Boy's Best Friend (2 page)

“Rupert Sheldrake wrote a whole book about staring,” said George, pinching the ends of the ribbon between his forefinger and thumb. “He discovered that almost everyone can feel or sense or just know when someone is looking at them.”

“He sounds like a weirdo,” said Zac.

George didn't think Rupert Sheldrake was weird. But he had to admit that he was different from most scientists. Sheldrake thought that people and animals were connected by a knowing that had yet to be explained. He thought that maybe animals had abilities that had been lost or forgotten by humans. And he wasn't afraid to test his ideas. He wrote about homing pigeons, animals who anticipated natural disasters like earthquakes or tidal waves, cats who knew when they were about to be taken to the vet. And he'd written an entire book about dogs who knew when their owners were coming home.

“Sheldrake's experiments are important,” said George.

Zac shook his head. “I fail to see what's so important about staring that you'd waste your time doing it.”

“Because maybe it proves that people have a sixth sense or some other type of connection,” said George.

“Oh, you mean like reading minds,” teased Zac.

“It's called ‘telepathy,'” said George.

“Telepathy isn't science,” said Zac matter-of-factly.

“Yes it is,” said George. “It's part of how animals and people behave. And that's science.”

George blew a giant bubble, which snapped loudly as it broke.

“Cut that out,” cried Zac.

“Anyway, Rupert Sheldrake asked me to participate in one of his experiments,” said George.

“Oh, did he?” said Zac. He looked doubtful.

“Sort of,” said George, lowering his eyes. “He has a Web site where he invites people to do his experiments. And I'm doing one for school starting tomorrow.”

“You're just a kid,” said Zac.

“He says kids can participate. He even wants them to,” said George. “That's because he thinks that everyone can contribute something to science whether they are real scientists or not.”

Zac rolled his eyes. “Well, I hope you're not doing the staring experiment,” he said. “You'll drive people crazy.”

George shook his head. “I'm doing the one about dogs who know when their owners are coming home. And Bart's going to help me.” George rubbed the top of Bart's head. “Aren't you?” he said.

“That Sheldrake guy doesn't sound like he's doing science,” said Zac. “He sounds like he's having fun.”

“He is,” said George. “That's the whole point. Science can be fun.”

“You'll have to prove that one,” said Zac, hopping onto his bike and cruising down the driveway.

 

3

George's younger sister, Vivien, skipped into George's room and sat down on the bed that George shared with a three-foot rubber snake, a beanbag monkey, and a stuffed tiger. George loved animals, real or pretend. At times, he'd even wondered if he wasn't meant to be one of them instead of a human.

“What's wrong?” said Vivien.

“Nothing's wrong,” said George, who was sitting at his desk.

“Then why are you staring at the wall?” asked Vivien. “Are you depressed?”

George repeated that word to himself. De-pressed. It really seemed to describe how he felt since Kyra left, like a little bit of him had been pushed out and gone with her. “No,” he said to Vivien. “I'm just thinking.” George opened to page one of the logbook for the experiment he was going to do with Bart. The first entry looked like this:

DATE:

TIME GEORGE LEFT HOME:

MODE OF TRAVEL:

DESTINATION AND DISTANCE:

TIME GEORGE LEFT SCHOOL:

STOPS ALONG THE WAY:

TIME GEORGE STARTED FOR HOME:

TIME BART SEEMED TO START WAITING OR ANTICIPATING GEORGE'S ARRIVAL:

TIME GEORGE ARRIVED HOME:

ANY OTHER COMMENTS OR OBSERVATIONS:

Vivien pushed her hands into the mattress and bounced up and down. She was eight years old, a girly girl who liked ballerina costumes and barrettes and shoes with sparkles. There were other girly girls at school, but George didn't quite know what to make of them. He preferred tomboys, like Kyra. She liked sports and science like George did, and loved doing experiments—and eating Kit Kats. The memory of Kyra's Kit Kats made George smile. He thought it was neat that simply thinking of something could make you smile. George thought about Kyra and all the fun they'd had together. It was Kyra's father who had gotten Kyra and George interested in experiments. He studied homing pigeons for a hobby.

Vivien jumped off the bed and peeked over George's shoulder at the open notebook on his desk. “What's that?” she asked.

“It's my logbook for an experiment I'm doing,” said George.

Vivien ran her finger across the edge of the page where George had scribbled Rupert Sheldrake's name. “Who's Rupert Sheldrake?” she asked.

“A scientist,” said George. “A biologist.”

“What's a biologist?” asked Vivien.

“Someone who studies animals and their behavior,” said George. “Stuff like that.”

“Oh,” said Vivien, still looking puzzled. She glanced down at George's ankles, which were wrapped one around the other beneath the chair.

“Your socks don't match,” she said.

George looked down at his feet. One sock was dark blue, the other several shades lighter. He'd put them on without even noticing. “I wonder how that happened?” he said.

Vivien shrugged. “I guess you weren't paying attention,” she said.

“Guess not,” said George. He rarely paid attention to what he wore. He reached into his drawer in the morning and pulled out whatever he came to first. It didn't matter to him if he paired red with orange, or mixed plaids with stripes. It seemed to matter to other people, though, like his mother and Charlotte Peacock. Charlotte sat next to George at school, and she claimed to get a headache when he wore colors that clashed. George guessed it was because she didn't have any imagination. Or maybe he had too much.

George looked at his logbook. Suddenly he found himself imagining writing to Rupert Sheldrake. He wasn't sure what he would say. But he imagined Rupert Sheldrake responding. George smiled, then turned to Vivien. “If a total stranger wrote to you, would you write back?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Vivien.

George realized that was a silly question. Vivien would write to anyone. She loved to write. She'd write to herself.

George's father's voice drifted up the staircase. “Dinner's ready,” he called.

“Coming,” George said. He followed Vivien down the staircase. Mr. Masson was in the kitchen putting the final touches on a platter of roast beef. He was an engineer by trade but he also loved to cook.

“Where's Mom?” asked George, taking the platter to the table.

“In here,” cried Mrs. Masson, who was in her office off the kitchen. She was a pastry chef and catered from home.

Zac came into the kitchen and turned up the sound on his portable speakers.

Mrs. Masson sailed out of her office shaking her head. Her springy blond hair bounced off her shoulders, reminding George of a slinky. “Zac,” she cried, stepping on Boots's tail. Boots was the family cat.

“Meowwww,” wailed Boots.

“Mom,” cried Vivien.

“Sorry, Boots,” said Mrs. Masson. “Why is that cat always under my feet?”

Vivien slid under the table and gave Boots a pat. “Because she likes you, Mom.”

George's father sat down at the head of the table. He opened his napkin and tucked it under his chin.

“You look like a baby,” said Vivien.

“I spill like one too,” said Mr. Masson, heaping George's plate with mashed potatoes and a mound of green peas.

“Don't forget my experiment starts tomorrow,” George said to his mother. She had agreed to record when Bart went out to the front steps to wait for him. She'd been the first to notice that nearly every day, minutes before George's arrival, Bart stopped whatever he was doing and asked to be let out. Bart didn't do this with Vivien or Zac or Mr. or Mrs. Masson.

“Whoa,” said Zac, making a T with his outstretched palms. “Time out. How do you know for sure that Bart knows when you're coming? It's probably a coincidence.” Zac shoveled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“You're just a skeptic,” said George.

“What's a skeptic?” asked Vivien.

“It's someone who doubts everything until there's absolute proof,” said George. “Like Zac.” George turned to his brother. “Maybe Bart has some way of sensing that I'm coming.”

“And how are you going to prove that?” asked Zac.

“By doing that experiment I told you about,” said George. “And by hundreds of other people doing the same thing.”

Zac speared a pea with his fork. “But how can you prove it's something about Bart?” he said. “Maybe it's something about you, George.” Zac leaned toward George and widened his eyes. “Oohh,” he crooned.

Vivien looked at George with her big blue eyes. They reminded him of blueberries, the exact color and shape. “Maybe George is magic,” she said. “Like Harry Potter.”

George wasn't sure he liked being compared to Harry Potter. He didn't think he was any more magical than anyone else. But he did feel different at times. Or at least he thought he did. But how could he really know how anyone else felt?

George looked across the table at his older brother. Zac was blond like his mother, and thicker set. George was thin and dark. Zac liked synthesized music, computers, and electronics. George liked science, nature, and animals. How could two boys come from the same parents and be so different? What if he and Zac hadn't come from the same place? What if Bart was responding to something alien about George?

“You know, George,” said Zac. “Sometimes I think you landed here from another planet.”

“Could be,” said George hesitantly.

Sensing his discomfort, George's mother came to the rescue. “I don't remember George arriving from outer space,” she said. “I remember him coming full force at midnight on my thirty-second birthday after I'd eaten too much cake. Look, I don't know if Bart can read George's mind. But can anyone read mine?”

George could. “You want me to eat some peas,” he said. He took a spoonful, looking down at the peas with their dented skins. They reminded him of tiny green golf balls. One pea dropped and bounced onto the floor, rolling silently to a stop. “If you write to a total stranger, do you think he'll write back?” he asked.

“Depends,” said Zac. “Who are you thinking of writing to?”

“If you tell them you're depressed I bet they'll write back,” said Vivien.

“George,” said his mother. She looked concerned. “Are you depressed?”

“He misses Kyra,” said Vivien.

“Would you be quiet, Viv,” said George, fiddling with the tail of the green ribbon around his wrist.

“It's normal to be sad when a friend leaves,” said George's mother. “But it will pass, George. I promise.”

“You'll make new friends,” said George's father. “Friends come and go. That's part of life.”

“Just like vacations,” said Vivien philosophically.

Zac cleared his throat. “In answer to your question, George,” he said. “Don't expect a total stranger to write back.”

George frowned.

Zac reached over and ruffled his hair. “Hey,” he said. “I just don't want you to be disappointed.”

“You think you know everything, Zac,” said George. “I'm going to prove that really important people write to really unimportant people like me.”

“I think you're important,” said Vivien.

“Thanks, Viv,” said George.

“I like your spirit,” said Zac. “What do you want to bet?”

“Ten dollars,” said George.

“You're on,” said Zac, reaching out a hand to shake. He put down his napkin and stood up. “How about a game of Ping-Pong?”

“No thanks,” said George. He helped clear the table, then took the stairs two at a time up to his room. He sat down at his desk and dropped his chin into his hands. Maybe he
was
depressed.

“Why is it so hard for some people to believe things?” he said out loud. Then he went to look for his mother.

“Can I use your computer?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said. “But only fifteen minutes.”

George sat down at the table his mother used for a desk. He opened up to Rupert Sheldrake's Web site. In the middle of the page was an e-mail address. George began to write.

Dear Dr. Sheldrake,

For my science class, I am doing your experiment about dogs who know when their owners are coming home. And I'm wondering if you would answer a few questions.

George paused. “Mom,” he called. “Is twenty a few?”

“Twenty is more than a few,” said his mother.

“What about a dozen?” said George.

“A dozen is twelve,” said his mother.

“Oh,” said George. “How much is a baker's dozen?”

“Thirteen.”

“That's an unlucky number,” George said to himself. Fourteen was better. George continued.

Like about fourteen. I was going to say thirteen but that's an unlucky number. I'm not superstitious but maybe you are. This is my first question: My brother, Zac, says it's just a coincidence that my dog, Bart, knows when I'm coming home from school. He says that even if I prove that Bart is waiting for me, I won't know why that is. I think maybe Bart is telepathic. Maybe I am. But even though it seems like that, how can we ever be sure? Sometimes, I wonder if we can we ever know anything for sure, even in science.

Sincerely,

George Masson

P.S. I love science and I think your experiments are really fun. Please write back.