Doggirl E-Book

Robin Brande

• Herausgeber: Ryer Publishing
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

I BELIEVE IN SIGNS.

And this one said:  "Dog trainer needed immediately.  Must provide own dog."

I snatched the paper off the announcement board before anyone else could see it.

BECAUSE IT'S ABOUT TIME.

Meet Riley Case:  An expert with dogs, lousy with people.  She's been keeping a low profile at her high school--well, except for that incident with the birds--but when the chance comes to use her talents as a dog trainer to help the drama department win a national competition, she knows she can't stay in the shadows any longer.

Funny and tender, with plenty for any animal-lover to love, Doggirl and her dogs will steal your heart.

Leseprobe

DOGGIRL

ROBIN BRANDE

RYER PUBLISHING

DOGGIRL

By Robin Brande

Copyright © 2011 by Robin Brande

Published by Ryer Publishing

www.ryerpublishing.com

Cover art by Saenko/Deposit Photos

Cover design by Ryer Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author

Also by Robin Brande

1

I believe in signs.

And this one said:

Dog trainer needed immediately.

Must provide own dog.

I snatched the paper off the announcement board before anyone else could see it.

Because it’s about time.

The note at the bottom said to talk to Danny Grecko. I sort of knew who he was, but he didn’t know me, of course. He’s a senior, I’m a freshman, and besides, there’s no reason he would have noticed me anyway. I pretty much keep a low profile.

“Hey, aren’t you that Birdgirl?” he asked.

Well, except maybe for that.

It was the first day of school last semester—my first day at any school in this town—and I was sitting outside at one of the tables for lunch.

Maybe I should back up.

It’s always been this way. My parents say it was from when I was still a little baby.

One day they had me out on the lawn on top of a blanket to take my picture. Goo-goo, gah-gah, I’m just lying there on my stomach trying to work on my head control.

And the neighbor’s giant part-Mastiff, part-Rottweiler trots over, never been in our yard before, but there he is suddenly, and my parents are freaking out, and I’m all smiles and gurgles and cooing.

My dad missed the first shot because he was still too much in shock, but he started clicking pictures as soon as he could. The dog—his name was Ralph—plopped down behind me on the blanket, slid his giant paws on either side of my body like he was propping me up, and then he leaned his cheek against mine and I leaned into him and we both smiled for the camera. I mean, I looked ecstatic. We have the pictures to prove it.

My dad says I’m like Snow White, with all the birds and squirrels and deer coming out to meet me while I walk through the forest. I wouldn’t go that far, but it can get kind of weird.

So I was just sitting there on the first day of school, eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, trying not to openly stare at any of the kids around me even though I was pretty curious what their stories were, when suddenly I noticed a small gathering. Not really something to get alarmed about, just a few pigeons here and there. And then a few sparrows. And maybe two or three pairs of doves.

And now people were noticing. I could hear them laughing or gasping or just chattering to each other. I didn’t look up because there was nothing I could do about it anyway. They like to be around me. Not all the time, but every now and then I’ll just attract this little entourage of whatever birds are in the area. It’s no big deal—they eventually get bored and move on.

But having that happen in front of everybody did sort of give me a reputation for a while. I was “Birdgirl” for the first month or so, until everybody got distracted by the next shiny thing and lost track of me. Which is exactly what I’d hoped.

I handed Danny Grecko his sign. “I can do this, if you want.”

“You can?” he said. “Great. What kind of dog do you have? Never mind, doesn’t matter. Can you bring it to the theater after school today?”

“Um, sure.”

“Great. See you then.” He went back to scribbling in his notebook.

“Can I, um, ask you what this is for?”

“A play,” he said, not looking up.

My heart beat a little faster. “Which one?” There aren’t a lot of plays that use dogs, other than a few musicals like Annie. Theater producers think animals are too unpredictable. All they need to do is hire the right trainers.

“I’m writing it right now,” Danny answered.

“Pardon?”

He set down his pen and gave me his full attention. “Look, I have about four seconds for this, so listen fast.

“It’s for the TDTT,” he said. “Thirteen-Day Theater Thrash. High schools all around the country compete. Prizes for best play, best director, best cast, best costumes, blah blah.

“This morning all the teams were assigned our required elements: genre, time period, prop we have to use. We’re stuck with Mystery, World War I, a pot roast. Couldn’t suck more. So now I have to figure out how the bleep I’m going to write a two-act, sixty-minute play using all of those, while also giving decent parts to the four seniors in the cast because otherwise they’re going to kill me.

“And that’s just the easy part,” he continued. “Next the actors have to memorize all their lines, we have to figure out how to stage it, what sets to build, what costumes to make, how to cook a pot roast, apparently, then we have to perform it live in front of an audience a week from Saturday and film it with no cuts or edits, then turn in the film by 9:00 the next morning. So you can see I won’t really be taking my time in the bathroom for the next thirteen days.”

“No,” I agreed.

“So if you don’t mind—”

“Sure, but can I just . . . can you just tell me what you want the dog to do?”

“Oh. Decent question,” Danny said. “I don’t know, maybe bring out a shoe, a newspaper—actually, more like a severed hand.” He made a quick note in his notebook. “Stand there, look cute, bark and run off—you know, that sort of thing.”

“That’s . . . it?”

“Yeah, that’s it—it’s all we need. Last year the team who went on to nationals killed. And why? Because they had someone carry a cat across the stage—just carry a friggin cat. The judges went freakin nuts. So I figure if I can get a dog up there and have it actually do something, we’re golden.”

“Yeah, but . . . can’t you at least give us something harder?”

Danny rubbed his nose. “Harder? Like what?”

“I’ll bring Fig,” I said. “You can see.”

2

I heard once that people know what they want to be by the time they’re ten years old. I’ve known since I was four.

My parents brought home the movie Babe, and forget it, that was it. I’ve watched it like 8,000 times now. The pig, the dogs, the duck, the sheep—someone had to teach each and every one of them how to perform all those tricks. True, some of the sheep were animatronic, but there were still plenty of real animals in that movie that needed real training.

Like the scene where Fly looks so sad because all of her puppies have been sold? That’s not why she was sad at all. The way the trainer got her to look like that was he knew how much she loved chicken. So he purposely stood just off-camera and fed chicken to another dog right in front of her. Fly gave the trainer a little moan, put her head down on her paws, and looked at him with the most pathetic eyes. “Cut! Perfect!”

That’s what I want to do.

So when Fig and I walked through the doors to the school theater this afternoon, it felt like we were finally walking into our fate.

The door slammed behind us. “Doggirl!” Danny called out. He said it like it was one word.

I gave a little wave. Fig wagged her tail.

“What is that?” I heard someone ask. “A polar bear?”

I’m used to it by now. Fig is pretty huge. “She’s a Great Pyrenees,” I answered, squinting toward the voice. The theater was much darker than outside, and my eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.

“Well, bring her in,” Danny called. “Let’s get crackin.”

I could see them all now: the three guys and the girl up on the stage, the dozen or so people out in the audience. And Danny Grecko, pacing the aisle.

He waved me over and quickly ran through the introductions. “That’s Jeremy, Madison, Tucker, Brett—cast.” The people up on stage. “Nate—documentarian.” Guy with the camcorder. “Beverly—costumes.” Girl with the cool outfit. “Everyone else—crew. Everyone, Doggirl. What’s your real name?”

“Uh, Riley.”

“Riley. Great. And that’s Sid?”

“Fig.”

“Great. Show us what you can do.”

I wasn’t expecting it all to happen so fast, but I guess that was okay. The sooner we got started, the less nervous I would be.

“Fig, sit.” I took off her leash and told her to stay. Then I hopped up on stage to see what we had to work with.

While I looked around at the props and furniture, I also stole a few quick glances at the people.

First, the actors: the only one I recognized was Madison Bell—everyone knows her. Senior girl, superpretty. Long, whitish-blond hair like a faerie queen’s, cool black square-rim glasses like she doesn’t know people are supposed to wear contacts if they want to look better. She doesn’t need to.

I didn’t know which of the three guys went with which name, but the one with the sideburns and wearing a Batman T-shirt was really cute.

Nate, the cameraman: short brown hair shaved almost to his scalp, glasses, baseball cap, T-shirt, jeans. Digital camcorder, aimed primarily at Madison.

Beverly the costume girl: black leggings, ballet flats, skirt with pink hearts and black skulls on it, and a pink T-shirt that said Pretty/Good.

Crew: eight or nine people generally sprawled around waiting for something to happen. That something, right now, was me.

I started to move the furniture to where I needed it, but then Danny barked out, “Come on, that girl must weigh all of fifty pounds. Can we get some help up there?”

A few of the guys sprang into action and helped me push the ugly brown chair over closer to the big wooden table. I moved one of the smaller chairs over to the opposite side. We cleared the plastic dishes off the table, except I kept back one of the cups and filled it with water from someone’s bottle. I handed the full cup to the sideburns-Batman guy.

“Can you stand over there and hold this?”

“And do what?” he asked.

“Just wait. You’ll see.”

I took a book out of my backpack, handed it to the skinny brown-haired guy in the ripped jeans, and gave him the same instruction to just stand there and hold it. Then I asked the tall blond guy if he would sing.

“Sing?”

“Yeah,” I said. “When I point to you, just sing something really loudly.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” I said. “ The louder the better.”

He looked at Danny for confirmation.

“Do it,” Danny said.

I saved the best job for Madison. “Can you go over there and lie down on the floor? Kind of curl up in a ball. Oh, and cover your face with your arms.”

“Sure,” she said with a laugh.

And then we were ready.

“Fig.” She’d been watching the whole thing unfold, of course, and now she was really excited. I’m sure she recognized all the tricks. Her tail thumped against the floor.

“Ready?” I said. “Climb the mountain.”

Fig raced onto the stage, jumped up on the ugly brown chair, then leaped from it onto the table. She paused there a moment on top like she was breathing in the fresh mountain air (I always love that part), then jumped to the chair on the opposite side, and onto the floor.

“Get a drink.”

She spun around to find the Batman guy with the cup, took it gently from his hand, then tipped it back, splashing water all over her face. She handed him back the cup and shook off her fur.

“Save the girl.”

Fig tore over to Madison, pawed and nosed her onto her back, then stuck her face between Madison’s arms. She licked her until Madison was laughing too hard to take it anymore.

“Fig, read a book.”

Fig zeroed in on the skinny, ripped jeans guy, and gently borrowed my book. She dropped it onto the floor and flipped the cover open with her snout.

I pointed to the last guy. He seemed confused. “Sing,” I whispered.

“Oh. Uh, ‘My country ‘tis of thee . . .’ ” he warbled out, and Fig plopped her butt down in front of him and howled right along.

Time for the speed round.

“Climb the mountain,” I repeated quickly. “Get a drink. Save the girl. Read a book. Sing.” Bam, bam, bam, one after another, and Fig completely nailed them all.

I stepped up in front of Fig and held my palms open at my sides. “All done.” She immediately stopped howling, and sat relaxed and panting. She almost looked like she was smiling.

There was a brief pause, and then came the noise—shouting and cheering and clapping and whistling. It was more than I expected, and I felt a little embarrassed. But happy, too. Our first official public performance.

I turned around to look at Danny. “Well, what do you think?”

He gaped at me. “What do I think? Bleepin A! You’re a friggin miracle! That dog is going in every single scene—she’s gonna win us this entire tournament! Rewrites, everybody. Tear up your scripts. New pages tomorrow.”

Somewhere, somebody groaned. Danny pointed a finger in their general direction.

“Do NOT—okay, let’s just get this straight right now,” he said. “You people signed on for this torture fest, so I expect your full and happy cooperation. The next twelve and a half days of your lives are mine—no complaints, no whining, no emergency calls from your mommas. We all know we’re going to hate each other by the end, and I’m good with that—as long as we put together a winner. So whatever happens, you’re gonna roll with it. Got it?”

“Got it,” people mumbled.

“The good news is we actually have a shot at it this year,” Danny said. “But only if we bust our last inch of tailbone. So starting tomorrow I want to see you here before school, after school, lunch, weekends—”

“The five-minute breaks between classes—” Madison added.

“Yes,” Danny agreed, “if necessary.”

I tentatively raised my hand.

“Uh-oh,” Danny said. “Problem, Doggirl?”

“No, it’s just . . . I thought I should tell you. I have two more.”

“Two more what?”

“Dogs.”

He looked at me like I’d just offered him a bucket of money. “Are you serious?”

I nodded.

“Can they do what she does?”

“Different things,” I said, “but yeah, basically.”

Danny clutched his head. “Everybody, my mind has just been blown. Go away. Stop talking. I need to write. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow. Seven-oh-five sharp. That’s in the morning, Tucker.”

“What’s morning?” Sideburns-Batman guy answered.

“And you’ll have the new script by then?” Madison asked Danny.

“Yes, prima donna, an entire play, starring you, flanked by men and dogs. Will that do?”

Madison smiled. “Lovely.”

“Get out!” Danny shouted at everybody. “Go enjoy your lives. They’re mine starting tomorrow.”

Fig and I turned toward the door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Doggirl, not you. You’re going to sit your little body down right over here and tell me everything I need to know.”

3

The first time Fig saved my life, I was seven.

We were down by the river watching sticks race through the water, and the river kept getting higher and faster in the rain. Fig was maybe eight months old. We’d found her in a ditch just a few months before that, her back leg broken from where someone had hit her with a pipe or a bat. We rushed her to the vet, had her leg set, and brought her home. That night I gave her a bath, fed her all sorts of good things, and snuggled up beside her to sleep. She’s been sleeping in my bed ever since.

Which is too bad for Jack and Heidi, who would also love to be up there all night, but I only have a twin bed. Heidi’s a Dachshund, so she’d probably be okay, but Jack is a Border Collie, and there’s no way all four of us could fit. So those two sleep on a dog bed in the corner, which leaves Fig looking like exactly what she is: the undisputed queen.

So there we were, the two of us playing by the river in the rain, when suddenly I slipped on the bank and fell in. Even at eight months Fig was already pretty big, and she jumped right in after me.

The water was freezing from the rain. I knew I had to point my feet downstream because that’s what my dad always told me whenever we went out fishing. “If you ever fall in . . .”

So I pointed them downstream and I was racing as fast as the sticks. But I hadn’t counted on all the other debris in the river—the boulders, the logs, all the other big things being washed downstream with me. I found out later those are the things that can actually kill you, even if you don’t drown first.

I didn’t know Fig had jumped in. All I could think of was to breathe. Water kept washing into my mouth, and I told myself, “Feet first, breathe.”

She caught my shirt in her teeth. The shirt ripped, and she tried again. This time she caught my arm, and started pulling me toward the bank. Between her weight and my kicking, we both got there, but not before a branch sped toward me and sliced the side of my eye. By the time I crawled up on the bank there was warm blood gushing all over my face.

I hugged Fig so tightly she probably couldn’t breathe. And I cried—I was only seven. I hugged her and got blood all over her thick white coat, and then I started shivering really badly and realized I’d freeze if I stayed out there any longer.

So we stumbled back through the woods, blood warming my face against the rain, and then finally I saw our house and ran the rest of the way. My dad was inside working on our kitchen cabinets. He took one look at me and his tools clattered to the floor.

“Riley.”

He scooped me up and ran with me to the bathroom, and when he couldn’t carpenter my wound closed he realized he’d have to take me to the doctor. Nine stitches. Fig came with us. I wasn’t leaving her.

I didn’t tell Danny any of that. He was only interested in the tricks. He made a list of everything I said Fig and Jack and Heidi can do.

“Okay, got it,” he said when I was done. “Nate here’s probably going to want some footage, but the two of you can work that out on your own. Now, time for you kiddies to leave before the panic really starts to hit me. No, whoops—too late. Get out—get out!”

We left him hunched over his notebook, writing so fast it must have made his hand cramp.

Nate and Fig and I escaped into the open air. I swear all three of us took a deep breath.

Then Nate laughed. “Always so mellow . . .”

Fig tugged on her leash. I let her hurry me to the nearest patch of dirt so she could pee.

“So what did Danny mean?” I asked Nate. “About you wanting some footage?”

“Oh yeah, that.”

Fig and I started walking, and Nate strolled casually along with us, which was already a nice break from Danny’s franticness.

“I’m doing the final film for these guys next Saturday,” he explained, “but I thought I’d also do my own side project—a sort of ‘making of,’ behind-the-scenes kind of documentary, you know?”

“Like a DVD extra,” I said.

“Yeah, exactly. There are some film competitions coming up, and I might want to submit it if it turns out any good.

“So what I’m looking for,” Nate continued, “are some candid shots to mix in with the rehearsal footage, and then I also want to do some personal interviews with the people involved. Which now includes you and your dogs. So if you wouldn’t mind me shadowing you guys sometime . . .”

“Oh. Okay, maybe.” I could always back out later. “Well, see you tomorrow. Come on, Fig, let’s go.”

We jogged a little, and I didn’t realize until I heard a noise behind me that Nate was still following.

“How about now?” he asked. He had his camcorder up and pointed in our direction.

Before I could say no he passed us and got out front, then started walking backwards while he filmed.

“Just act natural,” Nate said. “So Riley, how long have you had Fig?”

“Uh . . . a while.” I walked faster. What I really wanted to do was hold my hand in front of my face. I didn’t mind him filming Fig, but I didn’t want to be on camera myself.

“Don’t be nervous,” Nate said. “Pretend we’re just having a conversation. How much do you and Fig practice?”

“A lot.”

“Like, every day?”

“Yes.”

“And you have two other dogs?”

“Yes.”

“What are their names?”

“Jack and Heidi—I already told you guys.” I stopped walking. “This is stupid.”

“It won’t look stupid when it’s all done. Trust me. Just try to relax—you’re doing great.”

I rolled my eyes and went on walking.

“How did you get interested in training dogs?”

“I just like them.”

“What’s your favorite trick?” Nate asked.

Okay, he actually got me with that one. I think I even smiled. “Save the girl.”

“Yeah,” Nate said, “that one was cool.”

“You like that Madison girl, huh?”

“What?” Nate jerked the camera away and fumbled for the switch.

“You like her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re filming her all the time.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Nate.” I gave him the kind of look I give Jack when he’s doing something he knows he shouldn’t. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Nate hesitated a moment, then he cursed. “Is it really obvious?”

“No, you’re pretty good,” I said. “The way you slouch down in the seat and hide behind your hat and the camera—nobody can really see which way the lens is pointing. I just happened to notice.”

“Do you think . . .”

“Madison can tell?” I said. “I doubt it. She never looks at you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, she doesn’t,” I said. “She always looking at that brown-haired guy with the sideburns. I think she likes him—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Nate looked like he wished he had never followed us out of the theater.

“Sorry,” I said, and I was. I forget that people don’t always like to hear the truth. “Come on, Fig.” I hurried her along.

“Hold on, hold on. . .”

Nate caught up with us again. He walked along with the camera aimed at my face.

“So how’d you do that trick with the birds last semester?” he asked.

“You know about that?”

“Everybody knows about that. How’d you get them to come to you?”

“Why?” I said, maybe a little too defensively. “You think that’s weird?”

“Yeah, it was a little weird. Very Hitchcock, from what I heard—birds swooping in, attacking—”

“They weren’t attacking.”

“Okay, so not attacking,” Nate said. “What were they doing?”

“I don’t know. Cooing.”

“How’d you get them to do that?” he pressed. “What’s the trick?”

“It’s not a trick. They just . . . like me.”

“Birds like you.”

“Yes.”

“Okay . . .” Nate continued filming, probably expecting me to say something else.

But all I said was, “Can I go now?”

“Yeah, sure, okay.” He gave me a funny look and turned off his camera.

“No offense,” I said. “I just really don’t like talking about myself.”

“It’s fine,” Nate said. “Don’t worry about it. Can I still film you working with the dogs at some point?”

“I don’t know. Let me see. I have to go.”

Then Fig and I took off running for home.

And if Nate thought that was weird, or impolite, then too bad.

I don’t care what people think anymore. I’m done with all that.