“Mr. Munch, why you telling me all this?” Canton asked, done running down the better-than list in his mind. He was thinking maybe Mr. Munch was trying to be his emotional support dog, except not a dog. His emotional support human, and that all this was just a way to keep his mind off his mother and the fear of a school bus swiping her again.
“Why am I telling you this?” He repeated Canton’s question. Then he opened a locker that stood in the corner of the closet/office. “Because I made you one.”
“You… you made me a dog?”
“Well… I mean… real emotional support dogs aren’t allowed in school, unfortunately. Plus, I couldn’t just buy you a dog. Your mom might not be okay with that. But I thought maybe this could help.” Mr. Munch reached into the locker and pulled out the head of a broom—the sweeping part—which he’d detached from the broomstick. The straw was curled and mangled as if Mr. Munch had been cleaning the sidewalk for, like, twenty years with it. He had drawn big black circles on one side like eyes. And an oval with a tic-tac-toe board in the middle of it, which Canton assumed was supposed to be the mouth. At the top, two small pieces of dustcloth, cut into ears and glued in place.
“It’s… a… broom.”
“But I cleaned it. Promise. And yeah, it’s a broom, until you do this.” He petted the wiry twine as if it were fur. As if he were scratching behind the ear of a Yorkie in desperate need of grooming. The straw popped back up when he was done, just like a dog’s would.
“Why is the mouth like that? Is the… broom… dog angry?”
“No.” Mr. Munch turned the broom head toward him, shrugged. “He’s smiling.”
“Oh.” Canton squished up his befuddled face, decided to take Mr. Munch’s word about the smile, but was still unsure about everything else. “So, you really think this gonna help me?”
“Can’t hurt to try?” A slick smirk crept onto Mr. Munch’s face. “I mean, the worst that could happen is you decide to clean up the street. So either way… everybody wins.”
The next day, after school, Canton, with the broom dog tucked under his arm, slowly walked up to the corner to watch his mother—to guard the crossing guard. He leaned against the stop sign at the corner. And whenever Ms. Post had to step into the street, blow her whistle, raise her hand to stop traffic, whenever Canton’s chest would become an inflated balloon, he would run his fingers through the broom dog’s hair.
Eventually, he named it Dusty.
It’s strange, the things that work.
* * *
It’s been a year since Mr. Munch gave Canton the broom dog. A year since the first panic attack. A year and a week since the accident, and things have gotten better.
The bell rings, and everyone gets up to leave Mr. Davanzo’s class.
The big guy, Simeon, stands at the door, giving everyone high fives like he always does.
“Up high,” he says to Canton as he approaches. Canton slaps his hand.
“Don’t forget tonight’s homework. We’re talking geography. Write about place. Write about people. Human environmental interaction!” Mr. Davanzo shouted over the end-of-day clamor.
Canton stops at his locker. Reaches in to grab Dusty, then heads for the door. He passes Ms. Wockley in the hallway scolding Simeon (the giant he’d just given a five), and Kenzi Thompson, the blue ball in his hand. Outside he walks past a kid he’d never seen before sitting on the bench by the door, wearing some kind of green suit. At the bench next to him was Candace Greene—his crush—who he never had the courage to talk to because she was always with her friends, Dumb Joey, Stinky Greg, and Cool Remy. And next to them on the third bench was this kid Britton Burns and his crew the Low Cuts, who were known around school for pocket pat-downs for pennies.
“Wassup, Canton?” Trista, one of the Low Cuts and the toughest girl anyone had ever known, said. Canton waved, kept walking, passed Mr. Johnson moving the carpool line along. Had to get to the corner before the first cross. That was his thing. For a year and a week. And when Canton finally made it up to the crosswalk at Portal Avenue, there was his mother, Ms. Post, strapping on her vest and pulling the whistle attached to a black lanyard over her head like it was some kind of prestigious medal.
“There’s my sweet boy,” she said, greeting him, arm winged. They hugged. “How was school?”
“It was okay.”
“Homework?”
“A little. Ms. Broome wants us to imagine ourselves as a thing. And Mr. Davanzo wants us to record human environmental interaction.”
“Which is… ?”
“Which is what I’m gonna work on.” Canton made a funny face at his mom, and she made one back.
“I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I feel like I’m probably an expert at it.”
Canton chuckled. “I’ll let you know if I need your assistance.”
“Deal. Well, get to it.” Ms. Post winked. Canton pulled a notebook from his backpack, along with Dusty the broom dog, then set the bag down against the stop sign so he could sit and have a little cushion. The broom dog rested on his lap as he scribbled words and phrases trying to describe the environment around him.
Latimer Middle School.
Corner.
Portal Avenue.
Cars.
Classmates.
Mom.
Whistle.
People stop.
People go.
People talk.
People hug.
People frown.
People laugh.
People go off.
People go on.
Canton glanced up as everyone gradually congregated at the corner, like water building against a dam, allowed to flow every few minutes. People turning and crossing, waiting and talking. The web of conversations. Gregory Pitts liked Sandra White. Satchmo Jenkins feared he might be eaten by a dog on his way home. Cynthia Sower was putting on a show at 3:33 p.m. Some banter on boogers, and everyone wanted to know what secret things Fatima Moss was always writing.
He watched his classmates tap-dance with tongues, challenging one another, slipping and sliding from story to story. Watched his mother perform a kind of ballet. How she spun, stepped into the street like she was made of more. Blew her whistle. Put a hand up for a bus to stop. Put a hand out to wave the walkers through.
When everyone had gone, when all the Latimer students had walked off, headed home or wherever they went after school, Ms. Post stood at the corner, removed her vest. She slung it over her shoulder. Pulled the whistle over her head. Another day, job done.
“Ready to walk?” she asked Canton, who had been working nonstop on his assignment.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Canton stood, the broom dog falling from his lap like he had forgotten it was there. Ms. Post picked it up.
“Sheesh. This thing has seen better days.” She examined it. The mangled straw. The pieces of felt that were meant to be ears long gone. “You know, I know it’s supposed to be a dog, but if you look at it now, it kinda looks like a bus.” She handed it to Canton, then pointed out the similarities. “The eyes are like the headlights, and the mean mouth—”
“It’s a smile,” Canton corrected her.
“Oh, right. The smile… is like the grille. Funny.”