Starting From Here Read online

  Robyn poured steaming water into two teacups that actually matched, ivy twining up their handles. All the mugs at home were a mishmash of souvenirs collected over the years. My favorite was the Tony the Tiger mug I’d gotten when my second-grade class toured the Kellogg’s plant. It had a chip in it, but I’d keep it forever. Mom had been a parent chaperone on that trip.

  Robyn eased onto the stool across the island. “I would like to have more dogs.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Oh, you know. Too expensive. Not enough space.” Robyn tipped a spoonful of sugar into her cup and stirred. “The truth is, Lenny made me cut down.”

  I sipped my tea, and warmth curled through my stomach. “Who’s Lenny?”

  “My husband. I used to do a lot of fostering through the animal shelter, looking after abandoned dogs who needed special care until they could be adopted by a new family.”

  “Why would he have a problem with that?”

  “Let’s just say I would’ve been happy to adopt every dog myself.”

  “I can’t imagine having more than one dog,” I said. “Mo and I already trip all over each other.”

  “That was Len’s complaint, too,” she said. “And he wasn’t wrong. This isn’t a big house. But honestly, I think he was feeling a bit neglected. So we sat down, had a long talk, and compromised. I had Fontine from before we were married, and Oscar and Lorraine are two of my rescues.”

  “So you don’t have any kids?” I asked.

  “Just the furry kind.” Robyn glanced at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like a black-and-white dog not unlike Mo, its tail wagging the time. “Come on now, we should get to work.” She pushed back her stool. All four dogs leapt to attention. “Get the leash. Let’s see how you’re doing walking Mo.”

  Mo at my heel, I ventured deeper into the house than I really wanted to go. We walked past a bathroom, a master bedroom with bright country quilts piled on the bed, and a cave of a den with a bunch of cushions strewn on the floor. Robyn alternately praised and coached us. “Much better,” she said. “Much, much better.”

  We started working on “sit” and “stay.” Mo wasn’t particularly good at either, or maybe I wasn’t, but Robyn promised we’d get better with practice. It was funny how much energy I was willing to put into Mo. Mrs. Hoekstra, my chemistry teacher, would have been so jealous.

  “You know,” Robyn said as Mo and I got ready to leave, “I was thinking about your problem, leaving Mo alone all day.”

  “He’s been really good lately. Mostly.”

  “Why don’t you bring Mo by the clinic on your way to school and pick him up on your way home?” When I hesitated, she added, “Free of charge, of course.”

  “I couldn’t do that. You’ve done too much already.”

  “Oh, Lorraine, Oscar, and Fontine pretty much take care of each other during the day. Mo would love the company.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Free surgery, free training, free day care—there had to be a catch.

  “Tell you what. If you want to do something in return, you can clean up the poop in the yard and give them fresh water when you stop by.”

  Now that was a thrilling thought. Mo’s poop was gross enough. Did I really want to deal with that times four? But at least then it wouldn’t be something for nothing. I looked down at Mo, sitting at my feet, eagerly swishing his tail so I wouldn’t forget to take him with me.

  “Think it over,” Robyn said, leaning down to pet him. “Consider it a standing invitation.”

  I did think it over, right there. I had to do what was best for Mo, whatever Robyn’s reasons. “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”

  “Why does she care?” I asked Van on the phone that night. I slouched on the couch, TV on, empty soup bowl on the coffee table in front of me. Mo sat a few feet away, watching the bowl intently as if at any second it would fall on the carpet and become fair game.

  I could hear Teddy babbling as Van thought it over. “Maybe she feels sorry for you,” he said at last.

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “I’m giving you my honest opinion. She knows your mom’s dead, your dad’s away, you don’t have much dough. You’re nursing a three-legged dog back to health. And, to top it all off, you’re short enough to be a Hobbit.”

  “You’re lucky you’re half a mile away or you’d be prying one pissed-off Hobbit’s hands from your throat.”

  Mo gave up on the soup bowl and groped his way onto my lap. I stroked his neck. “I really don’t want her pity.”

  “Well, does she have anything to offer that you do want? No, no, Teddy, that ring is attached to my ear. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “She knows how to deal with this dumb mutt I’ve got.”

  “The way I see it—ouch, Teddy, cut it out!—the way I see it is, don’t overanalyze things. She wants to help you, let her help you. She’s not asking for anything in return, is she?”

  “Just the poop,” I said.

  “That’s it, Teddy, I’ve had it. Play with your blocks.” There was a rustle and a squawk of protest. Van came back on the line. “Speaking of asking for things, Col, I’m on the decorating committee for the AVD.”

  “The what?”

  “The dance.”

  “Oh. Right. I keep thinking it stands for ‘a venereal disease.’”

  “Ha, ha. I was wondering if you wanted to help,” Van said. “It’s just me and Zak right now.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of boycotting the Alliance.”

  Van sighed. “I was afraid of that. Rachel and Michael, I assume?”

  “Did you see the way he waltzed into our meeting like he’s a charter member? And now he’s invaded the Lounge! No place is sacred.”

  “I hate to break this to you, but nobody besides you is actually bothered by Michael being there. Most people seem to like him, in fact.”

  “People have to like him. He’s Rachel’s boyfriend and Mr. Newspaper Editor.”

  “Actually, I think they like him because he’s nice,” Van said. “Look, it sucks what happened to you, Col, but it’s starting to sound like you’re stuck on repeat.”

  “Fine. Go talk to Teddy. I’m sure he can offer far more stimulating conversation.”

  “Don’t be a twit,” Van said. “But check it: you claim you don’t want the vet’s pity, and here you are wallowing like a hippo in the mud.”

  “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to be compared to a three-thousand-pound jungle beast.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Ooo, hey, what do you think about a jungle theme for the dance? It could be ‘Get Wild’ or something, and we could have green streamers hanging down from the ceiling like vines, and you could get your picture taken with Tarzan or Jane, and …”

  I just shook my head and smiled as he rolled on. If my problem was wallowing, Van’s was that he had the attention span of a hamster. Still, no amount of talking would change my mind about the dance—not when I knew Rachel and Michael would be there, pressed against each other while I stood alone.

  EACH MORNING I woke up at an ungodly hour and took Mo for a jog. Back home, I snarfed a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. I drove Mo to the clinic, continued to school, tried to stay awake for the next six hours, then left and drove back to the vet’s. First I picked up the poop, then my poop machine. Back home for homework and dinner. If I had work—work. Then back home for more homework, TV, walk, sleep, repeat.

  As usual, Dad and I celebrated my birthday a few days early. That morning, over a breakfast of mushroom-cheese omelets and bacon, he asked where I wanted to go out to dinner. “The Grotto,” I said. It was an Al Capone–themed pizza-and-burger joint by Western Michigan University.

  “Bee, turning seventeen is pretty special. I thought we could go somewhere fancy for a change.”

  “The Grotto has the best pizza in town,” I argued.

  It was true; th
ey served thick, tomato-covered, cheese-oozing, Chicago-style pizza that probably shouldn’t be called pizza at all, it was so different from the cardboard crap in the frozen food aisle at Meijer. You needed a fork to eat it. But even more than that, there was no way I was going to squeeze into my only dress—the one I’d worn to Mom’s funeral—just to eat overpriced food in a place where they looked at you cross-eyed if you used your forks in the wrong order.

  “All right. It’s your birthday. The Grotto it is.” Dad dropped a scrap of bacon into Mo’s gaping maw. “Anything on your wish list I can pick up for you?”

  I pushed my eggs around on my plate, piling them into a sort of bird’s nest. When I was little, I’d thought nothing about rattling off a dozen toys I wanted for my birthday, even though I knew, when the day rolled around, there would only be a couple. In middle school I’d chosen more carefully, writing down a short list of the things I wanted, adding at the bottom, “Any of these would be great.” I’d wanted Mom and Dad to know I didn’t expect them to buy everything, especially since we’d just had Christmas. I’d wanted them to know I understood we weren’t rich and I didn’t mind.

  Then Mom died, and my wish list changed completely.

  How about giving up OTR trucking? Then maybe we’d have something to talk about besides whether Michigan or State has better defense and who’s got the best fried rice in town.

  Ever since Dad told me about that trucker who gave up OTR, a small, stupid piece of me had been hoping the idea was flowering in Dad’s mind, too. That he realized how tired he was of living on the road and how much he missed me, how being home would be worth any cut in pay. I’d gone so far as to imagine he’d come home on my actual birthday and tell me he’d quit his job.

  “I could use some extra money,” I said instead. “Scarlett’s due for a tune-up.”

  Dad smiled. “Done! In fact, I’ll take her in myself the next time I’m back. You’ve taken good care of her, Colby. I’m proud of you.”

  I tried to return his smile, but I felt like I’d requested an extra year of solitary confinement.

  Dad let me invite Van along to The Grotto. The three of us devoured a steaming pie: half meat, half veggie for Van the Vegetarian. When the pizza was gone, we ordered a giant, gooey fudge brownie sundae to share.

  “Thanks for dinner, Mr. B.,” Van said as we waited for our dessert to arrive. “That was absolutely the most delicious thing I’ve put in my mouth all year.”

  I smirked, but Dad only thumped Van on the shoulder. “It’s been real nice catching up with you. And I owed you one.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “Sure. I figure you deserve some credit for keeping Colby out of trouble while I’m gone.”

  “Trouble?” Van asked.

  “Trouble?” I echoed.

  “Boy trouble,” Dad said. “You know how some guys are, barely able to keep it in their pants. If they saw an opportunity—”

  Van choked on his root beer. “I don’t know how much influence I have on Colby’s love life, but I do try to help her with algebra.”

  “Thanks just the same. It’s not that I think women are the weaker sex, but she’s my little girl, you know?”

  I locked eyes with Van, daring him not to laugh. He twitched with the effort. “Ten four, good buddy,” he managed, landing an awkward punch on Dad’s arm.

  “You mean ‘good neighbor,’” said Dad. “You call someone ‘good buddy,’ you’re calling them a queer. Not, um, that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  His red face said otherwise. This was the guy Van wanted me to come out to?

  The waiter bustled by and, in the center of the table, dumped three spoons and a huge porcelain clamshell heaped with mounds of vanilla ice cream, chunks of warm brownie, peaks of whipped cream, and a flood of molten fudge. We dug in wordlessly. But when I gave Van a sly smile, he had to look away to keep from busting up.

  It was later, back home, that things went horribly wrong.

  I was sprawled on the couch with Mo, starting to review for my history exam. Dad was sitting at our clunky old computer. And he said, “Colby, I’ve been thinking of truck shopping.”

  I went to the computer, Mo following. I assumed Dad meant another pickup, something to replace the ancient Chevy. Instead, he was looking at a website that sold big rigs.

  “But what about SwifTrux, Dad? I thought you liked working for them.”

  “It’s okay, sure. But as an owner-operator, I’d decide which jobs to take—when to work and where to go,” Dad said. “Some O-Os gross hundreds of thousands a year. Besides, there’s something about having wheels to call your own, know what I mean?”

  Unfortunately, after having Scarlett, I knew exactly what he meant.

  I stared at an ad for a rig with a cushy sleeping area. The price made my forehead break out in sweat. “These are really expensive, Dad.”

  “I can finance a used one and make up the cost in a couple of years.” He spoke so matter-of-factly that I could tell he’d been thinking about this for a while.

  “Why now, Dad?” I asked. “What’s changed?”

  “Nothing’s changed. Your mother and I discussed the idea years ago, but our finances weren’t quite there. Now that things are”—he searched for the right word—“stable again, it seems like a good time.”

  Dad clicked another link on the site. “What do you think about this one?”

  What did I think? A truck was a truck was a truck! “It looks like its face is mashed in.”

  He laughed. “It’s a cab-over. The engine is underneath the seats. It’s more space efficient than a conventional.”

  “Well, I think it’s ugly.” My mouth was dry. My stomach clenched up. I dug my fingers into the skin at the back of Mo’s neck, and he whined.

  If Dad bought his own rig, he was in this for good. Instead of getting a short-haul job, he’d keep working extralong weeks driving from one end of the country to the other. I’d come home each day with no one to talk to, no one to hug me, no one just to sit on the couch with who remembered and missed Mom the way I did. If Dad bought his own rig, my birthday wish would never, ever come true.

  Dad clicked on a photo gallery of used rigs for sale. They came in just about every color, glossy and sleek and monstrous. Their headlights all stared at me blankly, like zombies. I felt like they were gnawing my heart out.

  “Tell you what, Bee,” Dad said, looking up at me. “Why don’t you pick one out? What color do you think I should get?”

  “Pink,” I spat out. I didn’t see a pink truck anywhere on the site. “Get pink.”

  “I can’t get pink. I’d be laughed off the road. I don’t even know if I could find one. Even lady drivers—”

  “You said I could pick.” I stared him down, my arms folded across my chest. “Promise you’ll get pink, to remember me when you’re on the road. That’s the least you can do.”

  For a moment Dad looked—ashamed? Guilty? Both, I hoped. Then he sighed. “What if I got a white truck and painted it?”

  “Doesn’t count,” I said, knowing exactly what would happen if I caved: he’d buy the first white rig he saw and find excuse after excuse not to get it painted. “Anyhow, after you spend a zillion dollars on a rig, how’ll you pay for a decent paint job?”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It’s my birthday. I never ask you for anything anymore.”

  “I don’t know why this is so important to you,” Dad said, voice rising.

  “Promise.”

  I didn’t know why I bothered. Dad was going to do what he was going to do, and I had serious doubts that a guy who was bothered by getting called “good buddy” would actually drive a pink rig.

  Dad shook his head, but he said, “All right, Colby. I promise.”

  FINALS WERE COMING up fast, and it felt like my teachers spent entire class periods rubbing in just how much I’d failed to learn over the semester. Meanwhile, I continued
to plan my routes between classes to minimize sightings of Rachel and Michael gliding through the halls with their hands Super Glued together. It only worked some of the time.

  And then, Friday afternoon, I found a strange girl waiting at my locker. She had long brown hair in a low ponytail that fell over her shoulder. Tortoiseshell glasses framed her face, and she wore a huge purple sweater and paisley skirt. She smelled faintly like peaches.

  She smiled. “Colby Bingham.”

  “Yes?”

  “Amelia,” she said. When I shook my head, she added, “Amelia Hoogendoorn?”

  “Right, sure,” I said, even though the name meant nothing to me. Her face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t say why.

  “I’m on the staff of The Watchman.”

  “Okay. Cool.” I spun the dial on my locker, opening the door with a bang.

  “I wondered if I could interview you. For a feature on animal welfare. Michael—Michael Schmidt, the features editor?—he suggested I do one. About your dog.”

  I stopped shoving the night’s load of homework into my backpack and stared. Forget peaches—I smelled a rat, a rat with the initials M. S. “What do you know about my dog?”

  “Nothing. I mean, just what I heard from Rachel.”

  Make that two rats.

  “That’s interesting. I don’t remember telling Rachel much of anything about my dog.”

  “Well, she got the whole story from Van.”

  Definitely time to call the exterminator.

  I pulled on my coat and shut my locker. Amelia fell into step beside me as I headed for the back door. My brain clunked like a dryer full of sneakers. Amelia knew Michael from The Watchman. And if she knew Michael, of course she’d know Rachel, too, since they were surgically attached these days. But how did she know Van?

  “So, what do you think?” Amelia asked. “Can I interview you? It won’t be on the front page or anything—I’m only a sophomore—but I think people would be really interested—you know, what you did for him—and maybe they’d drive more carefully—or, I don’t know, something …” She trailed off.