I tipped back Barnaby’s base to see the metal key waiting for me. “Score,” I whispered to myself, but before inserting it into the keyhole, I hesitated. Because I could hear heavybreathing, and it wasn’t mine. Quickly and quietly, I pressed my ear against the door.
Dammit,I thought.Rooney.
Rooney was our dog, a stubborn boxer-bloodhound mix that Grace had fallen in love with at the ASPCA and convinced our parents to adopt after her first summer volunteering there. The color of pumpkin pie, he barked the second I entered any room. “It’s because he’s suspicious,” my sister had told us after the paperwork had been signed, sealed, and delivered. “We believe he was abandoned, so that’s why he’s wary of you, James. He always is when meeting new people.” She cuddled the dog close. “But once he gets to know you, he’ll become really protective.”
Two years later, and I was still waiting for that protectiveness to include me.Could Grace actually be upstairs?I wondered, because it was very clear Rooney was on the other side of the door and had no intention of abandoning his guard post.
I don’t have time for this,I internally moaned.I definitelydo nothave time for this!
A stray tennis ball hid in the shrubs, so I scooped that up before I turned the key in the lock and twisted the knob. “Hey, Rooney…,” I said slowly after pushing open the door. “How was your morning?”
No joke, the dog’s glare gave me goose bumps. It reminded me of walking into Principal Unger’s office. He started barking.
I waved the neon yellow ball in front of him so he’d shut up. “You wanna play?”
Fetch? He couldn’t resist.
But instead of chasing the ball—I watched it fly toward our sycamore tree—he launched himself at me to steal the Subaru’s key fob that dangled from my fingers. My grip tightened too late; he’d tugged them out of my hand.
Shit.
Shit, shit,shit.
“Rooney!” I whisper-shouted, not wanting any neighbors to overhear. “Rooney, come back here!”
My sister’s dog, shockingly, didn’t listen. He thought I needed to work for the car keys, teasing me until I gave in and started chasing him around the yard. I grabbed the tennis ball and tried distracting him with another toss, but to no avail. Heart pulsing, I ran in figure eights across the lawn. Exercise-wise, Rooney was pretty laidback (I had never been known for my athleticism either), but now he kicked it into high gear. We played a good three minutes of cat and mouse before I cornered him by our pool’s diving board. Rooney hated the water. “Drop them,” I said sharply. “Drop the keys, Rooney.”
The dog and I stared at each other. About three solid cups of drool dripped onto the pool deck, Grace’s keys locked in his jaw. I took a careful step forward, mentally preparing myself to pry them out. Rooney growled. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s gonna be all right….”
Five seconds passed. I waited for him to blink.
And then I lunged toward him, a textbook zig.
But Rooney was quick enough to zag, so I tumbled head over heels into the pool. Today’s bright sun had been warmingthe water, but the deeper I sank, the more I shivered. We hadn’t turned the heater on this week.
Not to mention, this was a less than ideal time for a swim.
Rooney had backed off by the time I broke the surface, sputtering and furious. The key fob and mess of key chains sat on the ledge, and I shoved them into my soaking-wet pocket before dribbling over to the house. Rooney bounded ahead of me. We squeezed through the kitchen door together, and he let out a low woof as I kicked off my waterlogged sneakers.
Then I risked a serious ankle injury by tearing through my house.
“Sorry, not sorry,” I told the dog once I hit the bottom of the back staircase.
Rooney, thankfully, was not allowed upstairs.
I took the stairs two at a time, tripping halfway up in only my socks, but I righted myself quickly. My adrenaline had gone through the roof. Grace’s room was at the end of the hall, but you could identify her “safeguards” from the landing. The tasteful Do Not Disturb sign Isa had given her as a gag gift one Christmas hung from her doorknob, and as I started down the hallway, I heard the calm white noise of her ceiling fan. Even an audiobook was on a loop. Probably the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series; Grace found it comforting to listen to, since we’d read them over and over as kids.
None of that stopped me from busting into her room. “I knew it!” I shouted once I spotted the empty bed. “Iknewit!”
Isa had been here. That was obvious. Everything she touched turned to gold—Grace’s pristinely made bed included. It wasn’t like I frequented my sister’s room, but from what I could tell, she usually pushed back her covers, swiftly pulled them back up, and then threw her pillows on top. They’d never been this artfully arranged.
Izzy, no,I thought.She’s supposed to be on her deathbed, not a hotel bed!
It looked like someone had sprayed carpet cleaner over Grace’s bedside upchuck, but it hadn’t worked its wonders yet. I felt my lips twitch up in a sort of smile, doubting it even would. My mom would have to call in the professionals, and if they couldn’t make some magic happen, the carpet would have to be torn up and replaced.
What a shame.
I’m such a dick, I know. But believe me when I say I love and appreciate both my parents, and that I’m lucky as hell that I get to live here. And I want tocontinueto live here. Ship out to college at the end of the summer, sure, but dining hall food wouldn’t compare to my dad’s. I’d be raring for a home-cooked meal by fall break. Not, like, a future condo-cooked meal. Dad took up all the counter space when he made chicken Parmesan; it was a real production. A condo wouldn’t compare!
