Free My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) by Sharon Short Page B

Scrapyard.
    My stomach lurched. Oh God. I had to get inside, find Will….
    “Thanks, Jimmy, it’s been wonderful,” I said in a hurry, rushing out of the car.
    “But I should walk you to the door, meet your dad,” Jimmy said.
    “Not tonight, Jimmy,” I said firmly, and slammed the driver’s door shut, leaving him in the passenger seat feeling, I was sure, hurt and confused.
    Even before I was all the way up the porch steps, I heard the angry voices bellowing inside the living room. I glancedacross the street. The curtain over the Bakers’ picture window fell back in place. I rushed into our living room, still lovely with the furnishings Mama had optimistically chosen: cabbage rose rug, striped chairs and couch perfectly perpendicular to the fireplace, a pastoral painting and candles on the mantel.
    Daddy and Mr. Stedman stopped shouting and stared at me. They looked so much alike in their rage, open mouths panting, bellies heaving over too-tight belts, in too-tight shirts.
    I’d stumbled into some grotesque diorama, in the middle of which was Will, slumped on the floor in front of the couch. I knelt down next to him. He looked up at me, his face wide open with fear. I thumbed away his tears.
    “Are you OK?” I asked softly, in a near whisper.
    Will barely moved his lips: “Trusty.”
    He wasn’t worried about himself, just that crazy, mute, wild dog. I pressed my eyes shut, forgiving my little brother his fervent passion for lost causes.
    “Damned boy poisoned my dog!” Mr. Stedman yelled.
    I squared my shoulders. “Mr. Stedman, how do you know your dog was poisoned?”
    “Stay out of this, girl!” Daddy shouted. I could smell the booze on his breath. He toddled a little, grabbing for my arm, missing. This was the first time he’d talked to me in three days.
    Mr. Stedman was no longer interested in Daddy. He gave me a long, appraising, leering look. “What else makes a dog retch?”
    Gee, Mr. Stedman—how about old fluids from cars, or upholstery filled with rat poop, or starving a dog and beating it andmaking it so desperate that it will eat anything—how about that, you creepy old man?
    Of course, I didn’t say that. I said, “I don’t know, sir, and I’m sorry your dog is ill. But I’m sure Will had nothing to do with it. He loves animals.”
    “That mongrel isn’t a pet—he’s a watchdog”—spit flew from his mouth as Mr. Stedman yelled at me—“and I’ve warned your brother before, but there he was this afternoon, feeding the thing some kind of meat, but he ran away before I could catch the little rat.”
    It took me a second to realize that by “little rat” Mr. Stedman meant my brother, not the dog. But I couldn’t show my anger.
    “Oh. That meat. Well, that was my fault. I let some meat go bad, I’m afraid, and I paid my brother a dime to dump it at your place after school.”
    I looked at Daddy. “So I guess you’ll have to punish me, instead.”
    Daddy grabbed my arm. As I stumbled toward him, I caught Mr. Stedman’s expression. He was smiling. My stomach turned. He liked the idea of seeing me get whipped.
    “Go to your room,” I said to Will. I didn’t want him to see this. As best I could, I’d have to mute my cries—just like Trusty—so he wouldn’t have to hear it, either.
    Will was paler than ever, paler than seemed possible. He said, “No, Donna, you shouldn’t get whipped, and neither should Trusty. He’s beautiful and strong and ought to be in Alaska and—and he’s just not treated right or fed enough.”
    Mr. Stedman snarled. “You’ve given that worthless dog a name? All it has to do is bark to keep away punks like you,and a few weeks ago it stopped doing that. Why, I oughta put it down—”
    Will jumped up, lunged at Mr. Stedman, hitting at him, but before he could even finish his first swing, Mr. Stedman had his big hand on Will’s head, and suddenly instead of being angry, Mr. Stedman was laughing at my little brother’s ridiculous attempt at