Strays by Jennifer Caloyeras Page B

frustrated when people didn’t get where I was coming from.
    In a way, Roman had it a lot harder than me—he didn’t have the capacity to communicate. I, at least, had the ability to open up to people, should I ever choose to do so.
    At home the neighbor’s dog was at the fence, greeting me with growls and barks. I gathered the mail from our box, tucked the pile of bills under my arm, and approached the dog with a display of fake confidence.
    I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. The dog followed me closely, never breaking eye contact.
    In a stern voice I said, “Sit!” I watched his ears perk up as the ninety-pound bullmastiff lowered his body into a quintessential dog sitting position.
    I couldn’t help but smile.
    â€œStay!” I said, putting my hand up to his face on the other side of the fence.
    The dog didn’t move until I was through my front door.
    At least one animal was listening to me.
    *
    After completing two hours of reading for Perry’s class (it took me that long because I kept getting distracted, thinking about Oak), bouncing around on the Internet, and Googling Oak’s name (his court case came up in a small article in the Sentinel with the headline, “Local Teen Genius Leads Police on a Cyber Goose Chase”), it was finally time to head over to Talbot’s. I checked the fridge to see if I could bring anything to contribute to dinner. It was pretty barren except for a few vegetable juices and a bottle of champagne that Dad had purchased—no doubt to celebrate his impending promotion. The final interview was on Monday, and I couldn’t wait until he stopped talking about it all the time.
    Even though Talbot had told me not to bike, I tried to cycle up Bay, one of the biggest hills in the city, until my legs felt like they were on fire, at which point I waited patiently for the 1 University bus to arrive and hooked my bike to the front. The bus dropped me off right in front of Talbot’s house at UC Santa Cruz’s faculty housing. I guessed her parents were professors.
    The brown houses with green trim all looked the same, like a mini suburbia. Across the housing development were two huge fields of dried grass, cut in half by the road that the bus continued on up to campus. Cows grazed on the grass, and at the top of the hill were scores of redwood trees clustered in tight circles. Hidden among the shade of the redwoods sat UC Santa Cruz. It felt strange to be in such proximity to a university and yet, with my slipping grades and out-of-school problems, I couldn’t have felt further away from a college-bound future. I would feel like a complete failure if I didn’t make it to my vision of the Brown library.
    I walked my bike up to Talbot’s and rang the doorbell.
    A little boy answered. “I’m Thaddeus, but you can call me Bug Man.” He held up a plastic container with all sorts of creepy crawlies in it.
    â€œThad! Get those bugs out of the house!” Talbot’s mom’s voice bellowed from the kitchen.
    â€œCool insects,” I said. It made him stop in his tracks.
    â€œYou like bugs?” he asked.
    â€œI do!” I said, bending down to get a better look at the smattering of earwigs and potato bugs crawling around in the plastic container. “Did you know that there are over twenty million bugs per person on the planet?”
    â€œNo way!” said Talbot’s brother.
    â€œIt’s true,” I said.
    â€œThat’s disgusting.” Talbot bounded down the stairs to greet me. “You can put your bike here.” She leaned it up against the hallway wall.
    â€œAh! An environmentalist. I like it,” said the man following behind her.
    â€œThat’s my dad,” Talbot said.
    I shook his hand. He squeezed it so hard it hurt.
    â€œIt’s not by choice, Dad. She doesn’t have a car.”
    I stood there and smiled awkwardly.
    â€œWell, that makes two of