The New Kid (9 page)

“None,” said Nancy.

“And no number one? Who is number one?”

Chloe raised her hand. “Me.”

“Well, it appears as if a certain somebody threw away two tongue depressors and replaced them with his number. Completely unacceptable behavior. Weston? At lunch recess, you may stay in and tidy the room.”

“Okay, but I didn’t throw out any tongue sticks.”

“Fine. Whatever you say. A little fairy did. I have no proof other than the fact that mysteriously there are three tongue depressors with your number on them. Stay in at lunch. Tidy the bookshelf and clean around the sink.”

“Does this mean I’m Deputy Sink Scrubber?”

“For one day, yes.”

“Will you write it on the board?”

“Fine.”

“Can Carson be my honorary one-day Deputy Sink Assistant?”

“Does he want to?”

Wes asked, “Do you, Carson?”

Carson didn’t want to. But he did want to demonstrate to Mr. Lipman that he was willing to work his way up from a low-level assistant position to Deputy Pet Care Giver.

“Uh … sure.”

Wes took Carson aside. “And it’s your turn to share your lunch with me.”

“Where’s
your
lunch?”

“I already ate it. During Quick Write.”

Carson said, “Well, um. Well, I would but I only have one plastic fork!”

“No problem there.” Weston took a white plastic eating utensil out of his back pocket and waved it in the air at Carson. “The fairies hooked me up!”

The class filed behind Mrs. Crabbly into the computer lab.

“Why’s everybody so quiet?” Mrs. Crabbly asked.

Nobody answered.

Wes called out, “Mrs.
Crab
bly. Do you like crab cakes?”

“What a question! Of course!” She strolled up and down the aisle, hands clasped behind her back. “No demo today. Add a slide about favorite animals to your PowerPoint presentation.”

“Mrs. Crabbly,” ventured Eva, “does your twin sister like crab cakes?”

Eva glanced at Zach and he popped his thumb up at her.

“What twin sister?”

“You don’t have a twin?” asked Eva.

“No. May I continue? Carson—you’ll be interested in this! Remember I saw you and your dad at Mi Pueblo? After I bought the
buñuelos
?”

Carson didn’t mention that he had been monitoring her activity through the window by the booth.

“Well, right after that, on the way down the street, I saw a shrimpy little dog hardly bigger than a large rat racing down the sidewalk with its ears flying. He ducked under a fence.

“I went through a neighbor’s gate to investigate. There he was: a pale tan teenie-weenie miniature Chihuahua backed into a corner, trembling and shuddering like this.”

Mrs. Crabbly trembled and shook.

“I knocked on the door of the house and asked the owners to call the police, because the animal-control office was closed.

“I carefully approached the dog and put my hat over him. My hat moved around in the grass, then
stopped. I peeked under. The dog was growling, and showing his gums and teeth at me. Actually, it sounded more like gargling than growling.

“So I put the hat back down. A moment later, I heard a little whimper. A sad little, pitiful little mournful sound. Heartbreaking, really.”

Mrs. Crabbly looked at the students. “Never touch a stray dog. You may get bitten. Ask an adult for assistance.”

“Go
on
!” cried Wes. “So then what?”

“Weston?” She peered over her glasses at Wes. “Let me pace my story the way I want.”

Mrs. Crabbly was wearing her famous pooch brooch, a spotted flat puppy with an oversize head and a goofy expression. And a pointy tail that slowly wagged back and forth, back and forth, back and forth at the same time as its eyes slowly rolled back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“I carefully lifted the hat again. The Chihuahua had laid his ears back. His tail was tucked between little old legs. So I s-l-o-w-l-y picked up the hat completely and set it upside down on the lawn.

“Then I c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y lifted the Chihuahua into
my hat, and he curled up, shivering and shuddering. And looked at me like this.”

She made a sad, sad scared face.

“A police officer showed up. The officer had no cage or box, and said he personally wasn’t enthusiastic about small dogs. He said he had a key to the Humane Society’s back entrance, and asked if I would be willing to drive there with the Chihuahua in my hat so we could put him in a cage overnight.”

Mrs. Crabbly sighed. “It’s against the law for me to sit in the front seat of a patrol car. So guess where I sat.”

Weston stood up, raised his fists in the air in a triumphant gesture, and slowly turned around.

“Sit down, Weston. The dog was full of fleas. I just couldn’t believe how many fleas were on that little old guy. I offered him part of a
buñuelo
, but he was too scared to eat.

“When I got home, I discovered several fleas hopping in my hat.”

The children sat quietly. They were thinking about the little old dog in the cage. “What did you do with the fleas?” Shelly asked.

“I threw the hat out the door onto the lawn.”

“Oh.”

“Poor thing. We put him in a cage with dry kibble and water. If the owners don’t come for him, the Humane Society will put him up for adoption. Hopefully, they’ll find a loving adoptive family.”

“Did he have a bed in the cage?” Shelly asked.

“No. I had to sacrifice my silk scarf from France.”

“What color?” asked Eva.

“Multicolored. With pictures of boats.”

Eva stared at her. “
Boats?
What kind of boats?”

“Sailboats. And if wearing a one hundred percent silk scarf made in Paris and silk-screened with Claude Monet sailboats is a fashion faux pas, then
ex-key-ooooose
me! I’m unfashionable. So what.”

“I’m just making sure they weren’t paddleboats.”

“Paddleboats, sailboats, why would this concern you, Eva? They were sailboats, heeling. Anyway, if anyone knows of anyone interested in a Chihuahua, you might tell them there’s a somewhat cute one at the Humane Society that could possibly come up for adoption in a week or less. Don’t say old—say ‘mature.’ And never mind about the fleas.”

After school, Carson waited for his dad to pull into the parking lot. He threw his canvas lunch bag into the car, climbed into the back, and buckled up. “Look in the pine tree, Dad. See it? A great horned owl moved in.”

“Where?”

“Tricked you, Dad. It’s a decoy hired to scare Bob away. Well, borrowed, actually.”

“Ah. How was the burrito?”

“Fine. I only ate half of the half.”

“Can I have the other half?”

“It’s gone. Wes got it. He managed to somehow scramble up a white plastic spoon with three little pointy teeth on it. So I ended up having to share it with him.”

“Ah. Any
buñuelos
left?”

“Are you kidding me? You put them in plain sight, right on top of the burrito!”

“Well, where else should I have put them? Under it?”

“I guess not. Dad? Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Can we adopt a Chihuahua if necessary?”

“Well, why would something like that be necessary?”

“Mrs. Crabbly says there’s a Chihuahua at the Humane Society and he may end up needing a home. They try to find the owner, but sometimes they can’t. He’s a really really tiny little shrimpy pip-squeak and a very very good old guy. A little nervous. And barely bigger than Mr. Nibblenose. He has had to deal with quite a few fleas, so maybe that’s why he’s a jumpy boy.”

“The size of a rat? Abby Crabbly would expect us to adopt a runty old jumpy Chihuahua—with fleas? How old is he?”

“Only if they can’t find the owner! He’s not old. He’s mature. I’m sure the fleas have been taken care of.”

“Tell Mrs. Crabbly I will be more than happy to contact the Humane Society and pay for a series of newspaper ads that will help reunite the dog with his owner.”

Carson was quiet.

“He’s all alone, Dad. Just sitting in a cage and shivering. And he’s scared! When he’s scared, he lays
his little ears back like this.” Carson held his hands backward, flat against his head.

“Well, what would Genevieve think?”

“Genevieve will love him. Genevieve will let him sleep with her in her basket. Genevieve loves all dogs—big or small, fat or thin, long hair or short hair, girls or boys, young or old. You know that, Dad.”

At first, Carson’s dad said nothing. “She might squash him. You know how she sits on Moose. She’s not really aware of where her body is, her weight and so on.”

“And he looks like this, Dad …”

Carson’s dad glanced into the rearview mirror, and Carson made a sad, sad face.

His dad said, “Only if necessary. And I mean Absolutely. Positively. Necessary. Not to change the subject, but how’s that security owl doing with keeping Bob in line?”

“So far, so good. Bob sat right beside her in the tree all day.”

“Nice.”

“Want another Whiz Quiz clue, Dad?”

“Okay, go.”

“Floaty goatee.”

“Floaty goatee? Hmmm. Floaty goatee … Ha!”

“What.”

“Mountain goat crossing a river?”

“No. It has claws. Remember?”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Well, it does. It has twenty hard, sharp black claws. The same amount as a Chihuahua.”

Carson frowned.

“What’s up, son?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes there is.”

“Well, gosh, Dad. Think about it. There’s a sad little elderly Chihuahua sitting in a cage at the animal shelter right now.”

Carson’s dad was quiet. “I’ll give them the dough for the ad. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Not to change the subject again, but I scheduled an interview next week to meet and talk with the riding teacher about the trail ride.”

“Thanks.”

Next week was a long, long ways away. Would the lost Chihuahua still be sitting in a cage next week?

“She recommended you and I take one orientation lesson first. We learn about reading a horse’s facial expressions, where to stand, how to mount, et cetera. She called me ‘darlin’.’ ”

“Can a Chihuahua get bumblefoot from sitting in a wire cage?”

“Carson, I don’t know what bumblefoot is.”

“I read about it in the pet-rat book.”

“Look. It’s an animal shelter, Carson. Where they take excellent care of animals.”

“Bumblefoot is from standing in a wire cage too much! Just one flimsy silk scarf to stand on, Dad. That’s all Mrs. Crabbly left.”

“I’m sure they supplemented that with a small blankie of some sort.”

Carson hadn’t talked to Case in a while. He called him up to tell him about the teeny-weeny Chihuahua.

Case listened. “Wow, that’s sad.”

“I know.”

“I hope they find the owner.”

“Me too.”

Then Case told Carson that he and Gavin were going with their families to the Teenie Weenie Jelly
Beanie jelly-bean factory in about a week, and then on to play Peewee Golf.

That sounded like fun.

And Carson wished he could have gone with them.

However, he had work to do.

Carson chose a Chihuahua book from the school library and read it for fifteen minutes every day during Sustained Silent Reading for four consecutive days. He needed to know as much as possible about the breed.

If the Chihuahua wasn’t claimed by the owner within a few days, he would be offered to an appropriate adoptive home. What adoptive home would be more appropriate than Carson’s? Plus, he would be an excellent play pal for Genevieve, who didn’t have a single friend.

During Sustained Silent Reading, Carson learned
that Chihuahuas are intelligent and personable (but possessive); they get lonely easily, and some people place them in doggie day care while at work. Also, they are:

Comical.

Entertaining.

Quirky.

Loyal.

Eccentric.

Obsessive ear lickers.

Genevieve’s ear flopped down, and that offered protection. Carson read on. Chihuahuas are best in pairs, and prefer Chihuahuas to other dogs.

There was a rap on the doorjamb of the classroom.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Walker. How can I help you?” said Mr. Lipman.

Carson looked up. Wes’s grandma was standing in the doorway. “I decided to surprise everybody,” she said with a wink. “Including the teacher. Hope you don’t mind me springing this on you.…”

“Grandma!” yelled Wes. “What are you doing here?”

“Happy Phony Birthday, big guy!”

She strolled in. There was an airbrushed picture of a Buick LeSabre on the front of Wes’s grandmother’s shirt. On the back was an airbrushed picture of Wes! And
PROUD GRANDMA
printed above it!

She was carrying a big pink bakery box tied with white cotton string and a paper shopping bag with the tops of three two-liter plastic bottles poking out. A denim bag with a bump in the bottom was hanging from her arm. She put the box down on Carson’s desk. She glanced down at his name tag, taped to his desk. “So you’re Carson?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Dollie Walker. Wes told me all about the orange 912. Now that’s a sweet ride. And I understand you and your dad will be cruising it over to Wessie’s For-Real Birthday Party on the twenty-second of August. Ever seen a grandma in a demolition derby?”

“No,” said Carson.

She flashed a smile. “Well, get ready. Have you marked your calendar? Saturday, August twenty-second, six o’clock. Don’t forget.”

Carson played it cool. “We won’t.”

Saturday … 
August
twenty-second? Why didn’t
Wes tell Carson his birthday party at the track was months from now!

“Now, who all’s ready for a cupcake! Wessie likes scary stuff, don’t you, Wessie? Untie the string, Carson!”

Carson untied the string and carefully lifted the lid. Inside the box were two dozen cupcakes, each coated with thick white icing and artfully decorated to look like a bloodshot eyeball.

Awesome!

Wes’s grandma began to pass them around. “Take the one you touch,” she told the kids. “That’s my rule. Right, Mr. Lipman?”