have no doubt that you’re ready, Laurel. But your frame of mind . . . well, we just want you to be able to perform at your ability. There’s another test date in June.”
“I need to take it at the same time my friends are.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. I need to take it because if it weren’t for all that time studying for this test, my parents and Toby might be alive right now. I would have gone with them that night and we would have taken our own car.
That thought grabbed hold of me and held on tight.
Mr. Churchwell paused, then said, “Okay, Laurel. I’ll see you on Saturday. If you have anything else you want to talk about, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” I squeaked out, then hung up.
Wiggle out of it. Focus.
I grabbed my SAT prep book and stared at it again, and it was like a hole I could climb through to escape this tight little box of guilt. I headed to my favorite study spot: the three-foot alley behind the white couch and a wall of windows in the living room. I was just getting settled in when I looked out the window and saw our neighbor Mr. Mita out on the street, walking Masher, the Kaufmans’ dog. Masher was straining at his leash, desperate for a little speed and freedom, but Mr. Mita was having trouble keeping up. Masher was a good dog, a black-and-white Border collie with a T-shaped blaze down his forehead. He was always getting out of his yard and roaming the neighborhood, checking up on our houses like they were his flock of sheep.
I thought of Masher in the Kaufmans’ house, not understanding why everyone was gone but sensing something big had happened. Whining at the windows. Scratching at the front door. Confused and devastated, sort of like me.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself on the Mitas’ porch, knocking.
“What?” said Nana when I told her.
“I feel it’s the right thing to do,” I offered in my defense.
“Can I at least think about it overnight?”
“Mr. Mita’s bringing him over in half an hour. He’s just getting the bowls and food and stuff from the Kaufmans’.”
“Laurel . . . ,” Nana said, dropping her head so she could rub her forehead with two fingers. “You know how I feel about dogs.”
But then she looked up at me and I met her eyes, and I could see her giving in.
Wow, I thought. She can’t say no to me.
I’d always wanted a dog, for as long as I could remember. “We travel too much,” my dad would say when I mentioned it. “I’m not a dog person,” my mother would whine.
So I chose to picture only Toby’s reaction—laughing, rolling on the floor with glee—when Masher burst into our living room that night, all hyper and poking his nose everywhere he could fit it. He smelled musty and his coat was dusty, and he kept shaking it out like he was trying to brush off the lonely, dark, sad place his home had become, and I vowed to give him a bath in the morning. In minutes he was curled on top of me, panting and licking my elbows, and getting dirty looks from the cats.
I started studying like crazy. It seemed my fingertips were always on the edge of the SAT book, feeling the frayed softness or running across the glossy surface of its cover. When Meg came over so we could quiz each other, we didn’t ever talk about school, but one night she said casually, “Julia La Paz came over today and talked to me. She asked me how you were.”
“Ew.”
Julia was David’s girlfriend and had neon-pink hair down past her shoulders. Sometimes people called her “My Little Pony” to be mean.
“No, she was like, kinda nice. Depressed, actually. She hasn’t heard from David in a week.”
I tried to picture Meg and Julia chatting together by a locker, their heads close, but couldn’t do it. It was like trying to imagine the earth flat.
“Did she go to the hospital? She knows he’s there, right?”
Meg nodded. “She knows. She’s just scared.”
And then I shut up, because yeah, I would be scared too.
On SAT Saturday I awoke from the deepest sleep I’d had since the accident. I didn’t have any dreams, and my sheets weren’t even soaked with sweat. Right away, words started marching through my head. Assiduous: “hard-working.” Ostentatious: “displaying wealth.” Vindicate: “to clear from blame.” Rancorous: “hateful.”