A & L Do Summer (2 page)

THE BABY DRAGON I FOUND ON THE PATH IS CUPPED IN MY
palm. Her blue-green scales feel cool and moist, but flames shoot from her ruby eyes. Her heart vibrates with terror, and nothing I say calms her. Faster and faster her heart quivers until I fear it's going to fly from her chest. “Shush,” I whisper. “It's okay. Sh—”

Two strong arms hold me down and a long, wet tongue slides into my open mouth. My assailant's breath smells of rotted meat; his jaw is rough with stubble. Choking and sputtering, I push him away. But there's no escape. He pins me down and slurps my neck.

“Carmine! What the—!” I roll onto my side and shield my face with my arms. Undaunted, Carmine sticks his nose into my ear and squirts it full of dog snot.

“Stop it!” I vault out of bed, rubbing my slimy ear. My alarm clock shows 12:17. “It's the middle of the freaking night!”

But Carmine has moved on to other interests. Now he's nosing something beside my pillow. So help me, if he dragged another mangled chipmunk through the dog door …

I edge away from the bed in case I need to run for it. The whatever-it-is gleams with reflected moonlight, which is a good sign. Dead animals are rarely reflective.

The object vibrates, and Carmine whines. I snatch it up and check the caller ID. My heart is still racing from being jolted from sleep by French kisses laced with dog food. “It's after midnight! Is everything okay?”

“If you want to be expelled from school, everything's fabulous.” Laurel's voice is muffled, as if she's cupping her hand around the phone. “Otherwise, we're in deep trouble.”

Laurel's hysterics are legendary. Unless weekend toilet scrubbing has become a reason for expulsion, I've got nothing to worry about. I stifle a yawn and climb back into bed. “Why are you whispering?”

“Because I don't want the neighbors to hear me,” she hisses.

“What are you doing, camping out in your backyard?”

“No. I'm standing in your front yard. Now get your butt down here or our lives will be completely ruined.”

She hangs up.

Something tells me that the chances of having my life ruined are a lot smaller if I stay in bed. But Laurel will just keep calling—or throwing rocks at my window—until I go downstairs and hear her out. I put on a pair of shorts and my flip-flops. Then I change my mind and decide to carry the shoes until I get outside.

I point my index finger at Carmine's nose and use my sternest voice. “Stay, Carmine.” Which is just as effective as telling pigeons not to poop on statues. He races past me and is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. By blocking him with my foot, I manage to trap him inside the house as I edge out the door.

Laurel is pacing back and forth on our front walk. As soon as she sees me, she rushes over and clamps onto my arms. “They're going to do it! I saw them! And we'll get blamed for the whole mess.”

Her eyes are spinning like whirligigs. “Okay, Laurel, you need to slow down,” I say in a soothing voice. “Take three deep breaths and tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

She drops my arms. “Why are you talking like that? You sound like a zombie on downers.”

So much for my career in psychology. “Forget it. Just tell me what's so urgent.” It's damp and chilly, and hungry mosquitoes are circling.

“That's what I was trying to do before you went all undead on me,” Laurel says in a huff. “See, I was taking the trash can out to the curb about ten minutes ago. I was supposed to do it after lunch, but I forgot until I was almost asleep. So I thought I'd sneak out and take care of it because I won't have time in the morning. And Dad's been hinting that he's going to buy me a car, so I didn't want to get on his bad side, you know. That's when I saw them! Right away I heard the squealing, and I knew they were going to do it.”

I feel like I'm riding upside down on a roller coaster.

“Them who? What squealing? Going to do what?”

“Put the pigs in Principal Hammond's office, of course!” Laurel stamps her foot in exasperation. “Buttferk—you know, Buster, Ferret, and Kong—drove by in Buster's dumpy white pickup truck. I couldn't actually see the pigs because I guess they're too short. But I heard that loud squealing, and I know they're going to do it and we'll be blamed!”

That's it? “Relax, Laurel. So Ferret overheard us talking about a prank involving pigs. It's not our fault if he decides to act on it. Besides, he's the only person who knows what we said, so it's his word against ours. And nobody's going to …”

Laurel's looking everywhere but at me, and her face has gone whiter than the moon.

A grapefruit-size lump drops into my stomach. “Ferret is the only person who knows, isn't he?”

She runs her sweatshirt zipper up and down. “Sure.

Except for maybe a few people who might have read my post in their news feed.”

My eyes jump out of their sockets. “You posted your pig idea on Facebook?”

“Kind of. But I didn't get that many comments from the kids around here.” Still not looking at me, she yanks the cords in her hood back and forth.

“You posted it once?” She nods. “And that's the only place, right?” The lump in my stomach is doing jumping jacks. “Right, Laurel?”

“It was such a good idea, you know, that I wanted everyone to know I thought of it. That was, like, before you pointed out all the things that could go wrong….”

“Let me guess—you sent a fan request to all four hundred ninety-three of your friends.” This is what happens when I spend my time studying and doing chores instead of keeping track of my news feed.

“Facebook calls it a ‘Like' instead of a fan request now, remember?” She swallows. “And I might have Tweeted about it two or three times—”

I clap my hand over Laurel's mouth to keep from strangling her. “Stop! I don't want to hear any more.”

Laurel pries my fingers off her face. “You might as well know the rest. About half an hour ago I got a Facebook message from Ferret from his phone. See, he has to go through Facebook because my phone number is private. And you say I can't keep a secret,” she adds with a smug little grin.

I cross my arms and give her the death stare.

Her smile falters. “Anyway, he said Buster liked my idea so much that Buttferk is going to do it. You know, put pigs in Principal Hammond's office. So I messaged back that they needed to drop the idea because I'd tell everyone they did it instead of us.”

“And?”

“Ferret said it would be too bad if somebody broke into our garage and slashed my dad's tires.” Laurel's eyes shine with tears. “He said if somebody got pissed enough, they might not stop with the tires.”

My mouth goes dry. “Why didn't you tell me that five minutes ago?”

“I thought if I kind of led up to it, you wouldn't be as mad,” she says between sniffs.

I don't have time to argue with Laurel's twisted logic. “And you're sure it was Buster's truck?”

“Positive. It had that big circle of rust on the driver's side door.” Laurel wipes her eyes on her sweatshirt sleeve.

Adrenaline sends me into overdrive. “Is your bike here?” She points to where it's parked in our driveway. “I'll get mine out of the garage.”

She runs to keep up as I hurry to the garage and roll my bike out the side door. “What are we going to do?”

“I have no idea.” As I swing my leg over my bike, a breeze reminds me that I'm wearing nothing except my thin sleep tee and gym shorts. “Hold on. I'm not wearing a bra.”

Laurel stares pointedly at my pointless chest.

“Yeah, you're right. Nothing to worry about here.”

EVEN THOUGH GOING BRALESS MIGHT NOT BE AN ISSUE
, a jacket would have been a good idea. The cool wind billows under my tee, peppering my chest and stomach with goose bumps. Pretty soon my teeth are chattering, but that could be caused by blind fear instead of cold.

The town seems deserted except for a yellow cat that crouches on the curb and watches as we ride past. Cottonwood Creek isn't what you'd call bustling, but it's eerie not to see any traffic at all. Laurel and I race in and out of the shadows of maple, oak, and cottonwood trees twice as high as the streetlights. We pass my favorite house—a massive two-story that was the mayor's mansion a hundred years ago. When I was a kid it reminded me of a dollhouse with its fancy shutters and steep red roof. It's set back from the street on a long, winding driveway, and I can barely make it out in the dark.

The streets around the town square are paved with red brick from the Turner Brick and Tile Factory west of town. Cottonwood Creek's historic brick streets are one of its few claims to fame. They're cool to look at, but riding a bike on them is murder. Besides causing butt bruises, some of the cracks are wide enough to trap a bike tire and flip you over. That happened to me when I was eleven, and I have a scar on my left knee to prove it.

My butt isn't my only unhappy body part. My thighs are burning, and my shoulder muscles are sending out angry messages. I pull in a deep breath and catch the sickly sweet odor of a catalpa tree. The pavement is white with fallen blossoms that squash and stick to my tires. As we pass under it, Laurel tilts back her head and sniffles. It's so late all the birds are asleep except for a mourning dove, wondering who is idiotic enough to be up and out at this time of night. I wish I didn't know the answer.

We're two blocks from the high school when an eerie, rolling howl soars over the treetops. Laurel gasps. “What's that awful sound?”

“That awful sound is Carmine tracking us. I forgot to block the dog door.” So much for the element of surprise.

“What happened to the fence around your backyard?”

“That's just for show. If Carmine wants out, he goes over the top.”

“Well, at least we have him for protection if something goes wrong.” Which is optimistic even for Laurel.

If killer chipmunks ambush us, we're safe as can be. Anything bigger, and we're on our own.

An engine guns nearby, and I hear a squeal that has nothing to do with pigs. “Laurel, somebody's coming. Get off the street!”

I make a sharp turn into the nearest yard and smash through a thin spot in the hedge. Dozens of sharp little twigs rake my skin and snag my clothes. A few feet away, Laurel crashes into a thicker section of the hedge and bounces through a shower of leaves and spiderwebs. We hit the ground commando-style as a rusty white pickup screeches into sight. Laurel pokes her head up for a better view while I peer through the hedge.

As the pickup passes under the streetlight, the driver spits a stream of tobacco juice, leaving a slimy brown trail down his door. I recognize the flabby face as belonging to Buster Reese, who, in addition to his charming personality, has the distinction of being Cottonwood Creek's oldest senior. Rumor is that he flunked all his classes again this semester, but teachers threatened to strike if they has to deal with him another year. So Principal Hammond has to let him graduate.

Laurel makes a retching sound. “Could he be any more disgusting?”

“Not without cloning himself,” I say, brushing twigs from my sleep tee and shorts. “Did you see if anyone else was with him?”

Laurel pulls a handful of leaves from her hair. “I caught a flash of Ferret's pointy face in the back of the truck just before a giant arm jerked him down. I'm going to take a wild guess the arm belonged to Kong.”

“If Ferret and Kong are in the truck bed, then the pigs …”

As I reach down to pick up my bike, Carmine bounds through the hedge, plants his front paws on my shoulders, and covers my face and neck with rank-smelling slobber. “Stop it, Carmine! Get down!” I whisper-shout while trying to push him off. It takes a few minutes to get him calm enough to let me climb on my bike.

Cottonwood Creek High is centered on a spacious, tree-filled lot near the west end of town. Unfortunately, decades of trampling feet have decimated all but the hardiest weeds on what was once probably a beautiful lawn. As Laurel and I ride up the sidewalk to the two-story brick building, all is quiet. But a pile of goo on the sidewalk outside the custodians' office leads me to fear that pigs have traveled where no pigs have gone before.

“Watch out,” I warn Laurel as she stops her bike, her foot landing about a centimeter to the left of the pile.

“Crap!” She does a little two-step to avoid it.

“That would be my guess. Let's prop our bikes in that cubbyhole.”

Now that we're here, I have no idea what to do. Skirting the pile of goo—and keeping an eye out for others—I try the custodians' door. The knob turns, which is surprising since I expected Ferret and his crew to lock up behind themselves.

As I pull the door open, I tell Laurel, “Make sure Carmine doesn't get in behind us.” Before I finish my sentence, he shoves past my leg into the building. After a sprawling takeoff on the slippery tile floor, he skids down the hall and out of sight.

“No, Carmine!” I call. “Come here, Carmine!”

Beside me, Laurel watches him disappear. “Your dog can move! The only time I was that excited about being in school was freshman year back in Evanston. Our drama teacher came to first period with three hickeys on his neck. I sneaked his picture with my cell during class and posted it on Facebook.” She nods and smiles. “Now, that was educational.”

Inside the building there's an odor that reeks of barn yard. I'm used to smelling cafeteria food and jock straps moldering on locker shelves, but this is much worse. The air—damp, heavy, and still—intensifies the stench.

Emergency lights in the ceiling create alternating sections of dark and light reflecting off the rows of lockers in the hallway. Everything is quiet. “The pigs are probably shut in Hammond's office,” Laurel whispers as she starts toward the main office, which is halfway down the hall on our right.

One floor above us, I hear a series of barks followed by a chorus of high-pitched squeals and the clatter of hooves.

“Or not.” I jog toward the stairway. My flip-flops buckle under my feet, so I yank them off and toss them into a corner. Taking the steps two at the time, Laurel and I race to the second-floor landing. We bump fists for luck and push through the swinging double doors into the hallway.

There we find ourselves nose to snout with three wildeyed, not-so-little pigs. Like flightless geese on steroids, they're rumbling toward us in V formation, their chunky bratwurst bodies waddling from side to side. Carmine nips at their hooves in a howling, barking frenzy.

Laurel dives across the hall into a recessed doorway. I retreat through the swinging doors, slip in a puddle of pig poop, and clutch the stair rail with both hands. For a second, my feet touch nothing but air. Then I grip the edge of the top step and pull myself to safety. For the first time in my life, I'm thankful for my freakishly long toes.

For one traitorous second, I consider leaving Laurel, Carmine, and the pigs to work things out among themselves. But I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for the few hours I'd survive before Laurel hunted me down and killed me.

My left foot is greasy with pig crap, and my first step nearly lands me on my butt. I look around for something to wipe it on, but there's nothing but tile and brick.

“Aspen, I need you! Get in here!” Laurel shrieks.

Taking shallow breaths—the smell of pig waste has put me off deep breathing—I push through the double doors. Poor Laurel is pancaked in the doorway on the other side of the hall. With her hands and feet braced on either side of the doorframe, she's trying to suspend herself off the floor. Directly under her, the pigs are being held captive by Carmine. Their hooves scrabble on the slippery floor as they try to shove their way through the closed door. Their piercing squeals are making my ears ache.

Laurel's face is the color of the brick wall, and her arm muscles are quivering. “Do something!”

If I think about what I'm going to do, I won't. Barefoot, my teeth gritted, I wade into the whirlpool of pigs and dog. Overheated pig flanks crash into my knees, and I hug the wall for support. If I go down, there's a better than even chance I won't get up.

I zero in on Carmine, who is panting and frothing at the mouth. I straddle him like a bow-legged cowboy and clamp onto his back with my knees. With both hands holding his collar, I haul him back with all my strength.

He doesn't budge.

Based on our many dog-walking fiascos, I know how much harder Carmine pulls than I do, but I was hoping adrenaline would give me an edge. Unfortunately Carmine is drooling adrenaline, and he has the advantages of four-legged traction and actual muscle mass.

“Carmine, come. Be a good boy.” His eyes roll in my direction, which means he's hoping for a reward. Since he has a year's supply of food within inches of his mouth, that can't be it. Carmine eyes me again. His sides are heaving, and his tongue is hanging halfway to the floor.

“Are you thirsty, boy? Want a drink of water?”

When Carmine turns his head toward me, I know I've got him. Holding his collar and gurgling baby talk, I lead him down the hall to the drinking fountains. With my hip I push the rectangular button on the front of the wheelchair accessible fountain. As soon as Carmine sees the water, he stands on his hind legs and slurps.

Now that Carmine isn't holding the pigs hostage, they shuffle away from Laurel. Freed from the doorway, she hurries over just in time to see Carmine running his tongue all over the bottom of the fountain. “My God, Aspen! The people who drink that water have enough problems without having to deal with dog slobber!”

As if dog drool in the basin of the water cooler is our biggest sanitary issue tonight. “If we survive this ordeal, I'll disinfect it.”

Carmine is straining toward the spouting water, and I wrestle him back. It's not coming out fast enough for him and he's looking for a way to climb in. “Find a container we can fill with water, or tomorrow people will be drinking where a dog's butt has been!”

“Eeuw!” Laurel covers her mouth. She looks up and down the hall as if waiting for a parade of dog dishes to march past. “Where can we get a water bowl?”

Holding Carmine back is making my shoulders ache, and the smell of hot, drooling dog and pig crap has my stomach bucking like a wild horse. “Let's think. You're standing by the teachers' lounge where they drink liquids like coffee in…what do they call those things? Oh, yeah, coffee cups. Might that be a place to look?” I suggest in my most patient, reasonable voice.

“There's no need to get nasty!” Laurel gives me her spooky, one-eyed glare before she opens the door to the teachers' lounge.

Keeping a death grip on Carmine's collar, I check to make sure the pigs aren't planning an attack. They're grouped at the end of the hall staring at me with their piggy little eyes. Their huge, flappy pink ears wave like palm leaves, and their flat snouts are splattered with black Dalmatian-type spots. They're actually cute in a pre–pork chop kind of way.

Laurel opens the door and sticks her head out. “Good news, Aspen! There's a unisex bathroom in here. Carmine can drink toilet water until he explodes.”

“You hear that, Carmine?” I tell him. “Lots of water!” Laurel holds the door open, and I lead Carmine in. When he sees the toilet, he springs at it and sticks his head in the bowl. I wag my head toward the hall, and Laurel and I slip out. The lounge door opens inward, so no matter how hard Carmine shoves, he's trapped.

“An excellent idea,” I tell Laurel. “Now all we have to do is get the pigs outside.”

“Yeah, that's all we have to do,” Laurel says with more sarcasm than necessary, considering she got us into this mess. She cups her hands around her mouth. “Hey, pigs, the coast is clear!” she calls. “Time to hit the road!”

“Very funny. Cut back on the attitude, Pork Queen, or I'll leave you to deal with the Snout Sisters by yourself.”

Laurel shoves her sweaty bangs out of her eyes. “How do you know they're sisters? They could be guy pigs.”

“You are such a city girl.” Although this is the only time outside of the Iowa State Fair I've seen a pig in person.

“If you know so much, then answer me.” Laurel peers at me under her lowered eyelids.

The best defense is slinging a load of bull. “What are you, a sex ed dropout? Guy animals have penises; those pigs don't. End of discussion.” I can't believe we're outside the teachers' lounge at one thirty in the morning arguing over pig genitals.

“I never knew you were such a perv!” Laurel hoots. “I'm trying to avoid being trampled by wild killer pigs and you're checking them for penises. Gross!”

After I get Laurel off the subject of pig parts, we review our predicament. Now that Carmine is trapped in the lounge, the pigs are showing an unseemly interest in us. Their mouths are open, and they're snuffling toward us at an alarming pace. I'm pretty sure one of them is salivating.

“Do pigs bite?” Laurel asks. She ducks behind me and watches their approach over my shoulder.

A quick sidestep puts me behind her. “How should I know? My dad's an insurance agent, not Old MacDonald.”

Laurel tries to get around me again, but I block her with my elbow. “They're still coming. What should we do?”

When did I become the freaking pig guru? “They look hungry. Hold out your arm and see what they do.”

Carmine woofs from inside the teachers' lounge, and Laurel's eyes light up. “Wait. Carmine was more interested in water than food. The pigs probably are, too!” She pounds my shoulder, knocking me against the wall. “Think about it. The poor things were pig-napped and shoved up a flight of stairs. Then Carmine chased them all over the place. They're probably dying of thirst.”