Welcome to Dog Beach (12 page)

My mom walks with Mr. Brookfield over to the garden at the side of the house. I twist my head a little to move my ear as close to the conversation as possible.

“Their mother would like them to be more social,” I hear Mr. Brookfield say. “I am doing what I can. Would Remy like to come over for pizza later?”

I can't help but smile. Mr. Brookfield is making plans for Calvin and Claire like they're little kids. I bet back in Westchester, they're super popular and always busy. But on
Seagate, if you're not happy, you're a little bit weird.

“It's fine with me, but maybe you'll just want to ask Remy on your way out?” I hear my mom say. I don't know what to do. I don't want to say yes if I don't know if Micayla and Bennett are going. I don't know Calvin and Claire that well, and they don't really seem to like me, so I wouldn't want to go alone. But I can't tell Mr. Brookfield that.

“Remy, my dear.” Mr. Brookfield looks around for me. He pretty much calls everyone his dear, but it's still a nice thing to say. “Would you care to dine at Casa Brookfield this evening? We will be eating Seagate's finest pizza.”

I smile. “I accept your invitation, Mr. Brookfield.”

“She's so polite,” he tells my mom, and then turns to me. “See you at six.”

When we can't see Mr. Brookfield anymore, my mom says, “That was nice of you, Remy. He's hoping his grandchildren can make the most of their summer here.”

“It doesn't seem like they try very hard,” I grumble. “And Seagate isn't a place you have to make the most of. It's a place where you relish every second.”

“That may be true for you, but what's true for you isn't true for everyone.”

It is as far as I can see.

A few minutes later, Micayla and Bennett text that they're going over to Mr. Brookfield's too, and I immediately feel better. It won't be that bad. If you're eating slices from Seagate Pizzeria, you don't really have much to complain about.

At six, we all meet over there. I'm the first one to arrive, so Claire takes me up to her room and shows me some of the new jeans she got when she was home.

“These are called the Five-Pocket Rocket,” she tells me. “I hope I'm the only one to have them when we start school.”

“They're really nice,” I say, not because I notice anything that special about them, but because she seems so happy and proud.

She puts that pair on her bed and takes another pair out of the pale pink shopping bag. “And these are the Toile Stamp. They're brand-new, but the lady at the jeans store said they're definitely the next big thing.”

“I like the stitching on the pockets.” It was all I could come up with. To me, jeans are jeans. I can't ever tell the difference.

“That's exactly why they're going to be such a big deal,” Claire says, holding the jeans up in front of us. “The stitching is all hand-done, and each pair is a tiny bit different.”

“I could tell,” I say, feeling proud I noticed something special. Then, a second later, it feels weird to be proud of noticing something I don't care about, like jeans.

We hear the doorbell, and for a moment I'm disappointed. Claire and I were finally connecting. Sure, it was about something totally superficial, but I still felt good about it.

“My man! Bennett!” I hear Calvin say. I look over the second-floor railing as they greet each other. They slap a
high five so loud that I'm sure it made their hands sting.

“Calvin!” Bennett yells, and they do this weird chest-bump thing. I've never seen Bennett like this. It's almost as if he's acting in a play.

As soon as he sees me, he straightens his shirt a little and starts talking in his normal voice again. Soon Micayla arrives, and we sit in Mr. Brookfield's backyard drinking lemonade and eating cookies.

“Here we eat dessert before dinner,” Mr. Brookfield tells us. “It's kind of a house rule.”

“My kind of rule,” I add.

Bennett and Calvin play paddleball against the back of Mr. Brookfield's house, and Claire, Micayla, and I sit around, still talking about Claire's new jeans. It seems that if we're talking about what she wants to talk about, she's happy. That's probably not a good quality, but it's better than having her rain on everyone else's fun.

“Pizza delivery!” Mr. Brookfield walks into the backyard carrying five pizzas. I'm pretty sure he over-ordered. Bennett jumps up to help him, and I feel proud again, prouder than Claire was about her new jeans.

Bennett is a good person. So what if he talked in that crazy voice before? He's good. He always does the right thing. I watch him talking to Mr. Brookfield as they set up the pizza, and I realize something. It doesn't matter who you are—if Bennett is talking to you, you feel like you're the only person in the world.

We sit and eat our pizza on Mr. Brookfield's Adirondack chairs.

“Would anyone care for some nice music while you eat your dinner?” Mr. Brookfield asks.

“Put on that scream recording,” I tell him.

“Yeah!” Micayla says.

“Seriously, guys.” Claire makes a face at us. “No one wants to listen to someone screaming over and over again.”

“We do,” I say.

Bennett looks at Calvin. It seems like he's waiting to see what Calvin does before he says anything. Maybe they're not paying attention, though, because they both stand up for another slice. They've already finished a whole pizza, just the two of them.

Mr. Brookfield puts on the scream recording loud enough for us to hear it in the backyard but not so loud that those awful Spitzes hear it next door. Although maybe it would stop their bickering and bring a smile to their always-disgruntled faces.

“Tell us the story again,” I say to Mr. Brookfield, and everyone groans, except Bennett. I know most people don't like to hear the same story over and over again, so I don't mind when the rest of them go inside to play some video game on the computer, and I stay outside with Mr. Brookfield.

“Mrs. Pursuit said that maybe next summer your scream could be the signal for the start of the Sandcastle Contest,” I tell him.

“Ah, never thought of that,” he says.

“We can find other ways to make your scream a part of the Seagate tradition,” I say. “It doesn't just have to live in the recording forever.”

He replies, “I don't mind it. Sometimes things stay in the past and that's okay.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes, Remy.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Now go on inside with everyone else. Calvin has been playing this video game nonstop. Maybe you can explain to me what the big deal is.”

“I'll try.”

Bennett and Calvin play the game for hours—or at least it seems that way—so Claire, Micayla, and I go back upstairs to look through Claire's closet.

“I'm glad you guys are so into fashion,” she says, which makes me realize that maybe she's not all that into fashion herself. If she were, she'd probably be able to tell that we pretty much wear the same jean shorts every single day.

We're going through Claire's hooded sweatshirt collection (so far we've counted fifteen) when we hear stomping up the stairs. The boys come barging in.

I hear my phone beep three times, telling me I have a voice mail. I can't believe what it says.

“You guys,” I say, a little out of breath. “I just got a call. Marilyn Monroe's mother recommended us to another dog owner.”

“Marilyn Monroe's mother!” Claire yelps, and bursts out laughing.

“She's a dog,” I explain.

“She's, like, a really famous, beautiful actress, Remy,” Claire replies.

“Duh. I know that. But Marilyn Monroe is also the name of a dog on Seagate.” I glare at her. “I watch her two mornings a week. She's my pal.”

“When? What kind of dog?” Micayla asks, ignoring Claire.

Claire looks at us like we've all lost our minds and goes back to her closet. I wonder if she has any clothes left at home, or if she brought everything she owns to Seagate.

“A Newfoundland named Rascal,” I tell them. “I don't know when. We have to call her back.”

I look at my phone to make sure I save the message and see another missed call and a voice mail. A man needs help with his German shepherd named Atticus.

“Wow, are you guys, like, running a dog-sitting business or something?” Claire asks, folding what seems like her fifth gray hoodie.

“I guess so,” the three of us reply at the same time.

Sometimes something that starts out small becomes another thing entirely. Watching one dog turned into watching many dogs. And maybe that's how Mr. Brookfield feels about his scream. To him, it's just a loud scream, but to movie watchers, it's a huge part of the experience.

Micayla, Bennett, and I agreed to meet at the
Dollhouse Café for breakfast at eight in the morning. We want to beat the brunch crowd and be able to sit and talk about our plans for this dog-sitting business. When we first discussed a doggie day camp, we were kidding, but now that we're starting to get more requests, it really seems like it's happening.

Although I'm usually the latest sleeper of us all, I get to the Dollhouse Café before they do, which is great because it gives me a few minutes to look around and see if Fatima has added any new dollhouses to the place. She collects dollhouses, but she keeps them all at the restaurant so that everyone can see them. She even lets the kids play with them before their meal arrives or when they're done and waiting for their parents to finish. She has every kind of dollhouse—old
wooden ones, modern plastic ones, steep dollhouses like brownstones in Brooklyn, and sprawling mansions like you'd find in Victorian England.

The scrambled eggs here are the best in the world, and you get some time to play with a dollhouse—what could be better?

Fatima greets me with her famous “How are things?” and I tell her I'm meeting Micayla and Bennett here. She brings a basket of fresh muffins and scones and a hot chocolate.

“Sorry we're late,” Bennett says when they get to the table.

We all order the same thing: scrambled eggs with cheddar and chives (Fatima's specialty), as well as buttered biscuits and home fries.

“Calvin was really intrigued by our business,” Bennett tells us.

“Let's not declare it a business yet,” Micayla adds. “We haven't even called the new clients back.”

Micayla's usually a morning person, but she seems really grumpy today. She's slumped over in her chair, and her eyes are puffy, almost like she's been crying.

“Let's vote on a name first,” Bennett says. “Things become real when they have a name, I think.”

I take a second to ponder that, and I think he may be on to something. Maybe Mr. Brookfield's scream never became known because it didn't have a name. I wonder what would happen if we named it now.

“Sure,” I say. “How about the Seagate Dog Sitters Service?”

“What about Seagate Pooch Pals?” Micayla suggests.

“Or Seagate Doggie Day Camp, like we said originally?” Bennett starts writing down the names on the place mat. I like how organized he is.

I sip my hot chocolate and say, “Y'know what? Let's think about it while we discuss all the other stuff first.” If we're going to name it, it has to be the right name. And I'm just not sure we can come up with it on the spot.

They agree, and I go through all the other stuff that we need to discuss: calling back the people who have called us, making up a schedule of who handles what dog and when, putting up posters so we can get other customers, and making sure we always have bags to carry any supplies the dogs need and also to clean up after them.

“This is kind of a lot of work,” Micayla admits.

“It'll be fine, Mic.” I rub her shoulder. “We're in this together.”

“What about me? I have to take care of Asher, and Calvin's trying to convince me to take this lifeguarding class with him at the pool. It starts in a few days.” Bennett's phone starts ringing and he answers it right here, even though his mom hates it when people take calls in restaurants. “Yo, dude,” he says. “Yeah, okay, I'll call you.”