Alpha Dog (5 page)

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “You really like wiener dogs.”

“Always have. In fact, I’m going to adopt a real one while I’m here. Mrs. Krantz already wrote a letter saying it was okay.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” She smiled sappily. “After all, she thinks I’m super-responsible.”

“And your dad doesn’t mind?”

“Sure he does. But I’ve got it all planned,” she said smugly. “I’ll just tell him I got a dog and I won’t come home unless I can bring it with me.” She sat down on the mattress, glanced at the Scooby clock, and then sprang back up again. “Oh, crap. Is that clock right?”

I stared down at my wristwatch. “Yeah. It’s almost twelve.”

“Aw, hell. I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend for lunch.”

I watched as she tossed her wiener dogs back into the box and hoisted it onto her hip. I recognized that focused excitement. She was a girl with a purpose—a girl with a boyfriend—and nothing else mattered at the moment. I used to be just like that.

“So, hey. Um. You want to grab some dinner later or something?” I asked as she turned toward the door.

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. But maybe we can hang out some more when I get back. Okay?”

“Sounds cool,” I said.

But she was already out the door.

I’m sitting on the grass overlooking a windswept
shoreline. Seamus is there beside me. He pulls me up
against him, his broad shoulder making the perfect cradle
for my head. As I nestle against his sweater, he strokes
his fingers through my hair. I feel so safe, so happy. After
a while I lift my face toward his and stare into his copper-brown eyes. My hands reach up and begin tracing the
familiar terrain of his face—his perfectly carved cheek-bones, wide jaw, pencil-point cleft in his chin. Seamus
clasps each of my hands in his and kisses them softly.
Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. The
earth spins faster. Animated cherubs frolic and sing!
Eventually, we pull apart. Seamus smiles down at me, his
black curls framing his features like a fuzzy dark halo.
Leaning forward, he opens his mouth and says . . .

“Jellyfishing!”

“Huh?” I jerked awake and found myself stretched out on the couch with a Hot Pockets sandwich wrapper on my chest. The condo was completely dark except for the TV, which was blaring an old SpongeBob Square-
Pants
episode. It took me a moment to realize where I was and what was happening.

I hit the Lower Volume button on the remote control and sat up, rubbing my eyes until the image of Seamus fragmented and dissolved. Strange that I was dreaming about him again. Was it because Chuck dumped me? Was my poor, mangled ego trying to repair itself by focusing on a better guy? A guy cobbled together from bits of memory?

Then again, who else did I have? All day long as I’d unpacked and shopped for groceries, it hit me at intervals just how alone I was. No boyfriend, no friends, no group to hang out with. I’d managed to keep busy and shrug it off, assuring myself that I could put it all behind me, that Christine and I would hang out later, and that would help me forget. Only, here it was almost ten-thirty and Christine still hadn’t returned—probably still in the arms of what’s-his-name.

Now, in the stillness of the condo, the pathetic-ness that was my life hit me like never before. I lay back down and hugged a ruffly throw pillow to my chest, surrendering myself to self-pity. I missed Chuck. I missed having his arm around me, the spicy scent of his deodorant, and the sound of his rumbly voice over the phone. More than anything I missed that relationship feeling—the sense of being part of something beyond just me.

Now I was just me. And frankly, I wasn’t enjoying my company all that much.

The sound of knocking startled me. Someone was at the door. Christine? Chuck? Seamus? My imagination was still in overdrive. I heaved myself off the sofa, trudged to the front door and opened it. Mrs. Krantz was standing in the hallway holding Mrs. B to her chest.

“Katie, dear!” she said. “How are you girls doing? Are you finding everything you need?”

“Yes. Thanks,” I said, hoping my disappointment wasn’t too obvious.

She leaned sideways and peered past me into the apartment. “It sure is dark. Where is Christine?”

“She’s out.”

Mrs. Krantz’s eyes widened in alarm and she stared down at her watch. “She’s gone out? At this hour?”

I suddenly realized I was about to destroy Christine’s carefully constructed alter ego. “Uh, no,” I said quickly. “What I meant was, she’s out like a light. She’s already asleep.”

Mrs. B narrowed her amber eyes at me in an accusing sort of way.
Can she tell I’m lying? Am I that
obvious?

Mrs. Krantz gave a birdlike titter into her left hand. “I see. Well then, we won’t keep you. Mrs. B and I just wanted to check on you and say goodbye. We’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning and won’t be back until Sunday evening.”

“Thanks, but don’t worry about us,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.” She reached out and patted my wrist where I held fast to the doorknob. “I’m so glad we were able to work things out with your mother.”

“Me too.” Again, maybe it was just my guilty conscience, but Mrs. B seemed to flash me another death stare.

“You girls have a good time together!” Mrs. Krantz sang out. “See you when I get back.” She gave a little wave and tottered back toward her condo.

“Have a good trip!” I shut the door and leaned against it, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Have a good time together? Yeah, right. Christine obviously wasn’t too interested in hanging out with me.

I switched off the TV set, headed into my room and fired up my laptop to check e-mail. Most of it was boring stuff—the booster club newsletter and a message from Mom reminding me to program Austin emergency numbers into my cell phone. Of course, there was absolutely nothing from Chuck or my friends. No one cared.

For a long moment I just sat there, fighting the urge to scream or cry or toss the laptop into the street. And then . . . I looked around and smiled.

At least I was here. Thousands of people who had no idea who the heck Chuck was or that he shoved my ego through a shredder. No fake friends clucking false sympathy to my face and then laughing behind my back. No mom around to tell me what to do every minute of the day. And no one who thought of me as Laura McAllister’s far-less-brilliant daughter.

It almost seemed too dreamlike. I wouldn’t have even blinked if some megaphone-wielding director stepped out of the wings yelling, “
Cut!
That’s a wrap! You! Go back to your lame reality!”

The fact was, I was getting a fresh start. And I was going to make the most of it.

3

S
cooby woke me up at nine the next morning. The fricking thing sounded like it was having an electronic panic attack.
“(Click.) BEEEEEEP! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Beep! Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!”
It blared at close to 147 decibels. I was on the floor practically convulsing in disoriented terror, swiping aimlessly at the clock and hoping to get it to stop. But the big-nosed Scooby face just stared back as if mocking me. Finally I managed to knock the thing into the waste bin where it took on an eerie, tinny echo. I shoved my pillow on top of it to muffle the sound, stuck in my hand and fished around until I eventually hit a switch that shut it off.

At that point I felt as if I’d just drunk nine cups of coffee, so I decided to go ahead and start my day.

I headed out into the living room. Rays of sunlight were squeezing around the cheesy fabric blinds that covered the patio doors. Everything was still and quiet. And then I remembered: I really was here—on my own. Away from all things high school and all things Chuck. My heartbeat slowed and a giddy, excited feeling spread through my limbs. The condo suddenly seemed to me the most beautiful spot on earth. I was in love with its grizzled gray carpet and chipped, pea soup green counters. The tacky 1980s furniture looked like priceless heirlooms. Even the clouds of dust swirling in the sunbeams added a magical, sparkly quality—like a live-action fairy movie.

I took a deep breath of musty air and walked over to open the blinds, hoping to spend some time quietly admiring the view before Christine woke up. I yanked down on the plastic chain and the blinds zipped apart, stirring up tiny eddies of grime.

“Oh, be a love and shut those bloody things, will you?” came a voice from behind me.

I let out a little yelp and whirled around, the skirt of my nightgown catching up with me a second later.

A figure was lying on the sofa surrounded by stuffed wiener dogs—a guy wearing dark clothes. I couldn’t see his face, though, since he was shielding it with his hands.

There is a strange guy on our couch!
a voice shouted inside my head.

“Seriously, love, it’s a bloomin’ supernova out there!” he said, sitting up.

A strange
British
guy is on our couch,
my mind went on,
and you’re just standing there like a dumb ass in your
Hello Kitty nightie!

What to do? Should I scream? Run away? Grab a weapon? Offer him hot tea?

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I demanded, my vocal cords reactivating. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Robot,” he muttered from behind his hands.

“You’re a robot?”

“No-o. The name’s Robot. Robert actually, but me mates call me Robot. I’m Christine’s chap.”

“You’re . . . Christine’s boyfriend?” I stumbled, my brain slowly sputtering back to life.

“Yes,” he said irritably. “Charmed, I’m sure. Now could you
please shut the bloody blinds
?”

I yanked on the opposite cord and the blinds swished shut.

“Thank you,” he said with a sigh. “You must be Christine’s flatmate.” He lowered his hands, revealing a long, pale face—unusually pale for Texas in June. His features appeared to have been sculpted from marshmallow: deep-set brown eyes like two finger pokes, a thin tweak of a nose, and a pinch of a chin that was trying manfully to sport a soul-patch goatee, but instead came across as a smudge of potting soil. His white skin was offset dramatically by spiky black hair and sideburns, as well as his rumpled dark T-shirt and jeans. But he was cute, in a skinny, sloppy, creature-of-the-night sort of way.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Christine said I was snoring,” he said, sitting up and scratching his scalp with both hands, making his hair defy gravity even more. “She made me come out here.”

I shook my head. “Uh . . . not what I meant. I mean, why are you in Austin? Don’t you live in San Antonio?”

“Yeah, I crash there most nights. But when Christine told me about this new flat, I thought I’d come check out the scene awhile. You know, try to score some gigs for the band.” He smiled at me as he said this—not taunting, but rather smugly, as if he thought I’d be squealing and wetting my undies over this news. “My band’s New Bile. You heard of us?”

He rattled off the question offhandedly but watched my reaction closely. I could tell he was waiting hungrily for my starstruck reaction—as if that were the blood his vampire body thrived on.

“Yeah,” I said, somewhat squeaky with delight in spite of myself. All last year the cool kids at school were talking about these retro-punk guys called New Bile who were packing the clubs. Unfortunately, my mom would never let me go to one of their shows. “My boyfriend is a major fan,” I added. His smile stretched further. My reply was acceptable.

My boyfriend?
I wondered. Why didn’t I tell the truth? Why not say
ex
-boyfriend? Was it a slip of the tongue? Or was I trying to make myself seem more sought-after and attractive? As attractive as a girl with morning eye gunk and a cartoon cat on her chest can be.

Robot stretched his arms and propped his feet, covered in dingy, moldy-looking socks, on the rickety coffee table. I had just opened my mouth to tell him to be careful of the furniture, that we could lose our deposits if we break anything, when I saw him lunge toward a leather jacket draped on one of the armchairs and pull out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from one of the pockets. He saw me watching him and pointed the box toward me. “Fancy one?”

“Uh . . . no thanks. Um . . . we’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Says who?”

“Says our landlady.”

He let out a snort. “Don’t see the old bag around here,” he mumbled, the words slightly garbled from the cigarette perched between his lips. He fished a metal Zippo lighter out of his pants pocket and lit the end. Then he leaned back and rested his arms along the back of the sofa. I eyed the cigarette smoldering between the first two fingers of his right hand, envisioning tiny burn holes in the upholstery.

“Feel free to have a seat, love,” he said, gesturing to the striped chair. He let out a cackle that turned into a hacking cough.

A hot jet of anger burbled up inside me. Who the hell was this ponce to tell me when to sit in my living room? This place was supposed to belong to me—the
new
me. It was supposed to be about late-night talks with my new roomie while we painted our toenails burnt orange, or eating takeout Chinese while I read from a ten-pound college textbook. It was supposed to be about leftover pizza for breakfast, having
American
Pie
DVD marathons, and rating the frat boys passing beneath the balcony. It was
not
supposed to include some MTV reject digging into our couch like a hermit crab.

I sucked in my breath, ready to tell Robot to take his
bloody
feet off our
bloody
furniture and put out his
bloody
stinkarette.

Yet . . . Christine had obviously invited him here. And I couldn’t piss off Christine. If I did she could sabotage things with my mom whenever she called. Then I’d be packed off to San Marcos and my lame excuse of a life faster than you could say “Cheerio, old chap!”

My anger subsided until I could only stand there chewing my nails, hyperaware of the stubble on my legs and the layer of grease on my face.

At that moment the phone rang. I quickly snatched it up, grateful for the distraction, only to hear my mom’s voice on the other end say, “Katie, do you realize you forgot your skin ointment?”

I shut my eyes and made a tiny whimpering noise in my throat. “Hi, Mom.”

“I can’t believe you left this behind! What if you start getting that rash again?”

Man alive. I get one minor outbreak of eczema on my elbow and now she thinks I’m ointment-dependent. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”

“You know, you might want to look into a highly recommended doctor someplace near you. That way if anything goes wrong, you’ll know where to go. In fact,” her voice went up an octave, “you could call Aaron and see if he knows anyone. He had a really good friend for a while who was studying to be a doctor. They were very close. I’m sure he would know . . .”

My hearing failed. My brain went AWOL. I just couldn’t take her without caffeine. As I forced myself to remain upright I noticed Christine emerge from her room. She was wearing black boxer shorts and a white tank with the word
Goal!
in purple block letters across the chest, and her hair stuck out in all directions. She stumbled crookedly down the hallway and crawled on top of Robot, who was once again stretched along the couch. I felt a squeezing sensation behind my ribs as I watched them snuggle up together.

“. . . And you might want to get a standing prescription in case you get bad menstrual cramps again. . . .”

Robot whispered something to Christine and she let out a shriek of laughter.

“What was that?” Mom asked suddenly. “Was that Christine?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, cupping the receiver in case she accidentally overheard Robot’s voice. “She must be watching TV or something.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“What?”

“You heard me, sweetheart. Let me speak to your roommate. I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”

My chest grew tighter. So she was really going to go through with this? My word wasn’t enough for her? I briefly considered complaining, and then realized it was a lost cause. Once Mom decided something, no amount of begging, battling or skillful debate would make her change her mind.

“Fine,” I grouched. I took a step toward the sofa. “My mom wants to talk to you,” I said, focusing on the dark-haired scalp I assumed was Christine’s.

She struggled to a sitting position, followed by Robot. Both looked annoyed and slightly bewildered.

“Really,” I said, holding up the phone.

Christine looked momentarily put out. Then she turned and pressed a finger to Robot’s lips. “Stifle,” I heard her mutter. Pushing her long, raven hair over her shoulders, she reached out and snatched the phone from my hand. “Yes, Mrs. McAllister?” she said, morphing into her goody-goody persona. Her face went placid and her voice turned sticky sweet, as if she’d just gargled with molasses. “Yes, ma’am. . . . Of course. . . . No, ma’am. No problems at all. . . . Oh, no. We would never do that. . . . Yes, ma’am . . . Right. . . . I understand. . . . You too. . . . Goodbye!”

She handed the receiver to me and rolled her eyes.

“Thanks,” I said, flashing her an apologetic look.

As she snuggled back up to Robot, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Mom?”

“Well, it’s good to hear you are behaving yourself so far. Your father sends his love. You take care, sweetie. I’ll call back soon.”

I don’t doubt it.
“Bye.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Robot asked as soon as I hung up.

“Her mom is making me spy on her,” Christine explained. “She calls me to make sure Katie has been a good girl.”

“She calls
you
?” Robot let out a roar of laughter. “That’s a good one!”

“Hey!” Christine thumped him playfully on the arm, but she was laughing too.

Feeling thoroughly stupid, I had no choice but to laugh along with them. I supposed it was a bizarre situation—but it wasn’t
that
funny. I mean, Mom was only doing this because she cared about me. What was wrong with that?

“God! How can you stand it?” Christine went on. “Do you have to check in with her, like, twelve times a day?” She pantomimed holding a phone to her ear and said in a meek little voice, “Mother, should I turn left or right? Do I want strawberry or chocolate? Should I breathe in or out?” She cackled at her own joke, Robot guffawing along with her.

My eyes teared up a little. She had no right to make fun of me that way. It wasn’t my fault my mom was doing this. I didn’t ask for it.

But it’s not like you ever ask Mom to stop either,
came a voice from inside me.

I stood there in a daze, feeling simultaneously mad, hurt and ashamed. I’d always known my mom was a little much. But until that moment I’d never really thought I might have some part in it—by going along with it all the time.

“I guess I should be glad my mom and dad never call,” Christine went on. “Which reminds me, I need to check my messages.” She leaped off the couch and fished a sleek BlackBerry out of her leather bag.

Her movement seemed to dislodge my emotional clog and snap me out of my trance. “I’m going to take a shower,” I announced, to no one in particular.

“Alright, love,” Robot said, flopping back against the cushions and shutting his eyes. “But don’t use all the hot water. I’m next.”

I wrinkled up my nose and headed for the bathroom. Just as I was turning the corner, Christine let out a little scream. “Oh my God!” she said, pointing to her cell. “He’s here! She’s here! They’ve got one for me!”

“One what?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.

“My wiener dog!” she exclaimed. “I just got an e-mail from the rescue league! And the dog’s a red one—just like I wanted!” She grabbed Robot’s shoulder and started shaking him. “Get up! You’ve got to come to the pound with me!”