answers her phone in a whisper. “Hold on, Aspen. Let me see what Dad's doing.”

While I wait for her to come back on the line, I sit up and scratch Carmine's ears. He is lying across the foot of my bed with his head resting on my legs. Whenever I look at the bare patch where the vet shaved him, I want to hit somebody. The three pellet wounds are red slashes in his pale skin.

“It's okay,” she says in her normal voice. “He's watching some sports program on TV. As long as the reception is okay, he won't notice if the house caves in around him.” The rustling in the background tells me she's getting comfortable. “So, what's up?”

“Buster, Ferret, and Kong are infected boils on the ass of humanity.”

She snorts. “Tell me something I don't already know.”

I repeat Ferret's threats in as much detail as I can remember. In the past I've dismissed him as nothing but mouth, but the holes in Carmine's side won't let me do that anymore. No matter which one of them pulled the trigger, the three of them shot my dog.

Laurel's outrage crackles through my phone. “I can't believe they shot Carmine! Anyone who hurts an animal is the lowest, scummiest piece of crap on earth! If one of them hurt Cleo, I'd cut off his balls and use them for Hacky Sacks.”

“Laurel, that is the grossest thing I've ever heard…and an excellent idea. Wait—who's Cleo?”

“She's my new BFF. We bonded instantly.” I can actually hear her smiling.

I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. “What? I'm trapped in the nightmare hell of the worst summer on record, and now you have a new best friend?”

“Not a human best friend,” she says in a soothing voice. “A best friend like Carmine.”

Relief mixes with confusion. “You got a dog? I thought your whole family is allergic.”

“She isn't a dog, and I don't exactly have her. Not yet, anyway.” Laurel pauses mysteriously. “Cleo is a chicken.”

My legs jerk. “An EggstraGood Chicken Farm chicken?” Carmine raises his head and looks at me. Then he lies back down with a sigh.

“Yes, and she's so adorable!” Laurel gushes. “She comes running to me every morning the second I walk into the chicken yard, and she makes the cutest little clucking sounds.”

“Don't all the chickens do that?”

“Well, sort of.” There's a pause while Laurel thinks that over. “But Cleo follows me absolutely everywhere. She likes it when I scratch her between the wings, and she loves to be carried.”

There is no way for this to end well. “Laurel…honey,” I say gently, “you know what those chickens are raised for, don't you?”

“Don't worry, Aspen. These are egg-laying chickens, not chickens for eating. I asked that question the very first day.”

I bet she still leaves carrots for the Easter Bunny. “But what happens when they stop laying?”

“They're put out to pasture, I guess. You know, like that farmer will do with Sunflower, Daisy, and Rose when they stop having piglets.”

Yeah, I'm sure it's going to be exactly like that. With luck, summer will be over long before Cleo becomes a chicken filet. I wonder if all big-city girls are as clueless about farm life as Laurel is. Where does she think those hot dogs, hamburgers, and pork chops she loves come from? Someday she'll have to hear the hard facts about how animals are turned into food, but it won't be from me.

Just to be sure, I change the subject. “So what's the story with you and Steve, the farmer's son?”

“He turned out to be kind of a dud.” Laurel sighs. “Not a bad kisser, though. As if I have anyone to compare him with.”

“You? I'm so starved for affection that I get excited when Carmine licks my leg!”

“That's disgusting. Speaking of Carmine, any ideas what we should do about Buttferk?”

Just hearing Laurel say “we” makes me feel better. Too bad it doesn't do a thing to solve our problem.

“I wish I knew.”

The next morning, as I'm getting Sammy settled into his stroller, Miss Simmons seizes my arm in a death grip. “Aspen Parks, tell your obnoxious friends to stop driving past my house! They're getting on my nerves.”

For one misguided second, my heart jumps, as I think it might be Clay. My head snaps up but all I see is Ferret's rust bucket pulling away. His windows are down, and the other two members of the Buttferk gang are gawking like tourists.

I channel my thoughts toward summoning a swarm of locusts to attack them. A lone fly buzzes by, but Ferret's car is already gone.

“Believe me, Miss Simmons, none of those losers are my friends. The jury's still out on whether or not they're human.” Sammy nuzzles against my palm, and I scratch his head.

I remember what Ferret said about old ladies hoarding valuables. “You keep your doors locked, don't you?”

“Of course. Every minute of the day and night.” She nods so vigorously that I'm afraid she'll lose her glasses. “Why? Are you getting ideas about kidnapping my Sammy Stripers?”

“What?”

“I see how you are—trying to lure him away from me with your cooing and petting!”

“Miss Simmons, I-I'd never—”

“Gotcha!” She chuckles, and her face wrinkles like an accordion. “I had you going there for a minute, didn't I?”

Miss Simmons pulled a joke on me! What's next—cows tap-dancing on the moon?

“I have to admit it—you did. But nobody could come between you and Sammy.”

She smiles and strokes his head. “You're right, of course. Sammy and I are like two peas in a pod.”

Not the way I'd put it, but whatever makes her happy.

“The thing is, Miss Simmons, those aren't nice guys. You said they drive by. Have they ever, uh, said anything to you?”

“They did, and I couldn't believe the audacity!” Her eyes flash. “They wanted to know what was in the baby carriage.”

A shiver runs down my back. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them it was none of their damn business!” Miss Simmons smacks her walker on the front porch for emphasis.

“That was…good. But if they ask again, maybe you could say it's one of those dolls. You know, the ones that almost look alive?”

Miss Simmons rears her head back. “Like those horrid things I saw on
60 Minutes
last year?”

I swallow. “Well, yes.”

“I will not!” She smacks the walker again. “Why, the whole neighborhood would think I'm a crackpot!”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish's, marooned on dry land. I recognize a no-win situation when I see one.

A WEEK LATER, I'M SITTING ON THE DECK AFTER DINNER
swatting mosquitoes, watching the fireflies, and listening to June bugs hurling themselves at the porch lights. The way I figure it, any June bugs that haven't figured out the workings of a lightbulb by the end of July should give it up and move on. Then again, summer is two-thirds over, and I'm still pining for Clay. So who am I to judge?

Carmine is curled at the top of the steps, snoring. I've been keeping him tied up like Mom suggested, but I'm beginning to think it isn't necessary. Being shot in the butt seems to have cured Carmine of his wandering ways for now. I hate to think he's going to have to be tied up forever.

Since Buttferk have all graduated, why are they still hanging around Cottonwood Creek? It would be one thing if they were going to college in the fall. Since they barely made it out of high school, that doesn't seem likely. So why haven't they gone into the big, bad world, looking for gainful employment? There aren't any jobs in Cottonwood Creek—if anyone was stupid enough to hire them.

The back door opens, and Manny walks out, wearing a ragged Cottonwood Creek High T-shirt and paint-spattered shorts. He sits beside Carmine and lays a hand on his back. “How're you feeling, old guy?” Carmine's tail thumps in response. “Better, huh?”

Manny scratches Carmine just above his tail, and he moans with pleasure. “I'd like to get my hands on the scumbag who shot him.”

I've debated telling Manny, but I haven't for just that reason. Sure, he could kick Ferret's butt with his hands duct-taped together. And one-on-one he could probably hold his own with Buster and Kong. But they'd get their revenge one way or another. Then they'd run Carmine down for good measure.

“Yeah, me too.” There's nothing else I can say on the subject, so I take a drink from my can of pop. It's lukewarm, and I think something might have been floating in it. Too late now.

Manny idly drums his fingers on the deck. “Clay asked about you the other day.”

“He did?” I choke on the insect I seem to have swallowed. “Wh-What did he say?”

Manny shrugs. “He asked if you're ever getting off punishment. For some unknown reason, Clay's still interested in you.”

“Really?” I try my best to sound indifferent. “I expected him to be dating someone else by now.”

“He's taken Wynter out a couple of times, if that's what you want to know.” Manny scratches his head and yawns. “Tessa and I doubled with them once.”

“Clay is dating Wynter Green?” I'm going to be sick. “Since when?”

“A few weeks. She and Tessa play golf at the club, so they stop by and talk. You know.”

Steam spurts from my ears. “Oh, yeah. I know all right.”

“What can I say?” Manny leans back on his hands. “Wynter's hot and she asked Clay out. A guy's got needs.”

“Don't give me that crap about a guy's needs!” I aim a kick at him, but he dodges it. “And since when have you been dating Tessa?”

“Tessa and I spend time together, but we're not dating.” Manny grins. “She expressed an interest, and I complied. And, despite her lack of accessories”—he cups his hands on his chest—“she has certain talents I appreciate.”

My aim is better the second time. “You're disgusting!”

“Ouch!” Manny rubs his side. “Hey, don't kill the messenger! You and Laurel screwed things up, not Clay and me.”

“Laurel?”

“She's cute in her own way,” he says matter-of-factly. “Kind of out there, but she has a personality. She's not a clone like most of the girls I know.”

This is interesting news. “You've thought about her, haven't you?”

“It doesn't matter. Laurel's grounded until whenever, so nothing's going to happen on that front.” Manny stands up and heads through the back door. “I'll have to console myself with Tessa and her many and varied talents.”

I hurl my empty pop can at him, but it bounces harmlessly against the wall.

Three more weeks of my crappy life crawl by, and somehow it's the eighteenth of August. The magnificent summer before my senior year is nearly over, and nothing good has come of it. I haven't seen or heard from Clay, which means, I guess, that he's gotten over being “interested” in me. No doubt he and Wynter will be announcing their engagement at his family's Labor Day picnic.

The fur on Carmine's bald spot is growing back in. I've stopped tying him up in the backyard, and, as far as I can tell, he's been staying there. Lately there haven't been any Buttferk sightings while I'm walking Sammy. So, I guess two good things have happened.

Laurel and I still talk every day, which is easier now that our parents have let up a little on our restrictions. She wasn't as excited as I thought she'd be when I told her about Manny's possible interest in her. Mostly she rattled on about Cleo, her almost-pet chicken. It's pretty sad when that's the most exciting thing someone as perky as Laurel has to talk about.

I'm giving myself a week of vacation before school begins on August twenty-sixth. Laurel told me school in Chicago doesn't start until the middle of September, but in Iowa it always begins right after the State Fair. Since today was my last day at the Sub Stop, I had to endure a rambling speech from Willie about what a dependable employee I've been—except for my brief lapse in judgment earlier this summer—and how proud he was to have played a part in putting me back on the straight and narrow.

Whew! I had no idea how close I'd come to living a life of dissipation and crime. I should probably send Willie a bouquet of french fries as a thank-you gift. The next time I hit the drive-through at Burger King, I'll pick some up.