Cecil pulls the gate to the new enclosure open, and the guy backs the truck up as close as he can, the edge of the cage just inside. He cuts the engine, gets into the back of the truck—bringing a high yowl of complaint from inside the cage. Then he climbs on top of it, reaching through the fence of the enclosure to open the cage’s latch.
There’s a clang of metal on metal, a dark streak, and then a puff of dirt as the animal—a panther—slides to a halt, changing directions fast when he sees the man’s hand is still inside the cage. The cat lunges, but he pulls back just in time, laughing a little to cover his fear.
“Bastard almost got me,” he tells Cecil, sweat rolling off his forehead.
The cat retreats to a corner, growling low in its chest as the truck pulls away. Cecil swings the door shut quickly, snapping a lock down on it. I didn’t realize I was backed up all the way against Rue’s cage until her arm snakes out. In a second, I’m smashed against the fence, wire cutting into my cheek, Rue’s iron grip not letting me pull away. The men don’t notice. They’re headed toward the house, Cecil cracking open a beer.
Shit, shit, shit. Cecil was right, she’s going to tear my face off. Her smell is strong, like body odor and a wet dog, all in one. Goldie is going nuts, barking and yelping. She jumps, biting at Rue’s arms, but the orangutan grabs her with one hand and gives her a toss. Goldie yelps and rolls, a spray of dirt rising up behind her. The cat follows the movement, lunging against his own bars to get a swipe in as Goldie skids to a halt, inches away from his claws.
“Rue,” I say, swallowing hard. “Please . . .”
One of her hands lets go, but the other is still holding me firmly against the cage. Her free hand flips through my hair, searching, scurrying. She pinches down, pulls her hand back, inspects something between her fingers and pops it in her mouth. I’ve seen her do this before—Cecil said Goldie’s flea medication was too damn expensive and the o-rang-o-tangy could clean her up just fine. It had taken a leash and a lot of calm words on my part, but I’d talked Goldie into sitting still while Rue groomed her, taking advantage of the free snacks at the same time.
Just like she’s doing to me right now.
“Oh my God,” I say, my words as squished as my face, jammed against the fence. “Do I have lice, Rue?”
The only answer I get is the shit-eating grin, as she pops another one into her mouth. Goldie gets her feet back under her and scampers away from the cat’s cage, calmer now that she sees that Rue doesn’t mean me any harm. She cowers next to me, pushing against my leg as I bend my head, letting Rue inspect me. The orangutan reaches out, gives my dog an apologetic pat as her other hand works through my hair, picking me clean.
I slide down to the ground, resting against the cage, Rue’s fingers moving through my hair, mesmerizing. I repeat the action, ruffling Goldie’s fur. She tucks her head into my armpit, pushing forward into me for comfort. I burrow my face into her neck, parting her hair, trying to get down past the smell of the pens and the shit, past the present. Because if I breathe deep enough, I can still pick up the faint traces of shampoo from her last visit to the groomer. And underneath that, if I concentrate, I can smell my mother.
Chapter 37
Felicity
Sixth Grade
“Mom?” I call down the stairs, fingernails digging into my scalp. “Mom? Do we have any dandruff shampoo?”
“What? No,” Mom says hurriedly, as she comes around the corner. “Have you seen my keys?”
“They’re on the table,” I say, pointing toward the groceries she just brought home—everything organic and gluten- and cruelty- and antibiotic-free. Dad says they’re also taste- and fun-free, to which Mom said last night that at least they can eat their dinner without guilt. I can’t. But that’s got nothing to do with what’s on my plate.
“Okay,” Mom says, grabbing her keys. “You ready?”
“Ready?” I ask, still scratching. “For what?”
“You’ve got an appointment with Dr. Gabriella today, remember? I made the appointment after . . . after your birthday party.”
She slips a little, not wanting to say the real reason for scheduling an extra session with my therapist. Her smile is practiced and pasted on, like her lips forgot to slide back over her teeth and now are resting in perma-smile. I know it very well. It’s stuck not just on her face but on every wall of the house, our annual family pictures announcing that yes we are happy—look at our faces. I’ve been practicing a little myself lately, figuring out what it takes to knock Mom’s smile off. I take a swipe now, knowing the one word that always hits home.
“You can just say it, you know,” I tell her, as I follow Mom out to the car. “You can just say we’re going to see Dr. Gabriella because of Tress.”
We all freaked out when we woke up to find Tress gone Sunday morning. Gretchen had sat in my bed, clutching one of my pillows and trying to look like she wasn’t upset. But I knew Gretchen—whether I liked her or not. Her lips, still stained candy red, but now dry and flaking, had been crushed in a straight line, her teeth shut tight against any guilt she might have about what she’d said to Tress the night before.
Maddie had immediately broken into tears, saying now the whole family was missing—which had sent my stomach spiraling. I was in a panic by the time I woke up Mom, a sobbing, hysterical mess. Dad had brought everyone downstairs, asking if anyone had seen her leave or heard anything strange, while Mom made phone calls, what few there were to make.
Lenore—Ribbit’s mom—was zero help, and Tress’s grandpa wasn’t picking up the phone. I tried texting Tress, but she wasn’t answering my texts. Or my calls. Or responding to voice mails.
“Okay,” Mom said, yanking a sweatshirt on over her pajamas. “I’m driving out there.”
Gretchen gasped, her hand clenched tight around the orange juice Dad had poured for her. “You’re going to the white trash zoo?”
“Gretchen!” Dad admonished, but she didn’t even blush.
“I mean, like, you’ve had your tetanus shot, right?” she’d asked.
“I’m coming with you,” I’d announced. Mom had been too worried to argue, and I’d left Maddie and Gretchen to Dad’s pancakes while we drove up the ridge silently, a light rain falling. We pulled into the Amontillado Animal Attractions, and my mom let out a long breath, her rush of relief filling the whole car.
There was Tress, standing out by the animal pens, brushing the zebra.
“Don’t—” Mom had begun to say, but I was already out of the car, rushing toward Tress. I’d wrapped my arms around her, squeezing tight.
“I thought you were gone,” I’d said.
And Tress, stiff and unresponsive in my arms, simply said, “I am.”
“So, your friend”—behind me, Dr. Gabriella turns a page of her notes—“Gretchen.”
“Gretchen’s not my friend,” I say. It just pops out, like how sometimes I accidentally belch and Mom makes me leave the table. But this is worse. These are words I didn’t know were in me. There’s a pause.
Dr. Gabriella put me on the couch after our second appointment. “You’re always looking at me for a reaction,” she’d said. “You worry so much about saying the wrong thing that I can hardly get you to say anything.”