sheepishly.
I didn't know whether to stare or hug him. I kind of wanted to laugh--because really, how amazing was my clumsy dad?--but I didn't want him to think that I was making fun of him.
"You're not really keeping that coywolf, are you?" Dad said.
Balto sat by the hearth on his scrawny legs and peered into the flickering flames like a sage old prophet searching for his future. Seriously, the little guy was mesmerized.
I showed Dad the most earnest, most piteous pair of eyes I knew how to affect.
Dad winced. "Okay, okay," he said. "Just remember that he's a coywolf, not a dog. You can tame him while he's young, but he's still a wild animal. When he grows up, and his wild instincts kick in, you'll have to let him go. And if he goes to the bathroom in the house...please clean it up before Mother notices. You know how she can be."
Dad's jack-o-lantern was sitting on the floor by Granny's loom. Dad picked up the jack-o-lantern and put it safely on top of the mantel. I guess he didn't want Balto destroying such a fine work of art in his childlike enthusiasm.
As a matter of fact, Balto did sleep in bed with me that night. He got his gold-and-gray hairs all over my pillow, too.
The real trouble started the next morning, when Balto tried to follow me to school. He made it as far as the front steps of the schoolhouse before Mr. Red Clay gave the two of us an appraising look.
"Sorry, Skylar," Mr. Red Clay said. "I only teach humans in this class."
It was heartbreaking to hear Balto whining and scratching outside the doors all morning. By the time class had ended, Balto was nowhere in sight. I had to track him down all the way back to Annie's grotto. The pattern repeated itself over the next few days until Balto finally learned to stay home in the mornings.
One afternoon, Balto and I came home from the woods to find Granny and Ms. Whitler sitting on the porch.
Ms. Whitler jumped out of her seat, her horn-rimmed glasses askew. "Oh, goodness, there you are!" she said. "I thought I'd be waiting out here all day for you!"
Granny shot her a furtive, disgusted look.
I smiled politely. Ms. Whitler presented as bubbly and ditzy, but she was a lot smarter than she was willing to let on. She liked to pretend she was your friend--while slowly gleaning whatever information she wanted from your defenseless mind. It seemed like a deadly combination of traits for a social worker to possess.
"Aw, is that your puppy?" Ms. Whitler bent down and reached for Balto's head. "Aww, aren't you so--"
Balto snarled, baring his lupine teeth.
"Anyway," said Ms. Whitler, standing quickly, "shall we go inside?"
I led the way into the house and kitchen and warmed some spicewood tea for Granny and Ms. Whitler. Balto scratched his nails along the seams in the cellar door. He constantly tried to open that door, but without any success. A good thing, too, or he would have eaten all the produce and left none for us. Ms. Whitler sat at the kitchen table with a sigh of contentment and kicked off her shoes.
The moment I sat down, I jolted. Where was Dad? The Major Crimes Act was the only thing protecting him from the FBI. If Ms. Whitler caught a glimpse of Dad... I didn't know what would happen. But I knew that I'd rather not find out.
I looked toward Granny for a visual cue. She didn't notice. She sat down, cleared her throat, and pushed a sheet of paper across the table at Ms. Whitler.
"Ooh," said Ms. Whitler. "What's this?" She adjusted her glasses and bent over to read it.
"I would like to adopt the boy," Granny said brusquely. "It's clear that his father isn't coming back for him."
"Mm, that's true," Ms. Whitler said. "And anyway, as a murder suspect, it's not like he's in a position to raise a kid on the run..."
Murder. I hated that word.
"Well, then?" said Granny.
I didn't know whether to stare or hug him. I kind of wanted to laugh--because really, how amazing was my clumsy dad?--but I didn't want him to think that I was making fun of him.
"You're not really keeping that coywolf, are you?" Dad said.
Balto sat by the hearth on his scrawny legs and peered into the flickering flames like a sage old prophet searching for his future. Seriously, the little guy was mesmerized.
I showed Dad the most earnest, most piteous pair of eyes I knew how to affect.
Dad winced. "Okay, okay," he said. "Just remember that he's a coywolf, not a dog. You can tame him while he's young, but he's still a wild animal. When he grows up, and his wild instincts kick in, you'll have to let him go. And if he goes to the bathroom in the house...please clean it up before Mother notices. You know how she can be."
Dad's jack-o-lantern was sitting on the floor by Granny's loom. Dad picked up the jack-o-lantern and put it safely on top of the mantel. I guess he didn't want Balto destroying such a fine work of art in his childlike enthusiasm.
As a matter of fact, Balto did sleep in bed with me that night. He got his gold-and-gray hairs all over my pillow, too.
The real trouble started the next morning, when Balto tried to follow me to school. He made it as far as the front steps of the schoolhouse before Mr. Red Clay gave the two of us an appraising look.
"Sorry, Skylar," Mr. Red Clay said. "I only teach humans in this class."
It was heartbreaking to hear Balto whining and scratching outside the doors all morning. By the time class had ended, Balto was nowhere in sight. I had to track him down all the way back to Annie's grotto. The pattern repeated itself over the next few days until Balto finally learned to stay home in the mornings.
One afternoon, Balto and I came home from the woods to find Granny and Ms. Whitler sitting on the porch.
Ms. Whitler jumped out of her seat, her horn-rimmed glasses askew. "Oh, goodness, there you are!" she said. "I thought I'd be waiting out here all day for you!"
Granny shot her a furtive, disgusted look.
I smiled politely. Ms. Whitler presented as bubbly and ditzy, but she was a lot smarter than she was willing to let on. She liked to pretend she was your friend--while slowly gleaning whatever information she wanted from your defenseless mind. It seemed like a deadly combination of traits for a social worker to possess.
"Aw, is that your puppy?" Ms. Whitler bent down and reached for Balto's head. "Aww, aren't you so--"
Balto snarled, baring his lupine teeth.
"Anyway," said Ms. Whitler, standing quickly, "shall we go inside?"
I led the way into the house and kitchen and warmed some spicewood tea for Granny and Ms. Whitler. Balto scratched his nails along the seams in the cellar door. He constantly tried to open that door, but without any success. A good thing, too, or he would have eaten all the produce and left none for us. Ms. Whitler sat at the kitchen table with a sigh of contentment and kicked off her shoes.
The moment I sat down, I jolted. Where was Dad? The Major Crimes Act was the only thing protecting him from the FBI. If Ms. Whitler caught a glimpse of Dad... I didn't know what would happen. But I knew that I'd rather not find out.
I looked toward Granny for a visual cue. She didn't notice. She sat down, cleared her throat, and pushed a sheet of paper across the table at Ms. Whitler.
"Ooh," said Ms. Whitler. "What's this?" She adjusted her glasses and bent over to read it.
"I would like to adopt the boy," Granny said brusquely. "It's clear that his father isn't coming back for him."
"Mm, that's true," Ms. Whitler said. "And anyway, as a murder suspect, it's not like he's in a position to raise a kid on the run..."
Murder. I hated that word.
"Well, then?" said Granny.
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