Snitch (2 page)

“So, how was it?” Andrew said. He was waiting for me out in the parking lot. He had come directly from work. His main job was shift manager at a video store. He still had on his store T-shirt. He had a second job delivering newspapers. He did that between 3:30 and 5:30 in the morning.

“What do you think?” I said. I got into the car and slammed the door. I had spent
half an hour with that stupid dog. Most of the time Scott was right there with me because it turned out—
of course
—that my dog had more problems than any of the other dogs in the program.

“Yeah, but dogs,” Andrew said. “That should be fun, right? Remember when you were little? You always wanted a dog.”

I'd been mad, too, that I had never got one. My dad always said they were more trouble than kids, and kids were trouble enough. The only kind of animal my dad liked was fish—at the end of his fishing line. My main memory of my dad is going fishing with him. Hauling in a fish and dropping it into the bottom of his old boat and bashing its brains in with the weighted wooden fish basher he called a priest. My dad was calm and happy when he was in his boat with some beer and some bait. And because he was happy, I was happy.

After Andrew figured out that I didn't want to talk about the program, he put
on some music. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep until we got home.

The whole building smelled like food, even the elevator. I could pick out the smell of onions and garlic and curry and chicken. Some people think it stinks, especially the curry smell, but not me. Those smells always make my mouth water.

When the elevator opened on the eighth floor, where Andrew's apartment is, Daryl Matheson pushed his way in while Andrew and I were trying to get out. Daryl, lives at the opposite end of the hall from Andrew. Andrew doesn't like him. He says guys like Daryl who spend all their time just hanging around, are on their way to nowhere, probably via the prison system.

Daryl smirked at me when I stepped around him to get out of the elevator.

“You got the worst stuff I ever saw,” he said. “Nothing even worth stealing.”

I couldn't figure out what he was talking about until I saw what was sitting
in the hall outside Andrew's apartment door. It was a wooden crate with my name painted on the side.

“Hey!” I said. I'd had that crate forever. My dad had made it for me and had stenciled my name on it. It was heaped high with my stuff—clothes and CDs and a bunch of my other things. “What's this doing out here?”

Andrew unlocked the apartment door. I scooped up the crate and followed him inside. Miranda was standing in the kitchen, a magazine open on the counter in front of her. Great, she was going to try another recipe. She was always trying new recipes, most of them vegetarian, and they were always terrible.

“What was my stuff doing out in the hall?” I said.

“You're lucky the baby's been cranky all day,” Miranda said. “Otherwise it would be out back by the dumpster. I told you, Josh. You can't leave your stuff lying all over the living room. That's where I watch TV. That's where the baby plays.”

“Yeah, but, jeez, it's my stuff. You can't just—”

Miranda reached into the box and pulled out my penknife. “The baby had this in his mouth,” she said. She reached in again. “And yesterday I found him pounding on my new table with this.” She held up the wood priest—what she preferred to call a fish club. She always made a sour face when she saw it. She thought it was barbaric to club fish. The priest had my initials on it. Well, really they were my dad's initials. But his name was Jack, so his initials were the same as mine.

Andrew shook his head when he saw it. “What do you even have that thing for?” he said.

“Dad gave it to me.”

Andrew made a sour face. “If he'd given it to me, I'd have burned it a long time ago,” he said. “I'd have burned anything he gave me, even thousand-dollar bills.” He looked at the priest again. “I can't believe they gave that back to you.”

I had to practically beg my youth worker, who finally managed to get it returned. I told him it was the only thing I had of my dad's.

“If it were me—” said Andrew. He stopped when I gave him a sharp look.

“What do you mean?” Miranda said. She had been engaged to Andrew at the time, so she knew I'd been in trouble. But she didn't know all the details.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing, okay? And stay away from my stuff, Miranda, unless you want to find a box of your things out in the hall.”

“Come on, Josh,” Andrew said, trying to calm me down. Then the baby started wailing.

“I think he's cutting another tooth,” Miranda said. “He's been crying all day. Go pick him up, Andrew.” She did that a lot too—bossed Andrew around, told him, “Do this, do that,” as soon as he got home from work. He never argued. He went into the living room, where a play-pen was crammed in between the sofa
and the dining table. The baby yowled even louder when Andrew picked him up.

Miranda turned to me. “This is my place, Josh. I don't want it messy and I don't want the baby picking up things he shouldn't. You understand me?”

I opened the fridge.

“Stay out of there,” she said. “We're going to have supper soon.”

I reached inside for a piece of leftover chicken. Andrew went along with the vegetarian stuff, but he still insisted on meat once in a while. Miranda grabbed it out of my hand and shut the fridge door.

“I mean it, Josh.” She was always saying that. “You're going to have to wait.”

In the other room, the baby was still yowling. Jeez, what a place!

That night I heard Andrew and Miranda talking. If you ask me, Miranda planned it that way. She didn't even bother keeping her voice down.

“He can't stay here forever,” she said. “He's rude. He never helps out.”

“That's not true,” Andrew said. “He's great with Digby.”

“When he
wants
to be, which isn't very often. I love you, Andrew. And I know you feel responsible for Josh. But it's just not working out.”

I expected Andrew to cave in to her like he always did. But instead he argued with her. He told her he
was
responsible for me. He told her that as soon as I finished the program, I was going to get a job and start to pay my own way. He told her I was trying hard to change. Then it got quiet. It didn't surprise me. Miranda was one of those people who clammed up when she didn't get her own way.

The bedroom door opened.

“Josh?” Andrew said, his voice low.

I pretended to be asleep. I heard him go into the kitchen. A little later I heard the apartment door open and then close again. In the bedroom, the baby started to cry.

When we arrived at the program, we were supposed to go and see our dogs so they could get used to us. Then we went to the training room and spent forty-five minutes talking about what our day had been like so far. Mr. Weller said the idea was to decompress before Maggie and Scott got there and showed us how to train the dogs. He said the dogs could tell if we were tense or angry about something, but
that if we talked out our problems first, we would be relaxed and that would relax the dogs. Maybe it would have worked, too, except that as soon as we settled in a circle in the training room, someone new joined us.

Travis Keenan.

He swaggered into the room, looking cool in his leather jacket, his hands jammed into the pockets. He looked around like he expected everybody to drop what they were doing and pay attention to him. That's the kind of guy he was. It didn't matter how big a room was, it was never big enough for Travis and his ego. He had a scar under one eye that made him look even meaner than he was.

Mr. Weller got up and got a chair for him, which probably made Travis feel even more special. Then we all had to say our names one by one and talk about the best thing and the worst thing that had happened to us so far that day. I said the best thing was coming up here to learn something new, even though that wasn't
true. The actual best thing so far was getting out of the house so I didn't have to listen to Miranda nag at me. I said the worst thing hadn't happened yet, even though I couldn't think of anything worse than Travis being part of the group. Mr. Weller looked at me as if he didn't quite believe me, but he let it pass.

When we finished going round the circle, Mr. Weller told us to stack the chairs out of the way. Travis hooked his chair in one hand and started to drag it over to the wall. He paused when he got to me and said, “Don't think I've forgotten about you, Gillick.” Then he stared at me, trying to scare me. Right.

Mr. Weller clapped his hands to get our attention. Some guy I had never seen before came into the room and stood next to Mr. Weller. He was holding a camera. Then Maggie and Scott and a couple of other people brought in the dogs. I was kind of hoping Sully, the big white dog from yesterday, had got sick or something. But, no, there he was, barking and
straining at his leash. It was complete chaos for a few minutes until everyone got their dogs. I hung back as long as I could. Finally I had no choice. I took Sully by the leash. He barked and jumped up on me.

“Hey!” I said. “Stop. Bad dog.”

The guy with the camera turned toward me. I realized he was videotaping me.

“Hey,” I said. “Point that thing somewhere else.” But I don't think he heard me because Sully was still barking and jumping up on me. Finally Scott came over, took the leash from me and talked gently but firmly to the dog. And, just like that, the dog calmed down. Figures, huh?

“He knows me,” Scott said. “He'll be better when he gets to know you.”

Maggie said we were going to start teaching the dogs how to obey commands. She said the goal was to get the dogs to obey the commands every single time. The first thing she showed us was how to get the dogs to sit. It sounded simple, especially when she demonstrated it with
a dog she had brought with her. But guess what? It wasn't simple. Especially not with Sully.

The girl, Amy, got her mousy little dog to sit down almost right away. Her dog wasn't aggressive like most of the others. Her dog was terrified of people.

Most of the other guys got their dogs to sit at least once.

Even Travis finally got his dog to sit.

But me? My stupid dog just stood there, no matter how many times I followed Maggie's instructions. Finally I lost it. I shoved the dog's butt down onto the floor and told him to stay there. The dog's response: he jumped up, barking and growling, and tried to take a chunk out of me. When I jumped back out of his way, I stepped on Amy's dog's tail. The little dog yowled and bit my ankle—actually
bit
my ankle. Everyone thought that was hilarious. Well, except for Mr. Weller. He got Maggie to take my dog, and then he told Scott to take me to the first-aid room and have someone look at my ankle.

“I can find it myself,” I said. No way was I going anywhere with Scott.

Mr. Weller looked at me, but he didn't argue. Instead he gave me directions.

The dog's sharp teeth had broken the skin. The woman who looked at the bite—she was young and had a terrific smile—said it wasn't deep and I shouldn't worry because the dog had had all her shots. She washed it and put some cream on and a Band-Aid on top of that.

When I went back into the room, Sully barked at me again. Stupid dog. Everyone laughed.

“Hey, Gillick,” Travis said. “They got you on tape. Maybe we should send it to that funny video show on TV—what do you think?”

Everyone laughed again.

Andrew was waiting out in the parking lot. He looked tired. It had been late the night before when he went out, and I hadn't heard him come back in.

“How'd it go?” he said.

“You gonna ask me that every day?” I snapped.

“Whoa. Someone's in a bad mood.”

I got in the car and slammed the door. Andrew got in beside me.

“That bad, huh?” he said, smiling, trying to keep it light.

“I hate it, okay?” I said. “I hate the stupid dogs. I hate the people there. I hate everything about it.”

“Well, you're going to have to stick with it, Josh,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I have no choice. They're making me do it. But they can't make me like it.”

Blam!
Jeez, I just about jumped out of my seat. Andrew had brought both his fists down hard on the steering wheel. His face was all twisted. He looked like he wanted to punch something. He sat there, breathing hard, not moving. After about a minute, his breathing went back to normal.

“They called me in to work tonight,”
he said. “I'll drop you off, then I have to go.”

Great. One crappy day followed by what was guaranteed to be a crappy night alone with Miranda.

“Hurry up, Josh. You're going to be late,” Miranda said for what was probably the hundredth time the next afternoon.

I was rooting in a pile of my stuff that was still in the crate that Miranda had threatened to throw out the other day. I knew there was a clean T-shirt in there somewhere. Digby had thrown strained carrots at the one I was wearing when I got home from school and I hadn't gotten
around to taking all my dirty stuff down to the laundry room in the basement.

“Josh, did you hear me? You're going to be late.”

Her voice was as high and irritating as a dentist's drill. I couldn't figure out how Andrew could stand it. I found a clean shirt—well, cleaner than the one I had on—and changed into it. I threw the stained one into the crate.

“You should do your laundry, Josh,” Miranda said.

“I gotta go,” I said. I hurried out of the apartment and spent five minutes waiting for the stupid elevator. It didn't come. So I ran down seven flights of stairs to the main floor.