Boy's Best Friend (3 page)

 

4

On Monday morning Lester was up early, roused by the light of day trickling through the slats in the shades. He rolled over and hung his head over the side of the bed, feeling the blood rush to the roots of his hair. “Do you think this makes me smarter?” he said to Bill Gates. “More oxygen to my brain.”

Lester slid off the bed and stood up. “Guess what?” he said. “I dreamed we walked all the way back to Denver.”

Bill Gates had woken up too and was bathing, licking his fur with his long tongue (he was more fastidious about cleanliness than Lester). But he paused when Lester spoke.

“I love you, Bill Gates,” said Lester.

Bill Gates went back to his bath while Lester thought how much easier washing would be if he had only to lick himself. He licked his forearm. It tasted salty.

“Time for breakfast,” said Lester. He stuffed his notebook into his backpack and headed for the stairs with Bill Gates trailing behind.

“What's up?” chirped Carlos when Lester entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Carlos,” said Lester, although he wasn't sure what was good about it. In less than an hour he would be at a new school in a new classroom with a new teacher, surrounded by a bunch of new kids.

Lester's father was seated at the table reading the newspaper. He looked slick in a freshly pressed shirt, blazer, and tie. He always looked neat and tidy, even in his gym clothes. Lester guessed some people were just born that way. And he wasn't one of them. No matter how hard he tried, he always looked a little tousled—a stain on his shirt, a scab on his knee, a tuft of hair out of place. People in Denver didn't seem to mind. Lester wondered if anyone would mind here on Cape Cod.

Lester's father folded the newspaper and slapped it down on the table. “All ready for school?” he asked. He poured Lester a bowl of muesli and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He was convinced that the key to a successful day was a good breakfast.

Lester's mother glided into the kitchen in a green and pink chenille sweat suit.

“You look like a psychedelic caterpillar,” said Lester.

“Why thank you,” said his mother, smiling. “All ready for school?”

Lester smiled back halfheartedly. His palms had begun to feel sweaty. “I guess I am a little nervous,” he admitted.

Lester's father turned and looked him straight in the eyes. Lester looked back at the small yellow and green flecks surrounding his father's pupils. They reminded him of fall in Denver.

“You know, Lester, dear,” said his father. “In life you have to move forward. Don't look back.”

“I know, I know,” said Lester.

“I'm sure school will be fun,” said his mother. “Your teacher seems lovely.” Lester had met her when they'd visited Cape Cod after Christmas. And she did seem lovely—young and friendly. That reminded Lester of his list of virtues. He took his notebook from his backpack and added “Friendliness.”

“Moving is fun,” said Lester, repeating his mantra between mouthfuls of muesli. “Change can be positive.”

“Don't worry. Be happy,” said Lester's mother.

“Don't worry. Be happy,” chirped Carlos. “Don't worry. Be happy.” That was easy for him to say, thought Lester. He had nothing to do all day but sit on a stick and repeat what others said. Lester wondered if having nothing to do would make him happy. He doubted it.

Lester glanced at the clock. If he were in Denver he'd still be asleep because it was two hours behind there. Lester sighed. “The day will be over before I know it,” he said.

“Oh, Lester,” said his mother. “Don't wish your life away.”

Lester knew she was right. If he thought like that, his whole life would be over before he knew it. And he wouldn't have enjoyed any of it.

“Would you like me to drop you at school?” asked Lester's mother.

“No thanks,” said Lester. “I'm going to take my bike.”

Lester's father nodded in approval.

Lester petted Bill Gates. “See you later, buddy,” he said. Then he put his notebook back into his backpack and grabbed his lunch bag. His mother had made his favorite sandwich—ham on rye. “Bye,” he said to his parents.

“Have a great day,” said his mother.

“Ditto,” said his father.

“Ditto,” said Lester to himself. He sped down the sidewalk on his bike, chanting his mantra. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.” He looked down at his colored spokes. They created a kaleidoscope effect as they spun in endless circles, the same as they had in Denver. That made Lester feel good. When he got to school he pedaled over to the bike rack. There were two places left. Lester wondered in which to park. He couldn't make up his mind. “Eenie, meenie, miny, mo, out goes you,” he said. Then he pulled into the spot on the end. And he went to find his seat in Ms. Clover's sixth-grade class.

 

5

George fed Bart his usual breakfast of cooked rice and nuggets with a bowl of fresh water. Then he stopped to count the holes in a pair of waffles his mother had made.

“Eat, George,” said his mother. “You're going to be late to school.”

George was finding it hard to think and eat at the same time. He wondered why this was. What did thinking have to do with eating, anyway? It seemed to George that if too many thoughts went into his head, there was no more room for food in his mouth. But George didn't think that was possible. Did other people have trouble eating and thinking?

“George,” said his mother, waving a hand in front of his face. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

George stuffed the waffles into his mouth and washed them down with a glass of juice.

“Don't forget my experiment,” George reminded his mother. Then he grabbed his backpack and hopped onto his bike. George liked riding to school—the sound of the wheels whipping the pavement, the world speeding past him. He turned into the schoolyard and headed for the bike rack. He usually parked in the last spot, but today there was another bike already there. George looked at the colored spokes. “Speak, spokes,” he said. “What are you doing in my place?”

It wasn't officially his place, but he had been parking his bike there for two years. George pulled into the spot next to it, but it felt different. He was surprised how a little thing like that could make you feel different.

George took his seat in class. Ms. Clover had arranged the students' desks in an arc, like a crescent moon. George liked this configuration. He looked to his left. At the end of the arc was the seat where Kyra had sat at the beginning of last year. It usually was empty, but today there was someone in it.

“Class,” said Ms. Clover. “We have a new student. I'd like you to welcome Lester Shoe, who's moved here all the way from Denver.” She turned to Lester. “Maybe you could tell the class something about Denver,” she said.

Lester thought for a moment. In Denver they sat in rows. And the desks had wells for pencils. The classroom smelled different too. Lester looked up. All eyes were directed his way.

“Denver has the longest street in America,” said Lester at last.

“Really?” said Ms. Clover. “And how long is that?”

Lester wasn't sure. “I think about twenty-five miles,” he said.

“Wow,” said Ms. Clover.

Lester smiled. He had never had a teacher who said “wow”—not even in Denver.

*   *   *

At lunchtime, Lester was the first one to the cafeteria. He sat down at a table and took his ham sandwich from his bag. He had a packet of mustard, which he squeezed open, spattering the contents far and wide. A small blob landed on George, who was seated at the next table over.

“Sorry,” said Lester. “It was an accident.”

George looked down at his shirt, the one Kyra had given him, the one with “Save a Planet Ride a Bike” written across the front. “Does mustard stain?” he asked, noticing that Lester's breakfast was mapped out on his T-shirt—a splash of orange juice, an oat flake wedged in a wrinkle.

“I hope not,” said Lester. He bit into his sandwich, then turned to George. “Want to know something weird?” he said.

George wasn't sure he did but he listened anyway.

“This sandwich is the same kind I ate in Denver,” said Lester. “But it tastes different here on Cape Cod. Why do you think that is?”

George shrugged. He had no idea.

“I hope you're not mad about the mustard,” said Lester.

George shook his head. “Mad” wasn't the right word. But he was annoyed and it wasn't because of the mustard. If Kyra had squirted him with mustard he would have laughed. But Kyra wasn't there. And that bothered him.

“I guess it tastes pretty good anyway,” said Lester.

When Lester had finished his sandwich, he took a pack of mints from his shirt pocket. He always carried mints. He popped one into his mouth and then breathed in deeply. It felt cool and frosty in his throat. He personally thought that science had made a major breakthrough when it had discovered how to produce an entire winter day in a compact white candy.

“Want one?” he asked George, his attention caught by the green ribbon tied around George's wrist. Green was Lester's favorite color.

“No thanks,” said George.

Lester looked around. “Anyone want one?” he asked.

“No thanks,” said a big guy at the end of Lester's table. “I'm on a diet.” He glared at Lester's slightly protruding belly. His look said it all.

The bell rang and Lester followed the crowd out to the playground. He sat down on a bench under a giant elm tree. It felt hard. It was wooden with slats. Why did they make benches with slats anyway, thought Lester. They weren't like that in Denver.

Lester looked around, hoping that maybe someone would notice him and come over and say hi. But no one did. They were all busy playing dodgeball, tag, or jump rope.

Lester mustered up the courage to stand up and shout, “The sky is falling.” That was a game they played at his old school. It was a signal to run and hide. But no one was running or hiding now. He guessed they didn't know that game on Cape Cod. Lester sat back down on the bench and waited for the bell to ring. He was finding it hard not to wish the day away.

*   *   *

That afternoon they had science. “Lester,” said Ms. Clover. “We've just started a new unit on animal behavior and some of the class are doing experiments with their pets. Do you have a pet?”

“I have a dog,” said Lester. The thought of Bill Gates made him smile.

Ms. Clover smiled back. “George is doing an experiment on dogs who know when their owners are coming home,” she said.

“My dog, Bill Gates, always knew when I was coming home back in Denver,” said Lester. “But I don't know about here.”

“So perhaps you could find out,” said Ms. Clover. “George, why don't you explain your experiment to Lester during the break.”

At break time, George got up and walked over to Lester's desk. He looked at Lester's notebook. It was covered with doodles. There was one in the corner of a guy who looked like Lester. Next to him was a dog.

“That's Bill Gates,” Lester said. “What's your dog's name?”

“Bart,” said George.

“Bart rhymes with fart,” said Lester.

“And smart,” said George, who preferred to think of Bart as intelligent rather than stinky.

“And heart,” said Lester.

George tried to think of something that rhymed with Bill Gates. But he couldn't. Instead he took out his logbook. “The experiment was devised by a biologist named Rupert Sheldrake to see if some dogs have a knowing or connection to their owners. Kind of like telepathy. He has a Web site that you can check out.”

“We studied telepathy in Denver,” said Lester.

“Great,” said George. “So you know what I mean. The idea is to record the time you set out for home from school—or it could be anywhere—for a period of days. When you get home you see if your dog is waiting in a particular spot. You have to ask someone at home to record how long the dog's been there so you can compare the time you left with the time your dog started waiting.”

Lester nodded. That seemed easy enough. “How many days?” he asked.

“I'm doing it for twenty,” said George. “But I'm skipping weekends because I'm not sure anyone will be home to help with the experiment.” George tried to think if he'd forgotten anything. “Oh,” he added. “And you have to vary the time each day so you know the dog isn't just reacting to habit.”

“Okay,” said Lester. He copied the details of the experiment in his notebook, while George looked at the list of words scribbled on the facing page.

“Those are virtues,” said Lester.

“Oh,” said George. He wondered why anyone would be making a list of virtues.

“I'm practicing them,” said Lester, answering George's question as though he'd read his mind.

*   *   *

When school let out, George raced out the door and over to the bike rack. Lester was backing his bike out of George's old parking spot. He was talking to himself. He was actually repeating his mantra. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.”

“Oh, hi,” he said when he saw George. “Sorry again about the mustard.” He looked at George's shirt. The mustard reminded him of a splash of sunshine. “And thanks for explaining the experiment.”

“No problem,” said George.

Lester paused. “Well, I better get home and see if my dog is waiting for me,” he said.

“Me too,” said George. He checked his watch—3:03—then unlocked his bike and hopped on. As he sped home he found himself wondering why Lester's sandwich tasted different on Cape Cod than in Denver. Maybe things tasted different depending on where you were. Or maybe it depended on how you felt. That idea sent George's mind into a spiral. Did things taste the same to everyone? Did feelings feel the same? George parked his bike in the driveway and started up the walkway. Sure enough, Bart was waiting on the steps leading up to the porch.