“Rose.” Mrs. Leibler looks straight into my eyes and says quietly, “Are you having trouble concentrating? You haven’t solved a single problem.”
“Yes. I am having trouble concentrating.”
“Then let’s just take things one at a time. What do you do here?” She taps her fingernail on the first problem in the top row.
I look at it:
247
× 3
I know I’m supposed to multiply the 7 and the 3, but my brain isn’t seeing 7 or 3, or 21 either. It’s seeing Rain. Rain lost in the rain. Wet and cold and shivering and hungry.
“Rose?” says Mrs. Leibler again. Now she taps my arm with her fingernail. Tap, tap, tap. Her red-painted nail tapping on my skin.
I jerk my arm away.
“Rose?”
“Stop! Stop it!”
I see Mrs. Kushel and Mrs. Leibler glance at each other. Then Mrs. Leibler says, “Time for a break in the hall,” and she leads me through the door.
“‘Break’ and ‘brake’ are homonyms,” I announce as I slump to the floor.
“Take some time to collect your thoughts,” says Mrs. Leibler. “You need a quiet moment.”
“‘Time’ and ‘thyme’—”
Mrs. Leibler puts her finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”
I try to control my thoughts. When I feel calmer I say to Mrs. Leibler, “I feel calmer.”
“Okay then.”
She opens the door and I return to my desk.
Mrs. Kushel leans toward me. “Are you feeling less tense, Rose?” she whispers.
I widen my eyes. “Oh! OH!” I cry. “‘Tense’ and ‘tents’! That’s a brand-new pair of homonyms! A really good one. Thank you, Mrs. Kushel. I have to add those words to my list when I get home. I hope I have space in the T section.”
I don’t want to forget the homonyms, so I tear a sheet of paper from my notebook and carefully write:
tense
tents
I hear snickering. I see Josh Bartel looking at me, then looking at Parvani and rolling his eyes.
Parvani looks away from him, though. She shakes her head. I think that’s her way of sticking up for me. I should thank her. I open my mouth, but instead of words what comes out is a wail.
Mrs. Leibler leads me right back into the hall.
If only I knew that Rain would be waiting for me after school.
30
Empty Space
After school, Uncle Weldon drops me at home and goes back to his job.
Here are the things I do in the afternoons now while I wait for my father to come home:
• look through my mother’s box
• start my homework
• start dinner
Here are the things I can’t do in the afternoons anymore:
• sit on the porch with Rain
• take a walk with Rain
• feed Rain
The afternoons are long. They seem to be full of empty space—space between looking through the box and starting my homework, space between finishing my homework and starting dinner. I don’t know what to do with the space. Rain used to fill it.
How do you fill empty space?
31
The Good Phone Call
On the Friday that is three weeks after Hurricane Susan, Uncle Weldon picks me up at school as usual. We are driving along Hud when I notice Sam Diamond’s yellow car parked in the road, and then I see my father hauling tools to the bridge.
I wonder why my father is home so early. I thought he was going to be at the J & R Garage all day.
Uncle Weldon stops the truck by the bridge. We cross our fingers and touch our hearts, and then I jump out of the cab and close the door. I turn around and almost run into my father. His eyes are small and mean, and he leans through the window of the truck and says to Uncle Weldon, “That Jerry fired me today.” Only instead of the name Jerry he uses a word that I’m not allowed to say. “He frickin’ fired me,” my father goes on. “No reason.” He bangs his hands on the side of the truck.
“Whoa,” says my uncle. “What are you going to do?”
“Finish the bridge.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know ‘and then what’ right now, okay?”
“But shouldn’t you think ahead a little? You can’t just live day to day.” Uncle Weldon looks like he has something more to say, but my father interrupts him.
“I got plenty to do around here. The yard’s still a mess. I’ll keep busy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I run around to Uncle Weldon’s side of the truck, stand on my toes, and whisper to him, “What about money?”
“Rose, I can see you, you know,” says my father through the truck. “I can hear you too. You think I can’t support us? I can support us. Now go on inside.”
I cross the bridge as fast as I can. Behind me I hear Uncle Weldon clear his throat and say, “Rose does have a point, Wesley. What are you going to do for money? Rose needs new clothes—”
My father bangs the truck with his fists again. “Don’t tell me what Rose needs.” He’s yelling with his hands instead of his voice.
That’s the end of the conversation. I don’t hear anything but the sound of the truck starting up as I dash onto the porch, pass the empty couch, and hurry into the house.
I take the telephone into my room and throw my school bag on the floor. Then I get out my lists of shelters. I have called every single shelter on all the lists, but I’ve only called the farthest shelters, the ones in the widest ring on the map, once. It’s time to call them again. Just in case. Just in case Rain got washed very far away. Or in case her nose wasn’t working well and she wandered in the wrong direction.
I call Boonton Animal Rescue Center. Still no Rain.
I call Safe Haven Shelter. Still no Rain.
I call Olivebridge Animal Adoption Network. Still no Rain.
Then I call Happy Tails Animal Shelter. A voice answers the phone and when I determine that it’s the voice of a real person, not a recorded voice, I say, “Hello, this is Rose again. I called last week. I’m still looking for my dog, Rain. She got lost during the storm. She has yellow fur and seven white toes. Has anyone brought her in?”
The person on the other end of the line, who is a man, says, “How big is she? Do you know how much she weighs?”
“She weighs twenty-three pounds,” I reply. I remind myself not to add that 23 is a prime number. That is not appropriate for this conversation.
“And she has white toes?”
“They’re not all white,” I say. “Just seven are. Two on her right front paw, one on her left front paw, three on her right back paw, and one on her left back paw.”
“Hang on a sec.” I can hear the man talking to someone. He’s repeating the information about Rain’s toes. Then he says to me, “Hang on just a few more seconds, okay?”
There’s a long silence. I look out my window. I think about homonyms: toe/tow and toes/tows.
Finally I hear a voice in my ear again. “We do have a dog like that here,” says the man. He sounds excited. “Someone brought her in several days ago. A young blond female dog with seven white toes, just like you described. We’ve been trying to—”
My hands start to shake. I drop the phone and it rolls onto the floor. I can’t think. I put my hands over my ears and jump up and down on my bed. Then I jump off the bed and pick up the phone. I can hear the man saying, “Hello? Hello?” I click the phone off. Then I click it on again. I dial Uncle Weldon’s number before I remember that he’s still on his way back to work. I click the phone off. I get out the map and draw a large red circle around Elmara, New York, where Happy Tails is located. I sit on my hands and try to remember every single thing that’s in my mother’s box. Finally I phone my uncle again.
He answers on the first ring. “Everything all right?” he asks.
“Rain might be in Elmara!” I cry. “There’s a blond dog with seven white toes at t
he shelter. Someone brought her in a few days ago. Can we go to Elmara, please? Please?”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine o’clock,” says my uncle.
32
The Happy Tails Animal Shelter in Elmara, New York
By 8:45 the next morning I am sitting on our porch, just in case Uncle Weldon arrives early. He arrives at 8:55, and I jump up from the couch, call good-bye to my father, and run across our yard to the truck.
Uncle Weldon and I are in a good mood on the drive to Elmara. We talk about homonyms and prime numbers, and I tell him about Parvani’s mother. “Parvani cries a lot at school,” I add. “I think she’s very sad. I cheer her up with homonyms.”
The closer we get to Elmara, the more I talk.
“Uncle Weldon! Uncle Weldon! There’s a sign for Happy Tails Animal Shelter! ‘Tails’ has a homonym. ‘Tales.’ That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Isn’t it a good sign? I think it is. I’m sure Rain is the 23-pound blond dog with the seven white toes that someone brought in. Both 23 and 7 are prime numbers.”
“Rose.” My uncle interrupts me. “Don’t get too excited. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case the blond dog with white toes isn’t Rain after all. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. But I’m bouncing up and down in my seat, feeling happy.
Uncle Weldon puts on his directional, and we turn left and rumble along a dirt road. I see a sign that says HAPPY TAILS—JUST AHEAD. Soon the road ends in a parking lot by a long low building. Now I see a bigger sign that says HAPPY TAILS. Under the words are a painting of a dog and a cat curled up together, their tails entwined.
“Where do we park? Where do we park?” I cry.
“Rose, calm down,” says my uncle. “Here’s a parking space. And over there I see a sign that says OFFICE. Let’s go.”
I run ahead of my uncle, through the parking lot, and along a walk to the OFFICE sign. I pull open a door. Inside I see a waiting room with a desk and a lot of hard plastic chairs. Some of the chairs are occupied. Most of them are empty. I don’t pay any attention to the people in the chairs. I’m only interested in the man behind the desk.
“Rose, slow down!” my uncle calls after me, but he’s laughing.
I step up to the desk, stand on tiptoes, and say to the man, “My name is Rose Howard. I called yesterday about my dog.”
I explain about Rain again, and the man begins to smile. “Yes,” he says. “We were hoping you would come in. Just a moment. Let me get the shelter manager.”
He speaks into a phone on the desk and a few minutes later a door at the back of the room opens and a woman walks through it. She’s holding a leash and saying, “Come on. Come on, girl.”
I watch the leash as it follows the woman through the door, watch and watch, until finally I can see what’s at the other end.
“Rain!” I cry.
I run to her. Rain seems confused at first. Her eyes dart around the room as she looks at the strange people. But then they settle on Uncle Weldon and me, and she begins to leap and jump and yip and bark.
I slide onto my knees and throw my arms around Rain. She wiggles so hard that her entire body vibrates. Then she puts her front paws on my shoulders and licks my face.
“Rain,” I say again. I look behind me at Uncle Weldon. “It’s really her,” I whisper.
I see that my uncle is crying. Then I see that the woman with the leash is crying, and so is the man behind the desk, and so are two of the people sitting in the hard plastic chairs.
Tears are running down my own face, but Rain licks them away, so I don’t have to worry about them.
When Rain and I finally settle down and everyone has stopped crying, the shelter manager holds out her hand to Uncle Weldon and says, “My name is Julie Caporale.”
Uncle Weldon and Julie Caporale talk for a while. I don’t pay much attention to what they’re saying. I sit on the floor where Rain has climbed into my lap and I stroke her ears and paws, and examine her closely. She looks thin, and she has some cuts on her face and some marks on her belly that might be insect bites. But she is still my Rain.
After a long time I hear Mrs. Caporale say to my uncle, “It’s clear that this lucky pup has found her owners, but I have to follow procedure before we release her to you. Could you please show me some identification? I need to make sure that the information on your ID matches the information on the microchip. I’m a little confused because the chip says the dog’s name is Olivia, not Rain.”
I twist my head around to look at Uncle Weldon.
“I’ll be happy to show you my driver’s license,” he says, “but I should tell you that I’m Rose’s uncle, not her father, and—”
I have to interrupt the conversation.
“What’s a microchip?” I ask.
33
What a Microchip Is
It turns out that a microchip is a tiny chip, about the size of a grain of rice, that a veterinarian injects into a pet, and that contains information such as who the pet’s owners are and how to contact them.
“We scanned Olivia—excuse me, Rain—for a chip when she was brought in,” Mrs. Caporale tells Uncle Weldon and me.
She’s been talking for a long time now, explaining microchip technology, and I’m trying hard not to interrupt again, but finally I can’t help it. “We didn’t have Rain microchipped!” I burst out. “We’ve never even taken her to the vet.”
“But she does have a microchip,” says Mrs. Caporale.
“Are you sure?” I’m getting a strange feeling in my stomach.
“Of course. We scanned it, and that’s how we know her name is Olivia.” Mrs. Caporale is frowning now. She sits in one of the chairs and opens a folder she’s been carrying. Then she turns to Uncle Weldon. “So you aren’t Jason Henderson? From Gloverstown?”
Uncle Weldon shakes his head.
“We’ve been trying to contact the Hendersons, but we haven’t had any luck,” says Mrs. Caporale. “That’s why we were so pleased when you called yesterday, Rose—even though you hung up before we could get your number. Our phones have been misbehaving ever since the storm,” she adds, and smiles at me. “We thought you were one of the Hendersons. We assumed they’d had to move because of Susan. Gloverstown got hit badly and we just get a fast busy signal whenever we call the Hendersons’ home number. And they didn’t include a cell number on their contact information, so…” She spreads her hands.
I slump onto the floor with Rain again. I put my arms around her and feel her fur against my neck. She’s so soft that I think maybe she’s been given a bath recently. I rest my cheek next to her face.
“Who are you, Rain?” I whisper.
34
What Mrs. Caporale Says
Mrs. Caporale and Uncle Weldon continue their conversation. I sit on the floor and think about Rain and my father.
I remember the night my father brought Rain home. I wonder if my father didn’t know about microchips or if he just didn’t want to look for Rain’s owners.
I think of my father letting Rain outside during a superstorm without her collar.
I realize that my father hasn’t helped me one bit in my search for Rain.
I turn around and say to Mrs. Caporale, “My father found Rain in the rain. That’s why I named her Rain. Also, it’s a homonym.” (Mrs. Caporale looks puzzled.) “Rain was all by herself with no collar,” I continue.
“Did you try to look for her owners?” Mrs. Caporale asks.
I shake my head. “My father said we couldn’t look because she didn’t have any identification. Also, he said if she had owners they must not have cared very much about her.” I pause and then say in a smaller voice, “But they cared enough to have her microchipped.”
Mrs. Caporale looks at me and says gently, “Pets can get separated from their owners for all kinds of reasons. Getting lost or separated doesn’t mean the owners are irresponsible.”
I wonder if Mrs. Caporale is talking
about the Hendersons or about my father and me.
I nod. For some reason, I feel like crying again, so I say, “Two, three, five, seven, eleven.” But I say it in my head so that I’m the only one who hears it.
I see Uncle Weldon look from Rain and me to Mrs. Caporale. “What happens now?” he asks. “Do we leave Rain here?”
“No!” I cry. (No, no, know, know.) I jump to my feet.
Rain stands up too, looking nervous. She leans against my legs and nuzzles my hand with her nose (knows).
Mrs. Caporale lets out a breath of air that puffs her hair away from her forehead. “This is the first time I’ve run into this situation,” she admits. “Let me talk to one of my co-workers.”
She leaves the waiting room. Uncle Weldon and I sit in the chairs. Rain jumps up and settles herself with her head in my lap and her rear in Uncle Weldon’s lap.
I say to my uncle, “I’d feel better if Olivia was a homonym name, but it isn’t.”
Uncle Weldon gives me a sad smile.
At last Mrs. Caporale returns. She sits next to Uncle Weldon and says, “See if you think this is fair: Considering that we’ve been trying to reach the Hendersons and haven’t had any luck, and considering that Rain has been living with Rose for a year and clearly loves her—”
“And I love Rain,” I say.
“—and you love Rain,” Mrs. Caporale continues, “we’ve decided that she should go home with you, at least temporarily. It only seems fair, and she’ll certainly be happier living with you than living here at the shelter.”
“Thank you!” I cry.
“However,” Mrs. Caporale goes on, “we will continue to search for the Hendersons. We’re busier than usual just now, because of the storm, but we will search. And if we reach them, or if they contact us, and they want Rain back, well then…” She spreads her hands again. “Rain is their dog after all. I mean, she was. Originally. So, please fill out this form with your information and we’ll keep it on file.” She starts to hand the form to me, then looks at Uncle Weldon.
“I’ll fill it out,” he says. “I’ll put down my information as well as Rose’s and her father’s.”