End of the Race (8 page)

I nod. But it seems my grievances are all hooked together, sort of like the links of a choke collar, because the next thing I know, I’m asking her how long Taryn will be volunteering.

Gran searches my eyes. “Don’t you think Taryn’s a good addition to our team?”

“Yeah, she’s pretty good, but you said you needed her because I had basketball practice and we were shorthanded. Well, Brenna’s back, and basketball’s almost over.” I fiddle with my Cheerios, swirling them around in the milk. “Besides, isn’t she a bit young? Especially when it comes to assisting with surgery.”

Gran’s face turns stern. “Taryn loves the work, and she’s a great help. I think she’s too valuable to let go just because your basketball season’s coming to an end. Since Zoe left and Sunita’s been so busy, the clinic is still shorthanded.” Her voice softens a little. “Come on, Maggie, I know you’re strong—strong enough to withstand Darla’s bullying and strong enough to include Taryn.” Gran gets up and puts her bowl in the sink. Then she turns around, her face slowly breaking into a smile. “You were just a little tyke when you began working at the clinic, remember? When you helped with your first surgery, you were even younger than Taryn.”

“True, but I was obsessed with animals,” I say.

“I think Taryn is devoted to animals, too. Don’t you?” Gran asks.

“Well, she did OK with Podge, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit, Maggie.” Gran squeezes my hand again. “Oh, by the way, I’m speaking at the New Tools of the Trade conference in Connecticut this Saturday. Would you like to stay overnight with a friend?”

Here’s your chance, MacKenzie.
“Can I come with you, Gran? I really want to see Drescher’s track and check on the condition of the greyhounds. It’s not far from the conference. I’ll do all my homework in Friday study hall, and there’s no practice this weekend, and—”

“Whoa, Maggie, slow down.” Gran holds up her hand like a traffic guard. “A dog track is no place for a kid. Even if you are a teenager.”

“Come on, Gran,” I plead. “We’ll be able to see Speedway firsthand. Maybe if we uncover something illegal, we can report it—or pressure Roselyn’s brother to clean up his act. Brenna and David and I did research on the Internet, and we could start an adoption program right at the track, and maybe you could find a trainer who’d be willing to donate some time—”

Gran’s got her hand up again. “You’ve got big ideas. I’ll
think about it.” Gran glances at her watch. “Maggie, you’d better get going. Your bus will be here any second.”

It’s almost impossible to change Gran’s mind once it’s made up, especially if it involves taking me to a place that might be dangerous. She’ll never let me go to Speedway.

After school I walk Gingerbread for the last time. Roselyn’s coming to pick her up later this afternoon.

Gingerbread is frisky and playful, catching snowballs in her mouth and sniffing the frozen drifts around the oak tree. I’m happy her foreleg is healing nicely, but I’m sad to see her go.

“Gingerbread, when Roselyn comes to pick you up, I’ll ask her for advice on how to talk to her brother. If I get to go, I won’t let you, Swift, and Yellow Bird down, I promise.” Gingerbread licks my hand. I lead Gingerbread back to her kennel and make sure she has fresh water. Then I go into the waiting room to make a final note on her chart.

Taryn greets me, waving an Ambler basketball banner. “Will you autograph this, Maggie?”

I shrug. “OK.” She hands me a pen.

Gran emerges from her office, juggling a pile of papers. “Taryn, will you get Podge, please? He needs his vitamin shot.”

“I’m on it, Dr. Mac.” Taryn runs off, waving the autographed banner.

Gran turns to me. “Maggie, after you file these papers, please bring Fletcher down. It’s time for his antibiotic shot.” I don’t have the nerve to ask Gran if she’s made up her mind about the track. I do tell her my idea about getting a handler for Swift so that he can find a new home faster. She thinks it’s a great suggestion and says she’ll call around.

The front doorbell jangles, and Brenna bursts in, whistling. Under her parka she’s wearing a Screech Owl Society T-shirt, baggy rust-colored pants, and an orange bandanna tied around her long brown hair. “Hey, Maggie, guess what?” Brenna plops down in the swivel chair and spins it. Her hair flies out around her.

“What.” Everyone’s so cheerful—I wish I had something to be cheerful about, too.

“Remember Darla, the one on your basketball team?”

How could I forget? I nod.

“Darla wants to organize a greyhound rescue club. Great minds think alike, huh? Isn’t that awesome?”

Anger rises in me like steam through a radiator. “I can’t believe Darla’s recruiting you for that!”

“What?” Brenna looks thoroughly confused. “I thought you’d like her idea.”

“Well, here’s the real deal. Darla’s mad at me for supposedly stealing her position on the basketball court. Coach Williams has kept me on center, which is the position she played at her old school. So now she’s just trying to copy my idea of rescuing greyhounds, just to get revenge.”

“I can’t believe she’s that petty,” Brenna says slowly.

“You’d be surprised,” I snap. “What does she have in mind, anyway?”

Brenna stops swiveling. “We’re meeting at school tomorrow to decide. Do you want to join us or not?”

In your dreams!
Brenna doesn’t get it. Darla’s got Brenna under her spell.

“Work with Darla? Not a chance.”

Brenna flips her long hair behind her and jumps out of the swivel chair. “There are majorly bad
vibes in this room.” Her tone is cold. “You’re being narrow-minded, Maggie. Stop thinking about yourself for once, and think about the greyhounds. Got to do my chores.” She disappears down the hall.

The clinic bell rings. I see from the window it’s Roselyn. What a miserable, rotten afternoon. Brenna’s mad at me, and now I’ve got to say good-bye to Gingerbread.

T
ime to go, pretty girl.” I pet Gingerbread’s rust-colored back and clip on her leash. “Roselyn’s going to be so proud of you!” Gingerbread’s nails click on the linoleum as we enter the waiting room. I dread saying good-bye.

Blasts of arctic air swirl in as the clinic door opens. “Boy, it’s cold out there,” Roselyn says, stamping her boots on the mat. “Hi, Maggie. Hey, Gingerbread!” Roselyn moves forward hesitantly, as if she’s afraid Gingerbread has forgotten who she is.

But Gingerbread runs up and licks Roselyn’s out-stretched
hand, her tail beating against Roselyn’s worn woolen coat.

“Gingerbread’s a real fighter!” Taryn says, bounding into the room. “You should have seen her playing in the snow, just as if she’d never hurt her leg at all.”

Taryn, give me some space
—I was going to tell Roselyn that.

Gran emerges from her office and makes post-recovery recommendations: “Don’t let her run more than ten minutes at first. Make sure she doesn’t get chilled. And go easy on the people food. Gingerbread must stay trim, so she doesn’t have to carry much weight.” Roselyn nods with each instruction. “Oh, I’ve spoken to a colleague of mine, Dr. Haverford. He’s a master handler who specializes in greyhounds,” Gran adds.

“Yes?” Roselyn’s eyes light up.

“He’s offered to work with Swift,” Gran announces. “With his help, finding a new owner should be easier.”

“That’s wonderful!” Roselyn hugs Gran.

“The retraining idea was actually Maggie’s,” Gran adds. “And if you promise to relocate Swift, Mrs. West says she won’t sue.”

“Oh! Thank you so much.” Roselyn hugs me, too. “Maggie, Dr.
MacKenzie, how can I repay you?” Roselyn writes a check and tears it from her checkbook. “I mean beyond this?”

“Just keep Gingerbread healthy. And don’t forget to check your fences for gaps. No more great escapes!” Gran smiles. “Here’s Dr. Haverford’s number.” Gran hands Roselyn a card, then pulls a bottle from her lab coat pocket. “Give Gingerbread a tablespoon a day of this mineral supplement to strengthen her bones.”

“Thanks again.” Roselyn wraps her scarf tightly and cracks open the door. Gingerbread scrambles outside, eagerly prodding her snout into snowdrifts.

“I’ll help them out, Gran.” I step into my boots and help Roselyn carry Gingerbread’s blanket and toys. “Um, may I talk to you a minute?” I ask as Roselyn climbs into her truck.

“Sure. Hop in.” She leans over to open the passenger door.

Gingerbread snuffs my shoulder as I begin. “My grandmother’s giving a talk in Connecticut, not far from Bridgeport.”

“Oh?” Roselyn seems surprised.

“Yes, and I’m hoping to go with her so I can visit the track, see the dogs—and try to talk your
brother into opening a greyhound adoption booth.”

Roselyn gets that nervous look again. “I don’t think—”

I cut in. “Can you give me advice on how to talk to your brother? What do you think?”
Don’t tell me I shouldn’t.

“Are you sure you want to confront Manny? He can be a little rough, and he won’t take kindly to criticism.” By the worried expression on her face I can tell she’s underplaying her concern.

“I’m sure.”

“You’re braver than I am, kiddo.” Roselyn shakes her head. “I’d say your best bet is to appeal to his business side—how will it make the track look good. A bit of moralizing never hurts, either. He likes to think he’s playing the good guy.” She grabs a pen from her handbag and a notepad from the glove compartment. She scribbles a map to Speedway, explains the route, and folds the paper into my hand. She holds it there for a moment. “Good luck, and keep me posted.”

“Thanks, Roselyn.” Gingerbread’s curled up in a ball next to Roselyn. She must feel at home already. “Bye-bye, Ginger.”

I won’t let you down.

Brrring! The clinic bell jangles again, just as I’m on my way to feed and water the boarding animals. Taryn can get it. If she needs me, she can buzz me on the intercom. But suddenly a familiar voice in the waiting room stops me. The tone is high, alarmed. Where have I heard that voice before? I dash back down the hall and peer into the waiting room.

She has nerve to set foot in here!

Darla’s face is all puffy and she’s blubbering to Taryn. “Hoops has eaten something. He’s gagging and really hyper. He needs help—quick!” Her shoulders shake as she holds Hoops in her arms.

I trudge over, feeling mad, confused, totally weird. Darla sniffs back tears and stumbles over her words. “My regular vet’s on vacation. Please help me!”

Gran steps in. “What have we here?” She quickly takes in the scene and directs Darla into the Dolittle Room.

Darla’s still my enemy, but this dog needs help, and fast. I help her lift Hoops onto the examining table. He’s hard to steady because his feet are scratching at the metal surface in a wild scramble to jump off.

“What’s wrong with him, Dr. MacKenzie? What’s wrong?” Darla’s almost hysterical. Hoops’s black-and-white-spotted body begins to spasm violently, and his eyes roll back. We struggle to keep him from falling.

“We’ll soon see.” Gran pulls out her stethoscope.

“Can I help, too?” Taryn pleads. She gazes at Hoops, her brown eyes looking a little panicked.

A fifth-grader fumbling over a life-and-death matter is the last thing we need.