Four years later, Satchmo moved from his old neighborhood to Marlow Hill, after his mother had taken a job as an office assistant at a veterinary clinic. Satchmo’s run-in with Brutus had sparked a new dream of being a vet, and though she’d have to go through years of school and training to make that happen, she looked at this job, this move, as a step in the right direction. And now that she worked close to animals, she made sure Satchmo knew how to handle himself around dogs. But no matter what his mother said, no matter what she taught him, it didn’t matter. Fear had clamped down on his brain and the scars on the back of his leg—the raised dots and dashes like Morse code on his skin—served as a reminder that dogs were dangerous.
He’d heard people say, “If they got teeth, they’ll bite,” and he watched his mother push back and argue against that, and on the flip side he’d seen all the commercials of sad pups locked behind cages, sick and shivering, and the voice of some celebrity trying to convince people to adopt one. And he’d say, sometimes out loud, “Maybe they’re in there for a reason.” His mother didn’t like that either.
“Your bite was a misunderstanding, Satch,” she’d say. “He wanted to play, but you got tense, so then he got tense because your tension made it clear to him that you weren’t playing.”
“Why would I want to play when he was barking and growling? His play-play looked like bite-bite.”
But small dogs didn’t bother him. As long as they were no bigger than a football, he could deal. Anything bigger caused his back to tighten. Made his heart bark. Thankfully, since living in Marlow Hill, his walks home had been dogless.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, he was walking down Nestle Street when he passed Mr. Jerry’s house and saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something big. And furry. It darted across the patch of grass Mr. Jerry had along the side of his house, blocked off by a chain-link fence.
Satchmo’s stomach dropped to his feet, his throat twisted like twines making rope. He turned his head to see what he knew he’d already seen. To make sure that his first thought—and peripheral vision—hadn’t lied. Mr. Jerry had gotten a dog.
Mr. Jerry’s wife had passed away a few months ago. A week later, Satchmo stood with his mother at Mr. Jerry’s front door, a house plant in his hand. His mother was holding a pound cake she’d made him as a way to say Sorry for your loss. And Satchmo wished the pound cake was enough and that his mother didn’t have to keep talking and suggest Mr. Jerry get a dog. Adopt one from a shelter.
Pound cake. Not a dog from the pound, Satchmo thought.
“Lose a life, save another,” his mother said to Mr. Jerry sweetly.
To take mine, Satchmo had thought.
Mr. Jerry said no, no, no. Said he wasn’t ready. Guess he was ready now. And not for a small one. Not for a furry football. But for a big, husky thing that looked like it was mixed. Some German shepherd. Some Labrador. Some rottweiler, some monster that Satchmo wasn’t sure was there or not, but decided it was so.
That was all he needed to see to start devising plans. Escape routes.
* * *
Today, after school, Satchmo Jenkins left his last class of the day, math, and headed to his locker in a haze. He opened it, swapped out books and stuck his head in his locker for a moment to take a few deep breaths to get himself together. This walk home was going to be a big one. One that he hoped wouldn’t result in him adding a smiley-faced scar on his other leg.
“Satch, catch,” John John Watson called out, tossing a textbook at Satchmo, who looked up at just the right time to not be hit in the face. He blocked the book with his hands, then tried to grab ahold—tried to catch it—fumbling, fumbling, fumbling it before it hit the floor. “You left it in Mrs. Stevens’s class,” John John said. He pulled a few random sandwich bags from his pocket, folded them awkwardly, then stuffed them back down.
“Oh. Good looks,” Satchmo said, trying to snap himself out of it or at least pretend he was never snapped into it. “Lifesaver.”
“No problem,” John John said, before hustling off.
Satchmo picked the book up, tossed it in the air, caught it. A small piece of paper slid out from between the pages—an invitation to Cynthia Sower’s comedy show. But Satchmo was in no mood for laughing. He tossed the book in the air again, caught it again, before putting it in his bag and closing the locker door. Snap.
After he got outside, headed toward the corner, made the right on Portal as if walking toward Chestnut Street, but making the right onto Nestle before getting to Chestnut, he started running down his game plan, amping himself up for the mission. That’s what this was for him—a mission.
Okay, Satch. You’re prepared.
You’ve thought it all through.
You will not get bit. You will not get eaten.
Breathe, Satch. Breathe and work it
all out.
If the dog jumps the fence,
when the dog jumps the fence don’t panic.
Just do what you’ve planned.
Break to the right. If Mr. Jerry’s pickup truck is
parked on the street, jump into
the back of it and
scream for help.
That’s the first base. That’s your go-to. But
if for some reason Mr. Jerry’s truck isn’t there,
if for some reason he’s out, I don’t know,
saving other dogs while his neighbors run for their lives,
then keep going right onto the Carters’ property.
You won’t have time to ring their doorbell,
plus Mr. and Mrs. Carter will be at work,
so run
behind their house. They have a pool. It’s not a big pool,
and actually you’ve never even seen it, but you remember
your mother talking about
how all the neighbors are gossiping about how they were
putting a pool in their backyard
in this neighborhood,
and she was saying it like she wasn’t gossiping too,
so if there’s actually a pool back there dive in.
Don’t worry about how deep it is.
You can swim.
Just jump in there. Hopefully the dog won’t even follow
you back there, but if
it does, maybe it won’t jump in the pool. But if
for some reason
it does jump in, you jump out.
Immediately.
The thing is, dogs have to do that ridiculous
doggy paddle thing,
so they can’t be vicious and do that at the same time.
They also can’t do that fast. They’re dogs, not seals.
So when you hop out, you’ll have a head start
before the dog gets to the other side of the pool
and climbs back onto land. Use this
time to jump the fence
your mother says the Carters put up to keep Ms. Winston’s
little kids
from playing in their pool that we’re not sure exists.
But the fence is there. You know that. It’s not too high,
but get a running start because you’re going to be
soaking wet. If you still can’t get over, then quickly
as quickly as possible take off your
shirt and pants and shoes, and
try again. Sure, you need your clothes, but you need your
life more.
Your mother will understand, and you’ll get over the