Unhappy Appy (7 page)

When I hung up, the phone felt cold in my hand.

I told Pat and Catman bye and headed home alone, pushing my bike into a head wind that blew through me as if I were hollow.

Monday when I headed out for barn chores, Dad was already outside working on the Spidells' horse clippers. I shivered in the morning chill, my breath making wintry puffs.

“Two down, one to go!” Dad shouted across the yard.

“You'll get it!” I shouted back.

He waved something that wasn't a clipper in the air. “Got tied up last night working on this. It's a dog watch!”

“Sounds good!” I hurried to the barn before Dad could ask me to test-drive the dog watch, whatever it was.

Towaco came in for oats, but he didn't devour it the way Nickers did. I mucked stalls, then ran back to clean up for school.

Lizzy was pulling something great-smelling out of the oven.

“Oatmeal pie!” Geri announced. Since Hawk hadn't come, Geri had slept over.

Lizzy blessed the pie, and we dug in.

I couldn't get in a word sideways as the three of us downed our oatmeal in pie form.

“What we want,” Lizzy explained, taking a sip of fat-free milk, “is to show the world that lizards and frogs can be friends—”

“See,” Geri chimed in, “we discovered that lizards love frog music! I used my frog CD!”

“—because,” Lizzy continued, “if God's creatures, lizards and frogs, can learn to live together in peace, well, why can't we? It's a step toward world peace, Winnie!”

Great. Even lizards and frogs had friends.

They cleared the table, leaving Dad's plate and my grape juice and what was left of the pie.

“We're walking to school. Hawk can ride my back bike with you if you want,” Lizzy offered.

“Thanks, Lizzy!”

They took off 45 minutes early. My little sister has always been the first one to school. I guess Geri would be the second.

I waited for Hawk and had another piece of pie. Through the window I could see Dad fiddling with the watch. At his feet lay the clippers. I didn't want to be around when Mr. Spidell came for them.

A red sports car drove up. I ran outside just as Hawk and her dad were getting out.

Mr. Hawkins wore a dark gray suit, striped tie, and shiny shoes. His short brown hair had definitely been cut someplace other than Claire Coolidge's Beauty Salon. Even though he was a couple inches shorter than my dad, he stood up so straight he seemed taller.

Dad, in his old tan overalls, shouted, “Welcome!” He wiped his hands on his pant legs before shaking Mr. Hawkins's hand. “I'll help you carry things in.” Dad opened the backseat door, and out flew a bright red bird with green-and-yellow wings. The parrot, a chattering lory, flew to Hawk's shoulder.

“Hey, Peter Lory!” I called. Hawk had named her bird after Peter Lorre, an actor who starred in the old gangster movies she likes to watch. “Hey, Hawk!”

“Squawk! Hey, Hawk!”
Peter Lory cried.

“Thank you for having me,” Hawk said, hugging a pillow to her chest.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, sounding as weird as she did. The politeness reminded me how Dad and I were after Mom died—too polite, as if manners could make up for what we didn't feel anymore.

Her dad flashed a smile, showing perfect, white teeth. “Really, Willis. I appreciate this. Wish you'd let us pay you.”

“For what?” Dad asked.

Mr. Hawkins laughed. Then Dad chuckled along. But I knew he'd really been stumped for a minute. Dad wouldn't dream of having somebody pay to sleep over.

The sports car was filled to the roof with stuff. I carried in a backpack and a down sleeping bag the first trip. I'd already told Hawk she could have my bed.

She and I carried in two more blankets, a CD player, a bag of makeup, her laptop, and a bunch of little stuff, while the dads hauled huge suitcases and a bunch of boxes. When we ran out of room in Lizzy's and my bedroom, we set things in our living room.

Finally Mr. Hawkins carried in a tall, gold birdcage with Hawk's two lovebirds on tiny perches. He set the cage down on one of the suitcases and frowned at the room, like he was leaving his daughter in prison. The birds stopped singing and scooted closer together.

Outside, a car tore up our street and squealed to a stop. We moved to the doorway in time to see Hawk's mom get out of a black Mercedes. She slammed the door and marched right for us. She wore a long, black wool coat with the collar turned up.

“You couldn't even wait for me?” she demanded, glaring past us to her husband. I wouldn't have wanted to be him. Then, as if she'd just noticed we were there, she smiled. “Hello, Winnie, Mr. Willis.”

“Jack,” my dad corrected, stepping back to let her in.

“Jack,” she repeated. “We really appreciate this.” She whispered something to Mr. Hawkins that didn't sound as nice as when she talked to Dad.

Mr. Hawkins shrugged. “You slept in. What was I supposed to do?”

Hawk stepped out of my room, her leather book bag over her shoulder.

“Victoria! There you are!” Mrs. Hawkins stepped over boxes to get to her daughter. “I wanted to drive you over myself, honey.”

Hawk didn't say anything.

“Actually, it was a good thing I didn't come earlier,” Mrs. Hawkins went on. “The vet called. He got the final lab report in. There's nothing physically wrong with the Appaloosa. The vet thinks it might be clinical depression. I didn't know horses could get that. Did you?”

Hawk glanced at me, obviously expecting me to step in.

“Horses get depressed,” I said, my voice so hoarse Mr. Hawkins asked me to repeat it. I did.

“Don't they have drugs to help?” Mr. Hawkins asked.

“I was just getting to that,” Mrs. Hawkins continued. “I asked the vet, and he said we could put Towaco on equine antidepressants.”

“Don't do that!” I blurted out. They turned to me, and I was afraid nothing else would come out when I opened my mouth. “I-I can get Towaco to come around.
We
can . . . Hawk and me.”

Mr. Hawkins put his hand on Hawk's shoulder. “Honey, if you want to sell your horse and get a new one, that's okay. I'll help you find the perfect horse.”

“I have a client who raises show horses,” Mrs. Hawkins said quickly, putting her arm around Hawk too. “Would you like me to talk to him?”

I waited for Hawk to protest. I stared at her, but she wouldn't look at me. Instead she shrugged.

Could she possibly be thinking about it? Dumping Towaco for another horse? What is wrong with her?

Finally Hawk said, “I do not want to be late for school.”

Mrs. Hawkins glanced at her wristwatch. “And we don't want to miss our flight.”

“Lizzy left her bike for you, Hawk. We can ride together.” I stuck my sack lunch in my pack.

Hawk glanced at her dad, then at her mom. “I think I will ride with my parents. But I will see you at school.”

They offered me a ride, but I needed to bike to Pat's Pets after school.

I looked around at the boxes filled with Hawk's stuff and watched her parents fight over who got to drop her off. One thing was sure—Victoria Hawkins wouldn't have any trouble coming up with three things to be thankful for on Thanksgiving Day.

As I pedaled to school, backwards and alone, I tried to convince myself that Hawk really would have biked with me if she hadn't wanted more time with her parents. Everywhere I looked, people were in twos—grown-ups jogging, kids walking to school. Even birds on telephone wires hung out in pairs.

By the time I got to Ashland Middle School, Hawk was already on the steps with Summer Spidell, Grant Baines, and the rest of the popular group. Grant's Quarter Horse was one of the first problem horses I trained. He and Hawk waved. But it was a “hello” wave, not a “come on over” wave.

The bell rang as I shoved my bike into the rack next to Catman's. No lock needed when you ride a backward bike.

I did giant steps down the hall and made it to Ms. Brumby's English class as the last bell stopped ringing. A legal non-tardy.

Ms. Brumby glared at me anyway as I headed for my seat. She reminds me of the Brumby horse. Brumbies are Roman-nosed, Australian scrub horses almost too disagreeable to train. Today she would have been a bay Brumby. She was dressed totally in brown, from her shoes to the tiny bow in her hair.

“Would
everyone
please take a seat?” she asked.

Since I was the only one not sitting, I slid into my seat next to Barker's empty chair. I missed Eddy Barker.

The class was noisier than usual, so Ms. Brumby raised her voice more than usual. “Class! It's not Thanksgiving vacation yet! However, anticipating your festive mood, I've come up with a special team assignment that should take us up to the break. I want you to pair off with a friend and prepare a report on friendship, in light of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.”

All across the room, kids yelled, grabbing up partners left and right.

I tried to get Hawk's attention, but she and Summer sat in the back row and were already scooting their chairs closer together.

My chest tightened as I watched everybody else pair up. I'd have given anything to have Barker walk through the door. I looked for Sal, a.k.a. Salena. She's in Summer's group, but she's okay anyway. I spotted her by her hoop earrings, bigger than bracelets, and her bright orange hair. She'd already teamed up with Brian. They wouldn't get anything done.

“Kaylee!” I shouted to a Chinese-American girl I'd been wanting to get to know better. She waved, then shrugged and pointed to Amy.

“All right! Everyone have a partner?” Ms. Brumby shouted.

Please don't ask us to raise our hands if—

“Raise your hand if you don't have a partner!” Ms. Brumby demanded.

I faced front, stared at her brown shoes, and held my right elbow with my left hand. Could have been a hand raise, could have passed for an itch.

When I glanced up, our teacher was staring down at me. I peeked over my shoulder. No one else had a hand up.

“Hmm . . .” Ms. Brumby tapped her shoe. “Guess we have an odd number.”

I knew who the odd number was.

We all did.