Free Leftovers by Heather Waldorf Page A

and join me, her big shiny eyes plead.
    I don’t remember Brownie ever talking to me with his eyes and body the way Judy does. He never tried to sleep in my bed either. Not that he’d ever had the opportunity. Dad made Brownie sleep in the garage, even in the winter.
    I know Dr. Fred’s dog-training books would advise me to reach up and haul Judy off my mattress by her scruff. But I also know that she’d jump right back up with the next flash of lightning. I consider letting Judy take the damn bed and sleeping on the floor myself, but if she were to jump off the loft bed sometime in the night and land on me, I’d be dead. Squashed flat like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy’s house. Like dog poo squished under a boot.
    Only one thing to do.
    I climb up beside Judy, reaching over her to yank the cord that turns off the light. I lie down and squirm around, trying to get comfortable. Lightning flashes again and Judy pushes up against me, whimpering. There’s room for both of us on the narrow bunk, but just barely.
    Loud rumbles continue, shaking my flimsy cabin walls like a minor earthquake, for a good half hour more, but as the lightning diminishes, Judy settles. Her fur smells of dirt and grass despite all her swimming. Her feet smell like nacho-cheese Doritos. Judy sticks out her juicy tongue and licks my cheek, panting hot, kibble-scented breath in my face and nuzzling her wet nose into my neck. “Thank you,” she seems to be saying, as if I am personally responsible for sending the storm packing.
    If only I had that much control over her life. Or my own.
    Great. Judy snores. I’ll never get to sleep.
    This time, the joke’s on me. Cramped in that loft bed, overheated by a giant fur ball who refuses to budge,fur tickling my nose, damp doggie breath polluting the air, I sleep. Deeply. Dreaming of toasted marshmallows, guitar music, cool breezes and warm wet kisses.
    Weird.

SEVENTEEN
    After lunch cleanup a few days later, I’m down on the beach with Judy, taking my so-called afternoon break. It’s quiet out on the channel today. A few freighters chug along in the distance, but there’s not a tourist boat in sight. Gentle waves lap at the shore with a sound like little dogs lapping water from their bowls.
    Judy is stretched out in the cool gravel beside me. She’s been bounding in and out of the river for the past half hour, chasing sticks and seagulls. Finally she’s ready to take a break too. Catch a few dog
zzzzzz
’s.
    Footsteps crunch toward us along the beach path. Sullivan plunks down on my other side. “You okay?” he asks me, kicking off his high-tops—purple polka-dots today— and digging his toes into the gravel.
    I toss him what I hope is an “everything’s peachy” grin, but it feels strained and lopsided, more like a sneer or grimace. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    Sullivan frowns. He hunches over and starts piling small rocks, flat and smooth from years of river erosion, one on top of another until his structure collapses. “You were so quiet at lunch.”
    I snort. “Nicky and Brant were talking enough for all of us.”
    â€œAh, they were just joking around,” Sullivan says, lying back on the beach, resting his palms behind his head.
    Something hot and sour pools at the back of my throat. “What’s so fucking funny about having your bare-assed baby pictures passed around the table like they’re a bowl of potato salad?” I snarl. Little drops of spit fly out of my mouth.
    Sullivan sits up and laughs. “Not
my
fault. Nicholas found one of Mom’s old photo albums on the bookshelf in the rec room.”
    â€œDidn’t you even...mind?”
    â€œMind what?”
    I blink hard. “Mind that everyone could see your bare ass!”
    Sullivan cranes his neck down and around in a goofy attempt to check out his own backside. “Why would I?” he replies,