“Cry if you want.”
“It’s okay,” she told me. “Cry if
you
want.”
I asked Mr. Bingham, who owns the photo shop, how much it would cost to blow one up to poster size.
“Thirty-four dollars,” he said. “It takes about ten days.”
“Ten days! That’s cutting it awful close.” Grace subtracted out loud. “Ten from twenty-one leaves only eleven.”
“Can’t you hurry it up?” I asked.
“Uh’uh. They have to be sent in to Medford.”
“We’re working to save a dog’s life,” I told Mr. Bingham.
I wiped my wet hand on my dry shirt under the slicker and handed him one of the pictures.
He held it away from him and squinted down. “I get it. This is the dog that’s in trouble. I heard about him. A couple of women were talking about him in here this morning. People will have mixed feelings about what happened, William. There are two sides to everything, you know? And the side you’re on isn’t necessarily right.”
“But my dog’s innocent,” I said loudly. “Look at him.”
“I am looking.” Mr. Bingham stared long distance at Riley’s picture.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give them a call at the lab and ask them to put a rush on these for you. Want it for your room, do you?”
“Eventually.” Grace gave me a warning look. I guessed it was better not to broadcast our plans.
“I was very sorry about your grandpa,” Mr. Bingham said to me. “He was a nice man. We were in the same bowling league.”
I nodded. “Thursday nights. The SunshineBowlers.” And I was remembering Grandpa in his yellow sweatshirt, heading out the door on Thursday nights, whistling. I had that empty feeling in my stomach again.
Mr. Bingham smiled and patted my shoulder. “I’m not going to charge you for the photos you got today. They’re on the house. I have a dog myself.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
We were just about to leave, still looking at the pictures, when the bell above the door rang and Ellis Porter and Duane Smith came in. Rain blew in with them. They pushed back the hoods of their jackets.
“What you got there?” Ellis asked in that nasty way he has. He and Duane are in high school now, but we know them from last year.
Before I could even speak, Duane snatched the pictures out of my hand.
“Here now, here now,” Mr. Bingham said anxiously.
“Aw, he’s got pretty dog pictures.” Duane held them high above his head. Duane’s as tall as a lamppost, so when I say high, I mean high.
Grace clawed at his arm. “Give them back, you dweeb!”
Duane squinted down at her and grinned. “Thisyour little friend’s killer dog?”
Ellis had taken some of the pictures from him, scowling at them and at us. “I hate dogs,” he said. “Dogs are vermin.”
“They are not.” I jumped, trying to get at the pictures, which wasn’t easy because Ellis is just about as tall as Duane, only wider.
Mr. Bingham had come around the counter, small and neat in his tweed jacket. He held out his hand. “Let’s have the pictures. Right now. I mean it.”
Ellis let them slide from his grasp, and as soon as he did, Duane did, too. They fanned out all over the floor.
“Oops,”
Ellis said, and Duane gave this hideous guffaw.
Riley’s face smiled up at me, from the floor, all doggy grin and wet, pink tongue. If anybody stepped on him, I’d …
“Did you ever hear about my cat?” Ellis asked, and he wasn’t guffawing like Duane or even smiling. He looked like a giant standing there, his legs spread apart, glaring down at us where we groveled on the floor, picking up one picture after another.
“Your cat?” Grace asked.
“Yeah, my cat.”
I squinted up at him.
His voice was so cold and deadly it fluttered shivers along my spine.
“My cat’s name was Josephine. I had her since first grade.”
Ellis stopped, and it was suddenly so quiet I could hear a faucet drip, drip, dripping somewhere in the back of the shop. Or maybe it was a rain gutter
“It’s okay,” she told me. “Cry if
you
want.”
I asked Mr. Bingham, who owns the photo shop, how much it would cost to blow one up to poster size.
“Thirty-four dollars,” he said. “It takes about ten days.”
“Ten days! That’s cutting it awful close.” Grace subtracted out loud. “Ten from twenty-one leaves only eleven.”
“Can’t you hurry it up?” I asked.
“Uh’uh. They have to be sent in to Medford.”
“We’re working to save a dog’s life,” I told Mr. Bingham.
I wiped my wet hand on my dry shirt under the slicker and handed him one of the pictures.
He held it away from him and squinted down. “I get it. This is the dog that’s in trouble. I heard about him. A couple of women were talking about him in here this morning. People will have mixed feelings about what happened, William. There are two sides to everything, you know? And the side you’re on isn’t necessarily right.”
“But my dog’s innocent,” I said loudly. “Look at him.”
“I am looking.” Mr. Bingham stared long distance at Riley’s picture.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give them a call at the lab and ask them to put a rush on these for you. Want it for your room, do you?”
“Eventually.” Grace gave me a warning look. I guessed it was better not to broadcast our plans.
“I was very sorry about your grandpa,” Mr. Bingham said to me. “He was a nice man. We were in the same bowling league.”
I nodded. “Thursday nights. The SunshineBowlers.” And I was remembering Grandpa in his yellow sweatshirt, heading out the door on Thursday nights, whistling. I had that empty feeling in my stomach again.
Mr. Bingham smiled and patted my shoulder. “I’m not going to charge you for the photos you got today. They’re on the house. I have a dog myself.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
We were just about to leave, still looking at the pictures, when the bell above the door rang and Ellis Porter and Duane Smith came in. Rain blew in with them. They pushed back the hoods of their jackets.
“What you got there?” Ellis asked in that nasty way he has. He and Duane are in high school now, but we know them from last year.
Before I could even speak, Duane snatched the pictures out of my hand.
“Here now, here now,” Mr. Bingham said anxiously.
“Aw, he’s got pretty dog pictures.” Duane held them high above his head. Duane’s as tall as a lamppost, so when I say high, I mean high.
Grace clawed at his arm. “Give them back, you dweeb!”
Duane squinted down at her and grinned. “Thisyour little friend’s killer dog?”
Ellis had taken some of the pictures from him, scowling at them and at us. “I hate dogs,” he said. “Dogs are vermin.”
“They are not.” I jumped, trying to get at the pictures, which wasn’t easy because Ellis is just about as tall as Duane, only wider.
Mr. Bingham had come around the counter, small and neat in his tweed jacket. He held out his hand. “Let’s have the pictures. Right now. I mean it.”
Ellis let them slide from his grasp, and as soon as he did, Duane did, too. They fanned out all over the floor.
“Oops,”
Ellis said, and Duane gave this hideous guffaw.
Riley’s face smiled up at me, from the floor, all doggy grin and wet, pink tongue. If anybody stepped on him, I’d …
“Did you ever hear about my cat?” Ellis asked, and he wasn’t guffawing like Duane or even smiling. He looked like a giant standing there, his legs spread apart, glaring down at us where we groveled on the floor, picking up one picture after another.
“Your cat?” Grace asked.
“Yeah, my cat.”
I squinted up at him.
His voice was so cold and deadly it fluttered shivers along my spine.
“My cat’s name was Josephine. I had her since first grade.”
Ellis stopped, and it was suddenly so quiet I could hear a faucet drip, drip, dripping somewhere in the back of the shop. Or maybe it was a rain gutter
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