Nobody's Dog by Ria Voros Page B

making an oval Formula One track in the sand, shored up with rocks and more sand and with a round hill in the middle to discourage the crabs from getting off course.
    I haven’t played like this at the beach for a long time — probably since my parents took me when I was a kid. We’d make huge sandcastles. The bigger the better. Dad and I were the builders and Mom was the decorator. She searched the beach for small black pebbles or white shells while we put up the walls and towers and drawbridge. When it was finished, I’d put a stick through the top as a flagpole and we’d eat lunch and watch the sea come in and wash the foundation away.
    Libby stands back from the oval track and smiles at me. “I think it’s ready.”
    â€œWait.” I get on my knees and reach over the track’s short wall. I trace a line with my finger in the sand. “We need a starting line. Right?”
    â€œGreat. Now, how many should be in the first heat?”
    â€œHeat? Is this the Olympics?”
    Libby looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I have done this before. Trust me. We’ll have to do a few heats. If we put them all on the track, it’ll be a free-for-all and a big mess.”
    â€œOf course. Stupid me.”
    â€œSo, I say we start with five.” She reaches into the bucket.
    â€œDo you want to make lanes too? And we could put little numbers on their backs.”
    â€œDon’t take it so seriously, Jakob. It’s just fun.”
    I stare at her with my mouth open. “Uh, yeah. Was that not clear from my sarcasm?”
    She fake-flings a crab at me, making the same open-mouthed face I did. “Uh, yeah, Jakob. Didn’t you know I could be sarcastic too?”
    I don’t really know what to say to that, so I reach into her bucket and pull out the biggest crab, which pinches me on the finger. He drops into the track and scuttles along the base of the hill.
    â€œHead start — no fair,” Libby says. “We need to choose five and start them together.”
    â€œFine. You do it.” I squat beside the track and fold my arms across my knees.
    â€œI can see you haven’t done this before,” she says again, reaching into the bucket with both hands and bringing out four crabs.
    â€œAnd you’re some kind of expert crab racer?”
    She puts the crabs near the starting line, grabs a stick and sweeps them all in the same direction. For a moment, it works. They all skitter away from the stick. Then a couple decide they want to go backwards and two more attack each other. “I used to do this with my dad,” she says.
    â€œI didn’t even know you had one,” I say. “Does he live here?”
    â€œCalgary,” she says.
    â€œSo you don’t see him much?”
    She shakes her head, eyes on the crabs, which she’s still poking forward with the stick. One is actually making progress around the track. My big one is almost at the top of the hill, waving a claw around.
    â€œWhat’s he like?” I’m not sure why I’m asking. Maybe because I’d never thought about Libby having a dad, or Soleil having an ex-husband.
    She shrugs. “He has the same colour hair as me. He plays guitar in a band. He has a new family, though. He got married two years ago and had a baby.”
    â€œHave you seen them?”
    â€œOnce. The baby was kind of cute, but he drooled everywhere.”
    For someone who wouldn’t shut up the past few days, she isn’t saying much now. “Does he know about your art?” I ask, thinking this might be something she’ll get more excited about.
    The first crab makes it back to the starting line, thanks to Libby’s prodding. She picks it up and puts it in the bucket.
    â€œYou should send him some,” I say. “I bet he’d like to see what you’ve been drawing.”
    â€œI have,” she says. “Twice. And he didn’t say