EMILY DICKINSON
After school, all I really want to do is curl up on the couch and watch a movie, to lose myself in Narnia or Middle Earth or even a galaxy far, far away. But Hitch nudges my hand with his wet nose, and I can’t ignore him. He’s my best friend, and the whole public school thing is getting to him too. His ears have been droopy all week.
“You want to go for a walk, handsome?” I tickle the golden hair under his chin. He grins at me, his bushy tail thumping the coffee table.
With a sigh, I drag myself the ten steps to the kitchen bar to leave Mom a note. She’ll freak if she comes home from her part-time job at the library and can’t find me. That done, I grab my faded “I Got Crabs at the Crab Shack” hoodie and a tennis ball for Hitch and head toward the back deck. The screen door thumps behind us as Hitch tears off ahead of me, his earlier funk forgotten.
That’s one of the things I love about Hitch: He lives in the moment. He doesn’t worry about the fact that he was home alone all day or the fact that he’ll probably be home alone again tomorrow. All he cares about is right now. And right now he’s with me. It’s low tide, and the ocean is calling his name.
By the time I scramble down the weathered steps of the boardwalk, he’s down at the water’s edge, tongue hanging out, waiting for me. I toss the ball out past the low-breaking waves, and he charges into the surf to retrieve it.
We’ve been at it for a while when Cindy, the eight-year-old who lives next door in the Malibu McMansion, joins me at the edge of the wet sand. Her shoulders relax when she turns to Hitch playing in the water, and the freckles on her nose and cheeks come alive as she twirls her ponytail around her index finger.
“Hey, Cindy. What’s up?” I smile at her.
“I’m bored,” she says without taking her eyes off Hitch. “I don’t have anyone to play with when I get off the bus.”
Ouch. Her innocent comment hits me in the gut. I should have realized she would miss me and Hitch in the afternoon. We used to take our afternoon walk at two thirty, so we could meet her getting off the bus. Now I don’t get home till almost four thirty. This is a perfect stretch of beach for someone who wants to be left alone. It’s not so great for bubbly elementary kids who need after-school playmates.
“I’m sorry, Cindy. This whole school thing . . .” The guilt in my belly expands. “I’ve missed you too. We should play Monopoly this weekend.”
She looks up at me. “If you promise not to buy Boardwalk.”
I cross my arms and frown, pretending to think. I’m kind of competitive when it comes to board games. Cindy’s the only person I would ever let break the rules. “Just this once. Okay?”
She grins mischievously and places her little hand on her hip. “And . . . I get to be the Scottie dog.”
I narrow my eyes. That’s my lucky piece. “How about we roll for it?”
“Please?” When she folds her hands beneath her chin, she’s too stinking adorable to resist.
“Oh, okay,” I say as Hitch races toward us to show Cindy his tennis ball.
“You’re the smartest dog ever.” Dropping to the ground, she wraps her arms around his wet neck. He blinks at me over her shoulder, eyes rolling back in his head, and sighs like he’s in doggy heaven. Cindy nuzzles her face in the patch of dry fur near his ear. “I love you too,” she coos.
I study the two of them, lost in a second of sheer joy. But it doesn’t last. Cindy stiffens when a high-pitched voice screeches from the steel-and-glass structure that serves as her home. The perfect moment recedes like the waves.
My stomach twists. Something about that family and her home puts me on edge. Maybe I watch too many scary movies, but that big, cold mansion reminds me of the house in that movie where the main character fakes her own death to get away from her psycho husband.
I shake off the gloomy thoughts. At least they’re a family—a real family, with a mom and a dad. Granted, the dad isn’t around much. But even that must be better than knowing he’s gone forever.
Hitch watches Cindy go. After a minute, he drops the ball at my feet, plopping down on his butt, staring up at me with hopeful eyes. He wants me to join him in the water, but . . .
I don’t swim.
I know: it’s ridiculous. A twenty-first-century teenager who lives on the barrier islands of North Carolina and doesn’t swim. Dad took me to swimming lessons at the YMCA when I was seven, convinced I’d grow up and have a normal life. He said I’d be fine as long as someone was in the water with me. Not true. About the time I mastered the art of doggie paddling, I had a bad seizure and puked in the pool. Before the adolescent instructor or Dad could get me out of the water, I’d humiliated myself and almost drowned. Mom made Dad swear he’d keep me out of the water. She’s been trying to protect me from the dangers of my epilepsy ever since.
A long walk later, Hitch and I reach the rickety boardwalk that leads to our cottage on stilts. I inspect it as we cross over. Everything around this place needs work, but after Mom pays the bills there’s never anything left at the end of the month to fix loose boards, leaky pipes, or weathered shingles. Dad’s life insurance was just enough to pay off the mortgage and cover the first couple years of my college education, so that’s something, at least. But I’m pretty sure some of the kids at the Ridge have larger allowances than Mom’s part-time library income.
The only reason I go to North Ridge with the preps is because Mom and Dad bought this tiny house on the water when they first married. Crystal Cove was desolate back then, with sand dunes taller than my head and a herd of wild ponies roaming the beaches. The mustangs are long gone, relocated for their own protection when the millionaires moved north to get away from the fast-food restaurants and strip malls taking over the southern end of the island. Now gigantic beach homes dwarf our house on both sides.
Every light in the house is on when I open the back door. I spot my frowning mother and two sad frozen dinners waiting at the table. Forcing a smile, I drag myself across the bare wood floor.
“You’re late.” Mom pushes some rice around with her fork.
Sensing her aggravation with us, Hitch plops his head on her feet in apology.
“Sorry.” I slide into my seat. “Hitch needed exercise. He’s going stir crazy without me.” Ha! Good one. Finally, the mouth and brain both fire when I need them.
She smiles.
Uh-oh.
“Well, then, I think I have some good news.”
Lately, Mom and I don’t agree on what constitutes good news. My chest tightens.
She puts her fork down. “I’ve spoken with Principal Brown about Hitch going to school with you.” Hitch cocks his head at the sound of his name, and Mom rubs the top of his head with her bare foot. “He said now that your Individualized Education Plan is in effect, he’d get back to me in a week or so with the school board’s decision about Hitch—that a seizure response dog might fall under the same disability rules as assistant dogs.”
I try to swallow, but a pea lodges in my throat. Gagging, I reach for my water glass.
I should be thrilled at the idea of Hitch going to the Ridge. He almost always knows when I’m about to seize. He’s been trained to tug on my pants or shirt before an attack, and he knows how to break my fall if I black out. Plus, he’s my best friend.
But it’s going to be hard to explain a seizure response dog to Chatham and everyone else when I haven’t told anyone I have epilepsy.