Free Guinea Dog by Patrick Jennings Page B

even own a skateboard, Lurena?”
    “No, but I have inline skates!”
    “Nice,” I said sarcastically.
    “Well, don’t worry about me! I’ll find you! Even if it takes me all day!”
    “Goodie.”
    She headed for the door. “Bye, Raquel!”
    Mom rushed into the room.
    Dad opened his door a crack, sighed, then slammed it.
    “ Sorry, Rufus’s dad! ” Lurena yelled in a whisper.
    “Oh, don’t worry about Mr. Grumpy,” Mom said, waving her hand in the direction of Dad’s study. “Are you going so soon?”
    “Just to get my skates. Me and Roof and Murphy are going riding!” She pretended to skate.
    “Fun!” Mom squealed.
    I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself I was having some terrible nightmare I could not wake myself up from. Then I opened my eyes. No such luck.
    Lurena was leaning over, whispering in Mom’s ear loud enough for me to hear, “I get the feeling this was probably the longest playdate Rufus has ever had alone with a girl since he was little.”
    Mom laughed.
    Playdate?
    Lurena and Mom shook hands again.
    “It was a pleasure meeting you, Raquel. You have a lovely home.”
    Kiss-up.
    “Thank you, Lurena. And the pleasure was all mine. You are welcome anytime.”
    Finally, Lurena left, and I resumed normal breathing. Then I punched my mom in the shoulder and ran to my room.

17. I was tired of living in that freak house.
    I wanted to live in a normal house. A normal house was a house where…
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the dad liked dogs.
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the dad left the house when he went to work instead of staying home all day wearing a suit and fuzzy slippers.
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the dad didn’t go on and on about his homemade salad dressings.
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the mom knew the difference between dogs and South American rodents.
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the mom didn’t wallpaper the ceilings.
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the dad didn’t put a guinea pig in his son’s tree house.
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a guinea pig slept in a cage on the daughter’s dresser, not at the foot of the son’s bed.
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the son played Fetch, Tug-of-War, and Frisbee with his dog .
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strange girls paying uninvited visits were not encouraged by the mom.
    But, of course, there was nothing I could do about it. Kids can’t pick up and move. They can’t choose where they want to live or who they want to live with. They can’t really choose anything. Everything requires permission. We’re given choices. Options.
    These are your options.
    That is not an option.
    A dog is not an option. A guinea pig is an option.
    You also have the option of a gecko.
    I asked my mom if I could go over to Murph’s and see what he was up to. She said it was okay with her if it was okay with Dad. Dad said it was okay if I was done with my chores. I wasn’t. So I did them. I carried the dirty clothes to the laundry room. I emptied the dishwasher. I took the garbage out. It was exhausting. Let me make a correction: everything requires permission and slave labor.
    I put Fido inside my backpack, hopped on my bike, and took off, my muscles aching from all the work. While I was doing my chores, Mom sewed up the hole Fido made in my bag, then reinforced the bottom with a piece of suede. I figured I’d bring Fido along for three reasons:
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Because Dad needed to get some work done before we could go to the river.
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Because Murph liked her.
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Because Buddy did, too.
    My idea was that the four of us—Murph, Buddy, me, and Fido—would ride way out past the field around the electrical substation to the woods and go dirt biking. There’s a lot of wicked dips and curves and stuff there. I like it better than the skate park, and really nobody goes there but me and Murph.
    When I got to his house, I knocked on the door—something, by the way, that Murph’s dad has never had a problem with. His mom answered.
    “Hi, Rufus!” she said with a nice smile. “It’s so good to see you. Come on in. Murph’s up in his room.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    That’s what I meant when I said normal. It was okay to knock on the door. The mom answers and lets you in