Chapter 5
The dad chuckles at something on his phone.
The child pirouettes off the curb.
Shitballs.
“Sorry, Mark, just a sec!” I sprint to the corner and leap into the street, yanking my vest out of my butt and waving it overhead
as I reach for the kid.
“Stop!” I yell. “Crossing guard!!!”
Somehow I manage to grab the kid’s sleeve and pull him toward me, just as the engine revs and Poodle Dude blows through the
stop sign. I can feel a breeze as the sideview mirror barely misses us, and once we’re clear and safe on the opposite curb,
there’s a loud crunch-crunch sound from the general vicinity of the Kia.
Brakes screech as the car skids to a stop, and I’m suddenly being hugged by the dad, who has run across the intersection and
is now incredibly grateful that his kid narrowly escaped extinction, when we all hear Poodle Dude yell in a gravelly faux-French
accent, “Jacques! Dites-moi! Tell Papá what hurts!”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him talk, and his voice is weirdly raspy—not how I imagined he’d sound, but then again, the guy probably yells at everybody. Except, apparently, his dogs, who are now getting some spectacular French baby talk.
“Mon petit garcon doux!”
The dad recovers enough to let me go, and we both turn to watch as Poodle Dude leaps out of the car, runs around the front,
and flings open the passenger door. The guy throws himself halfway inside.
Where he clasps a limp poodle body to his chest.
He wails.
It’s like a scene from Les Misérables.
I have a very bad feeling about this.
“Jacques!” Poodle Dude wheezes. He shoots me a vicious look over his shoulder. “What did the mean lady do to you?”
Mean lady— What?
But before I can process what’s happening, two other poodles hop from the back seat to the front seat, the limp poodle pops up, good as new, and all three of them are suddenly
having a massive sniffing party.
Okay, I think, terrific. Poodle drama resolved.
I am wrong.
The guy whips around to face me. I’ve actually never seen his face, because he’s either blocked by poodle heads or hidden
by the Kia’s tinted windows.
My dude is blond and chiseled-looking and he’s wearing workout clothes—the fancy kind that match.
He’s breathing hard. He wipes his eyes and blinks at me a bunch like he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to start.
For a second, he grasps at the air around his head, and I realize he’s trying to reach the straw sticking up behind him.
Why is there a straw? He spins around like a dog chasing its tail, and I see that he’s wearing one of those backpacks that hold water so you can be hydrating all the time, and the fact that he can’t locate the straw seems to be panicking him.
Should I . . . help?
He finally finds the straw, takes a big gulp, and coughs violently, doubling over and moaning.
Yikes.
“You,” he says as he recovers. He steps toward me, stumbling a bit. His whole body looks like it’s vibrating. “You almost killed
my sweet baby garcon.”
Dude really needs to learn how to enunciate. I squint at his mouth like that’ll help me hear better.
“I’m sorry, your what? I can’t quite—”
“Dog murderer!” he clarifies.
“But your dog is alive,” I point out. Alive and thriving. The dog is now sitting up in the front seat, licking his own butthole. “Also, I was nowhere near you.”
“Exactly,” he says, venom in his voice, spittle in the air. “I was trying to avoid that kid, and you made me drive straight into that sinkhole.”
He slings his arm toward the pothole across from the parking garage-in-progress.
That was probably the crunch-crunch I heard—two sets of wheels hitting the hole in quick succession, cracking against the street like an egg.
“Sir, it’s just a pothole,” I say.
“Sinkhole.”
“Pothole.”
“Sinkhole.”
“Pot—” I can’t even finish the word before he interrupts me.
“Whatever! You made me swerve, you made my sweet boy fly around in the car. I bet he’s concussed. Concussed!” He wipes his mouth clumsily. Is he drooling? Maybe he’s the one who got concussed. Or maybe he’s drunk? That would explain a lot.
I move a little closer to see if I can smell his breath.
“I was doing my job,” I say, surreptitiously trying to get a whiff. “You were about to hit that kid . . .”
“She’s right,” the dad pipes up from over on the sidewalk. “I saw the whole thing.”
“Oh, did you?” taunts Poodle Dude. “You saw the whole thing?”
The dad looks at me, confused. “. . . Yes?”
“Was it on your phone?”
The dad grimaces, gives me an apologetic shrug, and then ushers his kid past us toward the school.
Poodle Dude, meanwhile, turns his rage to me and me alone. He huffs, sending a blast of hot breath my way, and though I would
not call it good breath, it doesn’t smell alcoholic. So much for that theory.
Just drunk on rage, I guess.
“The alderman is going to hear about this,” he says, mumbling even worse now. His voice sounds weird, like he’s a ventriloquist
for himself.
“The alderman?” I ask, not sure I heard him right. If he was trying to randomly scare me, why not pick the mayor? The governor? Why go
for the alderman, who basically makes sure the neighborhood trash gets picked up? I try not to laugh. “Why are you going to
tell him?”
“He’s my friend!” He sticks a thumb into his chest to drive the point home.
Ah.
“That’s a good call,” I say, as encouragingly as I can. “You should definitely talk to a friend about this.” And maybe also
a therapist.
But this makes him even more livid, which unfortunately seems to give him a second wind. His mouth curdles into a gruesome grin. “Merle’s a close, personal friend of mine, and he does not take kindly to illegal roadside activity in his ward by so-called public servants.”
“Wait. Illegal?” I squeak. “So-called?”
“I’m taking Jacques straight to the vet. After that, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
Lawyer? Can he do that? I can’t afford to deal with lawyers right now. Do I also have to hire one to, like, do battle with
his lawyer? My throat starts to close. I don’t know a lot about lawyers, but I do know you can’t hire one on crossing guard
money.
“I didn’t do anything,” I squeak.
“And I wouldn’t be surprised if the alderman sends the police to your door. He’s my bro. So watch out, traffic girlie. Alderman Carey knows where you live.” Poodle Dude feints at me, and I pull back in time for
him to stumble forward harmlessly.
Was he trying to headbutt me? What is going on?
He recovers his balance, shuts the poodles back in the Kia, climbs behind the wheel, and peels off.
My head is spinning, and I’m trying to understand what the hell just happened, how worried I should be, and who I should call
for help, when I realize Mark is still there.
Standing across the street. Watching me with wide, shocked eyes.
“So, Friday? Coffee?” I holler, trying to pick up where we left off as if none of this happened.
“Oops, I’m getting a call,” he says quickly. He speed walks away, forgetting to actually put the phone to his ear.
Operation Get Hired, dead on arrival.
All of a sudden, there’s a creaky groaning sound. I look over at the pothole just in time to see a huge chunk of street fall
in on itself.
Okay.
Now it’s a sinkhole.