Free Hometown by Marsha Qualey Page A

said Jacob.
    “Do other cultures even have pets? I mean kids in other places, do they have dogs or cats? Are there Labradors in Iraq?”
    “I’ve never thought about it,” said Liz.
    “And if there are pets and they get killed during the bombing, do they get buried?” Jacob asked. “Or can’t people take the time to do that?”
    “Probably not,” said Border.
    Jacob nodded. “Maybe they just get the bulldozers and—“
    Liz pounded on her brother’s arm. “Stop that. What an awful thought.”
    They quieted. Border was cold, but he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to move. Just sat there with the others, watching the clear, peaceful sky. Thinking about war, thinking about dogs in Baghdad.
    Public Transportation —
    Snow, snow, and more snow. On Monday Border walked out of the school and got it slapped in his face. Turned to the person next to him, no one he knew, and snarled, “I hate Minnesota.” She hustled away.
    The buses were lined up, stinky exhaust choking everyone. Since losing his keys, Border had walked to school, rising early, getting home late. Two cold miles, but he had survived.
    “It’s gonna be a blizzard,” he heard through the noise, and looked down to see Liz.
    “No school tomorrow?”
    “We can hope.”
    He followed her onto a bus. It was packed, three to a seat. Jacob waved from the back. Border nodded, then he sat behind Liz, wedging in beside two skinny kids, junior high types.
    The kids started tussling. Border got bumped.
    Boys behind him kicked the seat.
    Something flew through the air. The driver shouted and closed the door. The bus lurched and pulled away, and a girl in the aisle fell into Border’s lap.
    “Gawd!” she said and hurried away.
    “Get a feel?” one of his seatmates asked.
    Border stared at Liz’s hair. There was a piece of string just above her collar. He poised his fingers to pick it off and just then the boys slugged each other, bumping him. His hand grazed her neck.
    She turned around. “ What are you doing?”
    “There was some string on your hair.”
    “Don’t bother, Border.”
    The boys giggled. Border cooled them off with a stare. “I can hurt you now,” he said, “or I can hurt you later. Or you can be quiet.”
    They shut up and sat still the rest of the ride.
    All He Wanted —
    Border got off with Liz and Jacob.
    “Come over?” said Jacob. “There’s another cake.” Border’s stomach growled, and he nodded.
    Pooch met them at the door, paws and tongue on the glass, tail whacking the floor. Woof woof, woof woof, ah-rooo! She went outside when the door opened and ran circles in the snow.
    Liz joined them to eat cake, three forks attacking the pan. “Border made a pass at me on the bus,” she said to her brother.
    “I’m sure you liked it,” he replied.
    Border reached, lifted string off her hair. “This was all I wanted,” and he dropped it on the table.
    Wind pelted snow against the windows. Border plunged his fork into the cake. It was nice and warm in this kitchen.
    Oh, No —
    At home he was alone. He made a sandwich for supper, turned on the TV. The local weather man predicted snow. Border looked out to where it was piling up.
    “And now our special report,” the anchor said, stumbling over those simple words. “We have four guests in the studio tonight who will share their stories of how war changes lives.”
    Border looked up from making a second sandwich and saw his father on the screen.
    Discipline, II —
    You could have told me about this; you could have asked me.
    They called me at work. I didn’t have time.
    You know what trouble I’ll get at school?
    How bad can it be?
    I have been kicked, Dad. I have been jumped and punched and kicked.
    What? Why didn’t you tell me?
    You weren’t around. You didn’t notice.
    Is that why you’re mad? Is that the real reason?
    You don’t notice your kid’s been slugged, but, boy, your tennis game’s getting better.
    You’re feeling pretty darn sorry for