drew a cartoon—a boy with a swirl of a hair, laughing eyes, and an upside-down book—while he made up a story about a girl who didn’t speak.
Dog’s head went up again. Travis put his hand over his mouth.
Mason walked by, his feet crunching on old leaves. If he’d looked down he’d have seen us, but he kept going.
Why had Mason thrown the ball at me? Just mean, maybe. I’d stay away from him.
I signed the cartoon
Judith Magennis,
handed it to Travis, and went with Dog to hang out at Ivy Cottage.
W e waded through mounds of weeds, and in front of us, the cottage steps gaped like Travis’s missing tooth. I could put my fists through the holes in the walls.
I pushed open the door, feeling the chipped paint under my fingers, and went into the living room.
Dog raised his head, sniffing at this new place. He wasn’t a puppy, but he wasn’t fully grown either. Where had he been? How could his owner have let him go?
I went toward the bedroom, my hands trailing along the buckling hall walls. The bed was still there, with a flowered spread that had tiny bites along the edge. Maybe the missing pieces were in mice beds deep in the house.
I sank down in front of the old mirror. It had a silvery look to it, and a crack that ran down one side. I could almost see myself.
“Hey.” My voice sounded rusty. Maybe because I could speak only here.
I grinned. “Who’s the fairest of them all?” I asked, remembering the evil queen in Snow White.
“Not the fairest, not even close,” I answered.
Dog padded into the room and sat close to me.
I leaned my head against the mirror, carefully, so I didn’t knock it over. No wonder Sophie thought I was weird. Something had to be crazy about a girl who talked to a mirror instead of people, a girl whose mother took off and left her.
But Mr. Kaufmann, the school psychologist, thought I was fine; so did Aunt Cora. I put my hand on Dog’s soft muzzle.
“I love you, Dog,” I whispered, surprised that I was able to talk to him. “You don’t think I’m weird, right?”
He gave my wrist a quick kiss.
I looked closer into the mirror and began to sing like Gideon did, in a deep voice but with no words. I’d forgotten them. “La, la, tra-la.”
Dog squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he thought I was the worst singer he’d ever heard?
I snapped my mouth shut. Opened it again. “Please,” I said to the mirror. “Let me be a regular kid.”
Next to me, Dog’s flat tongue was out; he was panting. He must be thirsty. I was really thirsty too.
We walked down the hall with its broken tile floor. Outside, we jogged around the back of the pond. I waited so Dog could drink; then I bent over, holding my hair back with one hand, and slurped in that cool clear water.
Afterward, I sat cartooning while he chased a butterfly, and then we headed home to see what Aunt Cora would say about him.
I woke to hear Aunt Cora calling, “Everything’s laid out for you, Jubilee.”
I opened my eyes. Next to me, on the bed, Dog stretched. Yesterday afternoon, we’d walked into the kitchen together, and Aunt Cora had knelt on the floor to pat him. “Yes,” she said. “I should have known we needed a dog.”
I drew the man on the boat for her, and her eyes widened. “Who could do such a thing!” she said, rubbing Dog’s ears.
She filled a bowl with leftover meat loaf and we watched while Dog scarfed it up. He was hungry, starving. If only I had known that!
But now, this morning, I looked at the clothes on my dresser: new jeans and a purple shirt with matching hair clips.
I climbed out of bed and knelt on the floor next to Dog. His tail wagged; he was happy. How could he know this was a sad day for me?
I dressed and grabbed my cartoon pad.
You’ll be fine,
I told myself.
That’s almost what Aunt Cora said as she put a plate of pancakes with blueberry smiles in front of me. “You’ll be amazing, Jubilee.” She leaned forward, smelling like the roses in her garden. “It’s just
Dog’s head went up again. Travis put his hand over his mouth.
Mason walked by, his feet crunching on old leaves. If he’d looked down he’d have seen us, but he kept going.
Why had Mason thrown the ball at me? Just mean, maybe. I’d stay away from him.
I signed the cartoon
Judith Magennis,
handed it to Travis, and went with Dog to hang out at Ivy Cottage.
W e waded through mounds of weeds, and in front of us, the cottage steps gaped like Travis’s missing tooth. I could put my fists through the holes in the walls.
I pushed open the door, feeling the chipped paint under my fingers, and went into the living room.
Dog raised his head, sniffing at this new place. He wasn’t a puppy, but he wasn’t fully grown either. Where had he been? How could his owner have let him go?
I went toward the bedroom, my hands trailing along the buckling hall walls. The bed was still there, with a flowered spread that had tiny bites along the edge. Maybe the missing pieces were in mice beds deep in the house.
I sank down in front of the old mirror. It had a silvery look to it, and a crack that ran down one side. I could almost see myself.
“Hey.” My voice sounded rusty. Maybe because I could speak only here.
I grinned. “Who’s the fairest of them all?” I asked, remembering the evil queen in Snow White.
“Not the fairest, not even close,” I answered.
Dog padded into the room and sat close to me.
I leaned my head against the mirror, carefully, so I didn’t knock it over. No wonder Sophie thought I was weird. Something had to be crazy about a girl who talked to a mirror instead of people, a girl whose mother took off and left her.
But Mr. Kaufmann, the school psychologist, thought I was fine; so did Aunt Cora. I put my hand on Dog’s soft muzzle.
“I love you, Dog,” I whispered, surprised that I was able to talk to him. “You don’t think I’m weird, right?”
He gave my wrist a quick kiss.
I looked closer into the mirror and began to sing like Gideon did, in a deep voice but with no words. I’d forgotten them. “La, la, tra-la.”
Dog squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he thought I was the worst singer he’d ever heard?
I snapped my mouth shut. Opened it again. “Please,” I said to the mirror. “Let me be a regular kid.”
Next to me, Dog’s flat tongue was out; he was panting. He must be thirsty. I was really thirsty too.
We walked down the hall with its broken tile floor. Outside, we jogged around the back of the pond. I waited so Dog could drink; then I bent over, holding my hair back with one hand, and slurped in that cool clear water.
Afterward, I sat cartooning while he chased a butterfly, and then we headed home to see what Aunt Cora would say about him.
I woke to hear Aunt Cora calling, “Everything’s laid out for you, Jubilee.”
I opened my eyes. Next to me, on the bed, Dog stretched. Yesterday afternoon, we’d walked into the kitchen together, and Aunt Cora had knelt on the floor to pat him. “Yes,” she said. “I should have known we needed a dog.”
I drew the man on the boat for her, and her eyes widened. “Who could do such a thing!” she said, rubbing Dog’s ears.
She filled a bowl with leftover meat loaf and we watched while Dog scarfed it up. He was hungry, starving. If only I had known that!
But now, this morning, I looked at the clothes on my dresser: new jeans and a purple shirt with matching hair clips.
I climbed out of bed and knelt on the floor next to Dog. His tail wagged; he was happy. How could he know this was a sad day for me?
I dressed and grabbed my cartoon pad.
You’ll be fine,
I told myself.
That’s almost what Aunt Cora said as she put a plate of pancakes with blueberry smiles in front of me. “You’ll be amazing, Jubilee.” She leaned forward, smelling like the roses in her garden. “It’s just
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