Alpha Dog (14 page)

I followed him outside, not saying a word. After screeching about my panties, I decided not to take any more chances with conversation. He led me along the front of the building, beneath the balconies. The noise of our party spilled into the night, shrill and discordant.

“Here it is,” Elevator Guy announced, stopping just around the corner and pointing to a spot on the building’s north wall. “Could you please take the flashlight and shine it on my hands?”

“Sure.” I hooked the handle of Seamus’s leash over my wrist and clumsily grabbed the flashlight. I had no idea what he was doing and wondered if I should be worried. After all, he clearly didn’t like Seamus, and he couldn’t be all that fond of me after I refused to help him and had that grand mal hissy fit. But for some strange reason, I trusted the guy. Even Seamus was more subdued around him. Too bad the guy didn’t like dogs, because Seamus clearly liked him.

As he reached toward a dark rectangle on the brick exterior, I shakily aimed the flashlight beam over his shoulder. I then recognized the shape as the building’s breaker box.
What the hell?
I wondered, feeling the first stirrings of doubt.

“A little higher, please?” he asked.

I dutifully complied.

“Three, three, three,” he mumbled. “Yes. Here it is. Three-oh-one.” I heard a couple of clicks and then suddenly the screeches and throbbing rhythms of New Bile’s music died away, leaving only the faint rat-a-tat of Lyle’s drumming. I poked my head around the corner and looked up at our balcony. The condo was pitch dark. Only the red glowing tips of lighted cigarettes remained, like a large cluster of fireflies.

There came a few shrieks of surprise and someone exclaimed, “Aw, dude! I think you blew the electric!”

I retracted my head and leaned against the wall, laughing into my hand. “That was brilliant,” I whispered. My grip loosened on the flashlight and the beam hit Elevator Guy square on the chest, illuminating the outer tips of his face as if he were sitting at a campfire. His mouth was open in a wide grin, teeth gleaming, and the tops of his cheeks pushed his droopy eyes upright. My heart tumbled inside me. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it seemed like there was something between us—most likely just the camaraderie that stems from being partners in crime.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be tomorrow morning?” he asked.

My face felt suddenly hot.
Are all college guys this
direct?
“Uh . . . n-no,” I stammered truthfully.

“Good. ‘Cause your alarm might not work with the power off. I promise I’ll flip the switches back before I leave for work tomorrow.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Stupid. Stupid. He’d only been concerned about our lack of electricity. He had no idea my hellhound alarm clock had a backup battery.

“I guess we should head back,” he said. “Let’s go this way. We don’t want anyone to see what we’re up to.” He placed his hand in the center of my back and started steering me down the building’s north end.

I nodded in a slow rotating motion, ultra-conscious of his touch. “Yeah. . . . I mean, no. I should probably finish walking him first,” I said, gesturing toward Seamus, who was busy gnawing on a stick.

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“What?” I looked at him, feeling another sproingy sensation behind my ribs. “It’s okay. I mean . . . you don’t have to. Don’t you need to sleep?”

“Look, it’s Saturday night. There are weirdos behind every rock. I’m going with you, and then I’ll sleep.” He said the last part firmly, implying there would be no arguing about it.

Not that I really wanted to.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“So, what’s your name?” he asked as we headed for the sidewalk. Seamus realized we were walking and abandoned his stick, eagerly pulling me forward.

“Katie.”

“Nice to meet you, Katie.” He reached down, grasped my hand in his and shook it gently. “I’m Matt.”

We ended up at a picnic table in the park. Matt sat on the tabletop and I sat on the bench below, occasionally tugging on Seamus’s leash as if I were fly-fishing. Meanwhile Seamus scampered about the four-foot radius allowed by the leash, exploring every inch of ground with his nose.

“So why wasn’t the party any fun?” Matt asked.

I sat still for a moment, mulling over my answer. “It just wasn’t my scene,” I said finally.

“Why not?”

Because I don’t fit into the shadow world of Christine’s hip friends. Because I have posttraumatic-getting-dumped-disorder. Because I don’t know who I am now
that I’m not Chuck’s girlfriend.
“I just don’t have much in common with those guys.”

“You aren’t musical?”

I let out a snort. “I do a mean Sheryl Crow karaoke. But that probably doesn’t count.”

To my surprise, he burst out laughing. “No, it probably doesn’t. Not to those guys anyway.”

We fell into another silence, but it was less awkward this time. Seamus charged under the bench to investigate some new odors, requiring me to turn around. Now I could see Matt’s face, and he mine.

After a while the silence seemed to stretch on too long.

“Where are you from?” I asked suddenly.

“Niederwald.”

“Oh, so
you’re
the Niederwald teenager. I heard about you.”

He laughed again. “Hey. We’re not that small a town. Besides, I’m not a teenager anymore. I turned twenty two months ago.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You aren’t in the Core Curriculum Program?”

“Nope. I’m a sophomore.”

“Oh.”

Again we got quiet. I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. For some reason it depressed me a little to find out he was older. Obviously he would only see me as a young, immature, and slightly strange kid. Not that I had much chance with him anyway. But it would have been nice to have a new guy to daydream about— someone other than a creep ex-boyfriend or a perfect stranger who lived an ocean away.

“So what do you do for work?” I blurted out, more to kill the silence than anything else.

“Uh . . . well, it’s kind of weird.” He hunched his shoulders slightly. “I hold rats.”

“You hold . . . what?” I asked.

“Rats. For the psych department. They do testing and watch their responses to stimuli and stuff. Anyway, they’ve found that if the rats aren’t held regularly, they tend to die. They just waste away. Maybe it’s from being caged up and all. Anyway, the researchers are too busy to pet them, so they hire idealistic psych majors to do it.”

“And you’re an idealistic psych major?”

He lifted his hand. “Guilty.”

“So you just hold them?”

“Pretty much. I do other stuff too, though. A few of the rats have been coming down with some virus or something, so I’m supposed to go in early tomorrow and make sure none of the others are sick. Things like that can really throw off their data.” He stopped talking and studied me. “You’re a little freaked out, huh?”

“No. I think it’s sort of . . .” I paused, searching for the right word. “. . . sweet.”

“Even though it’s rats?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have much experience with rats, but I did have a pet gerbil once. He—um . . . died.”

“I’m sorry.”

His comment was packed with so much sincere emotion that I had to turn and look at him. I thought maybe he was putting me on, but he seemed totally sincere. A warm feeling oozed over me as I pictured him standing in some musty, paper-strewn lab stroking the fur of a beady-eyed white rat.

Lucky rat.

Suddenly Matt cried, “Hey!” I looked over and saw that Seamus had stuck his head between the bench and tabletop. Matt was holding his left hand in his right.

“Oh my God! Did he bite you?” I asked, leaping to my feet.

Matt shook his head. “No. He just . . . licked me. It surprised me, that’s all.”

Sure enough, Seamus was pawing Matt’s pant legs and slobbering all over him, begging for attention. He looked like an obsessed thirteen-year-old girl who’d run into Orlando Bloom on the street.

It would have been funny, except that Matt didn’t do anything. He just sat there, holding his hand and staring strangely at Seamus. It was clear he was not enjoying it at all.

“Seamus, down!” I called out. “Leave him alone!”

But Seamus just glanced over at me as if to say, “Come on, girl. Help me out. You grab him from behind and together we’ll get an autograph
and
a hair sample!”

Matt’s face was a series of crisscrossed lines. Something seemed to be building inside him. Fearing he might lose it and begin kicking Seamus, I bent down and grabbed my whining, salivating dog. It wasn’t easy, since his leash was wrapped around the bench, but eventually I pulled him off Matt and held him tight in my arms.

“Sorry,” I said to Matt.

He blinked at me as if awakening from deep hypnosis. “It’s okay. No problem.” He unclasped his hands and rubbed them on his pants. “I guess we should get back,” he said, stepping down from the table.

“Yeah.”

We headed down the curved, dimly lit sidewalk. Matt stayed by my side as Seamus dragged me forward, but neither one of us spoke. Unlike before, it was an excruciating silence. I felt like I’d crash-landed.

Oh, well. Love me, love Seamus,
I told myself. I was just going to have to get over this new crush. Matt obviously hated dogs, and that blew any chance of a friendship or fill-in-the-blank relationship between us.

Too bad I hadn’t adopted a rat.

7

B
am!
Bam! Bam!

Scooby?

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Arf! Arf! Arf!”

“Shhh! Seamus, be quiet.” I rolled over and looked at my Scooby clock. It was eight-fifteen in the morning, and someone was pounding a giant bass drum. I was going to strangle Lyle. I would shish-kebob him with his own drumsticks. I’d play “Wipeout” on his cranium. What did it take to get some quality sleep in this place?

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I sat up, suddenly realizing the pounding was someone knocking on our front door.
What the hell?

Thinking it might be Matt, I leaped out of bed and scurried about my room, throwing on a pair of shorts beneath my oversized T-shirt and running a brush through my wild tumbleweed, post-party hairdo.

“Stay here,” I ordered Seamus, shutting the door in his face.

I headed through the living room, where Kinky lay asleep on the carpet, his arms thrown over a chair pillow like a shipwreck victim clutching a piece of flotsam. Robot was sprawled spread-eagle only a couple of feet away. His shirt was off and someone had written BUZZ BOY across his chest in something yellow—mustard, probably. And somewhere in the vicinity of the sheet-draped furniture, I could hear Lyle snoring.

More knocking rattled the door. Kinky writhed slightly and let out a small moan, but Robot made no reaction at all.

“Hello? Hello-o? Is anyone home?”

The warbly voice stopped me in my tracks.
Mrs.
Krantz! She’s back early!

“Uh . . . just a second!” I called out.

With a superhuman surge of adrenaline that only sheer terror can produce, I raced over to Kinky, clamped my hand over his drool-glazed mouth
(eeuw!),
and shook him till his eyes were wide and spooked-looking.

“My landlady is here,” I whispered into his ear, my words crackling with extreme urgency. “You and Robot and Lyle need to stay out of sight and keep quiet. Okay?”

He nodded solemnly and I let go of his mouth, wiping my hand on my shorts. Kinky crawled over to Robot and performed a similar procedure on him. Robot mumbled, “Bloody hell!” and the two of them crawled off under the sheets. I could hear some loud, sizzling whispers and the snapping and creaking of furniture. Finally the sheets fell motionless and everything became silent.

Bam! Bam!
“Hello? Katie?”

Okay. You can do this,
I told myself as I kicked several plastic cups out of the way.
Just don’t let her in. And
if she asks about the furniture . . . say we’re getting the
carpet cleaned.

Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door and opened it just wide enough for my face.

“Mrs. Krantz!” I exclaimed, trying to sound surprised. “You’re back.”

“Yes, we are!” she sang out. She grinned and nuzzled Mrs. B with her chin. The cat stared at me with her usual sharp expression. I gulped in spite of myself.

“Well, uh . . . welcome back,” I said nervously, trying to avoid Mrs. B’s laser-eyed gaze.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Krantz grinned at me. “May we come in?” She started to move forward.

Instinctively, I shoved my shoulder into the opening, blocking her entrance. “Um . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, shutting the door as far as it would go and squeezing myself in the frame.

Mrs. Krantz gaped at me with her overly magnified eyes. “Why not?”

“Because . . .” My mind raced frantically. “Because Christine is really sick.”

“She is?” Mrs. Krantz retracted slightly.

“Yep. Has been all weekend. And her doctor said she should stay clear of people and not invite anyone over. Airborne germs and all.”

“Oh my. That sounds serious.” She shook her head and made a sympathetic clucking noise. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No. Not a thing,” I quickly replied. “She’ll be okay. It’s just a bad virus. The doc even thinks she’ll be well enough tomorrow to go to classes, but we don’t want to take any chances until then.”

“I understand. Well, we won’t keep you. Mrs. B and I just wanted to let you know that we were back.”

“Thanks.” I moved to shut the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Mrs. Krantz added, holding up a finger. “Could you please move your trash can back inside?”

“Our . . . trash can?”

“Yes. On the balcony.”

I peered over my free shoulder and saw the empty keg floating upside down in the black plastic garbage pail. “Oh, right,” I said. “
That
trash can.”

“Please bring it back in,” she repeated. “It’s making my balcony smell horrible.”

Er, yeah. That would be Seamus’s fault,
I thought, my guilt doubling. “Sorry. We’ll bring it in right away.”

“I appreciate it. Please tell Christine I hope she feels better very soon. So nice of you to take care of her.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and peered at me closely. “I’m amazed you haven’t come down with it.”

“Yeah.” I nodded in a circular motion. “It’s a total miracle.”

“Knock wood!” Mrs. Krantz trilled, rapping on the door.

Behind me I could hear Kinky moan.

“Speaking of, I really should check on her,” I said quickly. “See you soon!” As I shut the door, I caught one last sight of Mrs. B’s accusatory glare, and an itchy sensation snaked down my spine. Witch cat. I had no idea how Mrs. Krantz found her so lovable.

“Okay, guys,” I said, lifting up one of the sheets. “You better come out. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Robot came creeping on all fours, the mustard smeared and his hair stuck to his pasty face. It was amazing how different he looked in the daylight. “Crap!” he griped. “Why did that old bag have to come back so soon?”

“Beats me,” I replied, staring at him. Something was strange. All his “coolness” was gone. But that wasn’t all.

His British accent was gone too.

Two hours after I had sounded the alarm and woken Christine, we’d cleared the condo of most of the trash, the mood lighting, and a guy named Ken who had passed out in the bathroom.

Everyone except me was hungover. They whined and groaned and clutched their heads as they slowly moved things around. And when Lyle saw me dunking a fruit roll into my coffee, he turned the color of celery and ran for the toilet.

My lie about Christine hadn’t been far from the truth. She certainly looked sick. Her fair skin had taken on a clammy, mayonnaise color, and her face seemed incapable of changing expression, leaving her with a perpetual zombie gaze.

“Damn old lady,” she grumbled as she slowly and shakily helped me pull the sheets off our furniture. “Why the hell couldn’t she give us another day? Just one lousy day.”

“Daft old biddy,” Robot joined in. Again I noticed the absence of his English lilt. But no one else seemed to pick up on it. Probably too hungover to care.

As Robot, Lyle and Kinky pushed and pulled the sofa back to its original spot—pausing several times to grip their foreheads and curse—one of the seat cushions slid to the floor. And there underneath lay three pairs of frilly underwear. My underwear from Grandma Hattie.

“Wo-ho! What have we here?” Lyle picked one up and studied it as if it were a rare and valuable artifact.

I let go of the sheet I was helping Christine fold and grabbed it. “Give me that!” I cried.

The others burst into puny guffaws.

“Aw, man.” Lyle pretended to be upset. “I was gonna add them to my collection.”

I could feel my face turn the color of picante sauce. “Seamus did it,” I whined.

That made them laugh even more.

“You should have called him Under-dog,” Kinky chuckled.

“Very funny,” I muttered. I scooped up the remaining pairs of panties and stomped off to my room.

The second I opened my bedroom door, Seamus shot out and ran right for the balcony door, barking and whining loudly.

The others yelled out protests and grabbed their skulls, as if fearing they might explode like giant popcorn kernels.

“Shut him up!
Please!
” Christine yelled.

“He needs to go to the bathroom,” I tried to explain, as if they cared. I ran over to him and tried to pick him up, but he dove out of my arms and continued running around in circles, yapping insistently.

“You can’t go out there,” I tried to explain, as if
he
cared—or understood.

Just then, someone rapped on the front door. Everyone froze, including Seamus briefly. “Katie? Christine?” came Mrs. Krantz’s muffled voice.

“Dammit!” Christine cried. “Your stupid dog!”

“Okay. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay,” I babbled, holding out my hands. “You guys hide and I’ll get rid of her.”

“Don’t let her see the band equipment,” Christine said, gesturing to the pile of amps and cases.

“I won’t.”

As they ambled down the hall to Christine’s room, I snatched up Seamus and tossed him, still barking, into my room. “Please just hold it for a few more minutes,” I begged him.

Mrs. Krantz pounded again. “Hello, girls? Please open up.”

I opened the door wide enough for my nose. “Hi again, Mrs. Krantz,” I greeted.

“I heard some noises,” Mrs. Krantz said, her expression full of worry. Again, Mrs. B sat in her arms, sneering at me.

“Noises? Like what?”

“Well, like. . . .” She paused, cocking her head, the chain on her eyeglasses falling sideways and draping her left jowl. “Like that. Do you hear barking?”

My chest felt tight as if I’d been holding my breath a long time. This was it. I had to confess sometime; it might as well be now. “Actually, Mrs. Krantz, I need to talk to you about that.”

A half hour later I headed over to Mrs. Krantz’s place with Seamus in my arms. I’d promised I’d come over to discuss the “situation,” and figured it would also give the guys an opportunity to clear out their band stuff and the keg while I kept her distracted.

Taking a cue from Christine, I was wearing my most innocent, Sunday school teacher–type clothes—white sleeveless blouse, long khaki skirt and flower-patterned hair clip. And Seamus had been walked, watered, fed, and brushed until his fur looked poofy with static.

But I should have known it would turn out badly the moment I stopped outside her door. As soon as I knocked on the cutout cat, Seamus went rigid in my arms. A low growl welled up in his throat and continued unremittingly, as if his engine were idling.

Mrs. Krantz opened the door, took one look at Seamus, and heaved a great sigh. “Come in,” she said, her voice lacking its usual singsongy pitch.

Seamus kept on growling, even revving it up slightly. “It’s okay,” I whispered as I headed into her dainty living room, my ballet flats clapping against the hardwood floor.

Like Seamus, Mrs. Krantz seemed extra stiff as she shut the door and waltzed to a loveseat. Her face was flat and her nose was more upturned than usual, as if she were constantly sniffing the air around her. But there was something else vastly changed about her— something I couldn’t quite place.

“Have a seat,” she said with the minimum amount of courtesy.

Just as my rear began descending into a fur-lined rocker, she cried, “No! Not that one. That’s Mrs. B’s chair.”