Treading Water

  “Our fabulous product prevents terrible itching and soreness caused by friction.

  “Used by motorcycle riders, farmers, truck drivers, horseback riders, and anyone else who suffers the indignity of rash.”

  David stops walking. “What is indignity, again? I used to know what it meant. I think.”

  “It means something that makes you feel embarrassed,” I explain. “I can’t imagine the way that you behave that you ever suffer the indignity of anything.”

  “Too cool, huh?” he says, walking again. “You know that I am.”

  “Cool isn’t the word I would use,” I say.

  On the way, I think about those colored bunnies. Who will buy them? How long will they keep them? I think about what I should do about it.

  We arrive at the tractor-supply store and walk around just like we did at the feed store. We don’t see any sign of animals here, either. But there is an empty brooder in the middle of the floor. It still has wood shavings in it, but no chicks or ducklings.

  A lady sorting huge eyebolts in bins calls out to us from across the aisle, “They’re all gone, kids. Sorry.” She goes back to sorting.

  We walk over to her.

  “But you did have chicks, recently?” I ask.

  “Yeah, well, the last of ’em went a couple weeks ago. We’re not getting any more. Not till next year.” She shakes the box in her hands into the larger bin and then plucks out a couple smaller eyebolts and puts them in another bin.

  “Did you sell rabbits, too?” David asks her.

  “Rabbits? Why would we sell rabbits?” she asks. She starts on a new box.

  Neither of us knows what to say to that.

  “Are you the manager?” I ask.

  “Do I look like the manager?” she asks.

  Again, we don’t know what to say.

  “Dieter Morris. Mr. Morris to you. He’s the manager. Why?”

  “Well,” I begin, “we’d like to talk with him about abandoned chicks and ducks.”

  “And rabbits.” David adds.

  “I told you, we don’t sell rabbits.”

  I shoot David a look. He’s not listening, and he’s not helping, either. Instead, he’s flipping his No-Monkey-Butt powder through his hands.

  “Right, so about the abandoned animals, we’d like to talk to Mr. Morris about them.”

  The lady stops her sorting. “You kids oughta talk to the animal shelter if you’re looking for abandoned animals. They got a lot of ’em. Dogs and cats, too. They once had a hedgehog. You ever seen a hedgehog?” she asks.

  “We don’t want to get any animals,” David says and points to me. “She wants to talk to the manager so people will stop abandoning them.”

  “The manager ain’t here now. But I think you kids should go over to the animal shelter. They’ll help you out.”

  “Okay,” I say. We aren’t getting very far here anyway. I’ll have to stop back another time when Mr. Morris is here.

  “Be sure you pay for that on your way out if you’re keeping it,” she says to David.

  “Oh, this is mine,” he says. “I bought it at the feed store just a little while ago.”

  The lady looks suspicious.

  “Really,” David says. He fishes the receipt out of his pocket, but she doesn’t even look at it.

  “I didn’t sell this to you. I would remember you.” She points a finger at David.

  “It’s because I didn’t buy it here. I told you, I bought it at the feed store.” David tries to show her the receipt again.

  “So why are you trying to return it here?” she asks, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes.

  “I don’t want to return it. I just bought it,” he says. And then adds, louder, “At the feed store.”

  Well, okay,” she says. “I was just being careful.” She goes back to her work.

  David and I leave quickly. “That was weird,” he says.

  It was. But at least we know where some of the animals are coming from. And even if we didn’t get to ask if they screen the buyers, we know they sell chicks and ducks at the tractor supply and chicks, ducks, and rabbits—dyed ones, too—at the feed store.

  I say good-bye to David and start toward home. If all went well for Sunita and Jules, they should have some information from the animal shelter and some from the pet store. We’ll need to compile and figure out exactly what we should do with all this information.

  That’s all I can think about for now, because tomorrow afternoon, I meet with the Photography Club. It doesn’t make sense to ask Maggie or Zoe to go, after all. Neither one is really speaking to me. Fine. It doesn’t matter.

  I think about how I need to reset my slide show, add a few new pictures, and put everything in the right order. That’s going to take a lot of my time tonight.

  In my mind, I swap one picture for another then swap it back. I think about the way the stores treated us today. They were nice enough. Helpful enough. But they treated us like little kids. I bet high school kids never get treated like that. That’s just one more reason to look forward to leaving middle school behind.

  Chapter Seven

  As soon as our school day is over, I walk across the parking lots to the high school. Their school day is over, too. The marching band is emptying out the main doors and assembling in an empty corner of the parking lot for practice. A couple buses are idling out front, waiting for some sports teams. It’s loud and more crowded than the last time I came. I push through a bunch of students. I wonder if anyone can tell I’m from the middle school or if I look like a high school girl as I make my way through the halls.

  I wasn’t sure what to wear, so I changed my clothes a few times this morning. I could have asked Zoe for help, but it felt weird with Maggie still being mad at me. So I wore some new clothes my mom recently bought for me. All day long, I’ve been tripping on the hem of the pants and pulling the waistband up. Even the new shirt is a little too big. The sleeves are long, and the neck is too loose. It was awkward carrying my computer, camera, and portfolio across the parking lot while holding my pants up so they wouldn’t drag in the puddles.

  I’m hot and a little bit flustered when I get up to the second floor. I set my equipment down on the floor and double-check the room number on the closed door of the meeting room. Should I just walk in? Knock first? I decide to go in. Bad decision. There is some kind of after-school class going on. Everyone looks at me, and the teacher says, “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and slip back out the door. Now what? I look at my note once more:

  Ambler High School Photography Club

  Room 214. Tuesday. 3:10

  The door says Room 214. It is Tuesday. I know it is. And now it’s 3:20. This is making my stomach hurt. I stop a student walking by and show her my note.

  “Photography Club. Oh yeah,” she says. “They moved it.”

  “Do you know where they moved it to?”

  “I’m not sure. During the afternoon announcements they said something about test prep going on in a couple rooms and the Photography and Key Clubs moving. I’m not in either of them, so I didn’t pay attention. Sorry,” she says, and starts to walk away.

  “Wait,” I call. “How can I find out where they’ve been moved to?”

  She keeps walking but says over her shoulder, “Not sure. Probably posted on the activities bulletin board near the guidance office.”

  Well, that’s just great. I’m going to be even later, and now I have to figure out where the guidance office is. A couple boys walk by, so I ask them.

  “Downstairs where you pick up your schedule,” one says.

  “Across from the chorus room,” his friend adds, and then shoves him into a wall as they both laugh and continue down the hall. Those two remind me of the boys in middle school. I guess they have a couple immature kids here, too. r />
  I still don’t know where that is, but at least I know to go back downstairs. I guess that the office must be somewhere close to the main entrance, but now that I’ve turned myself around, it isn’t easy finding it. Eventually, I do.

  On the bulletin board, three changes and cancellations are posted. I find:

  TUESDAY 3:10 PHOTOGRAPHY CLUB ROOM 224

  Seriously? Practically right where I’d come from. I race back upstairs. It’s hard to move fast carrying all my stuff.

  When I walk into the room, it’s pretty noisy. Nobody notices me, and I’m not sure which one the leader, Najla, is. So I just go to the front of the room and put my computer down on the teacher’s desk. The students are in small groups around the room. Some are looking at photos spread across tables. Others look over each other’s shoulders—probably looking at digital pictures. A few kids in the corner laugh as one student salutes and pretends to fall down. What should I do?

  I decide to set up. I turn on my computer and look around the room to try to figure out who’s in charge. I wish there was a faculty adviser, at least. I’d know to ask the adult where and how to set up, anyway. My hands are shaking as I pull open my portfolio and spread it out. I wonder where the screen is? How can I project my photos without a screen to project them upon? For that matter, where is the projector? On the phone, Najla told me I didn’t need to bring one, but I don’t see one anywhere. This is a nightmare.

  The group laughing in the corner finally spots me and comes over.

  “Some people left because they thought you weren’t coming,” says a girl who might be Najla.

  “I was told room two fourteen,” I say.

  “Yeah, they moved us without any notice,” the girl says. None of the others seem particularly concerned. I guess they can’t tell that I’m a little upset. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Is this where you want me to set up?” I ask. My voice sounds funny. My stomach still hurts.

  “Oh no. That’s not good,” the girl says. “The computer is back here. Give me your thumb drive, and I’ll plug it in for you.”

  Thumb drive? I didn’t bring a thumb drive. That’s not what the Outdoor Club had me do for them. They told me to bring my computer, and I did. I take a moment to think this through.

  “When I presented to the Outdoor Club last week, we just hooked my computer up to the projector. Can’t we just do that again?” My stomach is doing little flips, and I might have to go to the bathroom, too.

  “We don’t have that kind of projector,” the gesturing boy says. “This is a Smart Room. The projector is built into the computer back there, and your stuff will appear on the screen over here. It works great.” He points to what I thought was a dry-erase board.

  I bet it would work great—if they had told me to bring a thumb drive. And I guess I didn’t have to haul my computer around all day at school and then over here. My eyes sting. I do not want to cry in front of everyone, but I feel embarrassed and mad. Why didn’t anyone tell me anything?

  I take a deep breath and say to the one girl, “Are you Najla?”

  She nods, and I continue.

  “So here’s the problem. I didn’t bring a thumb drive because you didn’t tell me to. I don’t know how I can do my presentation unless we can borrow the projector the Outdoor Club used. And I have to use the bathroom. Can someone tell me where it is?”

  Najla eyes widen, and her mouth purses. “Well, I just assumed you would know. How should I know what the Outdoor Club uses? We do presentations all the time in Photography Club, and we always use the Smart system.”

  The boy looks at Najla, and I can tell he is as surprised by her tone of voice as I am. He says, “Wait a sec.” He tilts his chin to the ceiling and furrows his brow. Then he says, “E-mail. Just e-mail your presentation to us, and we can run it through the system.”

  I breathe again. Since my computer is on and ready, I quickly e-mail my presentation file to the address he types in. As soon as he receives it on the school’s computer, I head to the bathroom. I can’t believe how clueless Najla is. First, she doesn’t think to tell me that the room has been changed. Then she’s mad that I’m late because of it. Plus she is irritated that I didn’t assume I would need to bring different equipment. I guess not all high school kids are cool. I look at the time. I’ve already lost a half hour of presentation time. I’m going to have to cut it short. How?

  When I get back from the bathroom, the faculty adviser is there. She and the students are sitting and looking at the screen. I glance at the screen, and instead of the first carefully selected presentation slide, it’s a photo of the dead duckling. Oh no.

  “Um, wrong file,” I say to the helpful boy whose name I still don’t know. I feel my face redden. What will they think of me? Sunita is a friend, and even she thinks I’m weird for taking it.

  “Hold on!” a girl with a long skirt and giant earrings says. “That is an amazing shot. It tells a story.”

  “A sad story,” I say. “The duckling had just died because someone bought it and then abandoned it. We’re pretty sure it was meant to be an Easter gift for a child. There was plastic grass in its throat when we found it.”

  “That’s terrible!” she says.

  “It really is,” I agree. “Dr. Mac at the vet clinic tried to save it. But it was too fragile and dehydrated when we got to it.”

  “So sad,” I hear a few people around the room say.

  “We actually found four ducklings right here in the parking lot of the high school,” I tell them.

  “Oh yeah,” a boy who seemed to be sleeping says. “I heard about that. Do you think somebody from here just dumped ’em?”

  “Well, probably not a high school student,” I suggest. “Most likely, a parent bought them for their kids, and when they saw how messy they were—and ducks are sooo messy—they decided to get rid of them. It’s really terrible that whoever did this didn’t at least find a place they could be cared for. The animal shelter, or Dr. Mac’s clinic. This one didn’t have to die.”

  Everyone is quiet for a moment. Have I said too much? The Outdoor Club was a lot easier to talk to. My stomach hurts, and I’m still way too hot.

  “Still, it’s a good shot,” Najla says.

  “Crazy good,” a boy in the second row says. “What did you use to get that moody lighting?”

  I look at the picture and try to remember. “A red-bulb heat lamp about four feet away and eighteen inches high off the surface gives it that apricot glow.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I’ve never used a heat lamp bulb before.”

  I am about to tell him that I didn’t set up the shot, that it was unintentional—almost a reflex—taking that photo. I am about to explain that the red bulb was a source of heat for the nearby healthy ducklings, but then my real first slide is projected, and I begin my wildlife photography talk.

  I have to flip through quicker than I intended. But it’s going okay. My stomach settles down, and I’m not wishing I had said no any longer. I wish they would crack a window, though.

  We talk about wildlife. We talk about lighting. We talk about shutter speeds and specialty lenses. We talk about safety, and we talk about luck.

  As the students ask questions, I flip to my last couple of slides. They’re about the Environmental Club and Save Our Streams Cleanup Days. I have a sign-up sheet and handouts just like I did for the Outdoor Club, in case anyone wants to volunteer.

  One girl—in head-to-toe black—asks me about joining the Environmental Club.

  “We’d love to have some more members. My blog and e-mail addresses are on the handout. You can get in touch with me.”

  “So this club,” she continues. “Where do you meet? And is it a middle school club?” The way she says middle school sounds as if she meant kindergarten.

  “We meet at the middle school. Firs
t Tuesday of the month. Four o’clock. And yeah, it’s mostly middle school kids.”

  The girl looks less interested now. I see a couple kids pass their handouts back. So I quickly add, “But I’m pretty sure I’m moving the club to the high school soon.”

  The girl nods. “If you do, I’ll think about it.”

  I should be happy about that. A couple other kids tell me they’ll think about joining as they head out the door. I wonder if I’ve done the right thing suggesting it.

  I’ve been thinking about it for a while—since last week anyway. After all, I did check out this school’s auditorium and cafeteria in case we decide to move the meetings here. I know we’d get a lot more high school kids coming if the meetings were held here. And the Outdoor Club kids would see that the Vet Volunteers would be good members for their club. The Photography Club kids somehow made me feel too young, and I don’t think any of them will join if the meetings are held back at the middle school. I’m sure of all this. So why do I dread telling the Vet Volunteers what I just suggested?

  I look at the pile of handouts and my sign-up sheet. Nobody signed it. Only two handouts were taken.

  I gather my stuff and walk downstairs. This time, everything looks bigger—and the remaining kids, not so friendly.

  Chapter Eight

  Sage picks me up at the front entrance of the high school again. As we drive through the parking lot, I notice we both can’t help but look in the direction of where we found the ducklings a week ago.

  And that’s when I see Nick and his girlfriend, from Outdoor Club, waving us down. Sage stops, and we roll down our windows.

  “Hey, man”—Nick leans on the window frame and says to Sage—“I see you already fixed that muffler.”

  “Shop got me in fast,” Sage says. “Hey,” he says to Nick’s girlfriend.

  The girlfriend waves at each of us and then looks down at her phone as she quickly texts.

  “Sorry I couldn’t stop in to see your photog show,” Nick begins. “I had to get some stuff done.”