Unhappy Appy Read online

  “Where on earth did you dig up those names, Catman?” All of the Coolidge cats had unusual names, but he’d outdone himself this time.

  “First Presidents of the United States,” he explained.

  I stared through his lenses and into his Siamese-blue eyes. “Wouldn’t that mean they’re all named George Washington?”

  Catman shook his head. “Under the Articles of Confederation in 1781, eight men were elected president for a one-year term each. John Hanson was ‘the first President of the United States in Congress Assembled.’ ”

  Who knew? I learned more history from Catman’s cats than I did from Mr. Stovall’s social studies class.

  “Can I use the phone?” I wanted to call home to see if Hawk had shown up yet.

  The nearest phone was in the kitchen, but it wasn’t easy to get to. The kitchen floor was an obstacle course of papers stacked in neat rows, forming a maze to the sink, with an offshoot to the phone. Each stack contained contest entry forms. I knew Catman’s parents would fill out every entry and probably win quite a few contests.

  I dialed and waited five rings before anyone answered and said, “Hello?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Is someone there?”

  “I—It’s—Winnie. Who’s this?”

  “Geri. Can I help you?” Lizzy’s friend sounded like it was her home. She’d been spending enough time there. Lizzy said Geri’s parents both work long shifts at the Archway Cookie factory.

  “Is Hawk, my friend, there yet?” I asked.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Is my dad around?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Lizzy?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I said bye and hung up.

  Catman was putting on the eight-track, the Coolidges’ version of a CD player. I recognized “Wild Thing” after two beats. I love that song. Wild Thing is what people used to call Nickers.

  He looked up. “She there?”

  Catman’s almost scary, the way he just knows things. He’d known why I was calling home, and I didn’t even think he knew Hawk was staying with us. I shook my head.

  “Ring her at her pad,” he suggested.

  I shook my head again. What would I say if she answered? I didn’t want to sound like I was begging. Besides, if she didn’t want to come, I didn’t want her.

  But I did. “Catman, I don’t know what to do with Hawk or Towaco. I’ve got to get that Appy turned around so—”

  Before I could finish, the front door burst open, and Bart and Claire Coolidge danced in. I think they were doing the tango, cheek-to-cheek, gliding into the living room.

  “Calvin! Winnie!” Mrs. Coolidge shouted, as if she hadn’t seen us in decades. She was wearing a glittery red gown, skin tight, outlining three ridges above her waist. Her hair was piled at least a foot high and had green glitter all over it.

  In his tux Mr. Coolidge looked like a penguin with a toupee. Around his neck he wore a Bugs Bunny bow tie. “Sa-a-ay!” he shouted, not releasing his wife. “So a big Cadillac ran out of gas on Thanksgiving Day and pulled off the side of the road. Three compact cars stopped to help. Each car donated a gallon of gas from their own gas tank. What did the Cadillac say?”

  I was already laughing. Bart Coolidge owns Smart Bart’s Used Cars and has a million corny car jokes that make me laugh even when they’re not funny. “I give up, Mr. Coolidge.”

  “ ‘Happy Tanks-giving!’ Get it? Tanks . . . giving? I got a million of ’em!” He spun around, dipping his wife in a fancy dance maneuver.

  She managed to twirl loose and spin my way. “What I wouldn’t do for hair like this!” she exclaimed, sweeping my tangled hair off my shoulders. She shoved it on top of my head, eyeing me with the expertise of a hairdresser, which she is. “I could sculpt a masterpiece!”

  I never know whether to thank her for liking my hair so much—especially since my sister is the one with great hair, and mine always looks like I’ve just breezed in from a runaway horse ride—or to take my hair and run. “You two look fancy,” I said, trying to shift the conversation.

  “We cleared the dance floor!” Mrs. Coolidge stood on tiptoes, like a ballerina.

  I couldn’t even imagine where they’d found a dance floor in Ashland. I pictured them tangoing through McDonald’s or down the aisles of A-Mart.

  “Mrs. Coolidge is quite the dancer.” Mr. Coolidge winked at his wife.

  She blushed, her cheeks turning as red as her dress. “Mr. Coolidge may look like a body-builder on the outside, but he’s light on his feet.”

  Love must be blind. Bart Coolidge is Volkswagen-shaped, with a hairpiece on the roof.

  “We better split to Pat’s Pets,” Catman said.

  I wanted to go home and wait for Hawk, but I hadn’t answered the horse-problem e-mails since Thursday.

  “Good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge,” I called as we moved toward the door. “And . . . interesting Thanksgiving decorations.”

  “You should see what I’m putting up at Smart Bart’s!” Mr. Coolidge challenged. “Sa-a-ay! Why did the turkey cross the road?”

  Catman grabbed my wrist and whisked me out the door before I heard the punch line.

  Maybe I should have stayed to hear it. Maybe it would have helped me to laugh again at another corny joke, because the minute we got outside, I was hit by a wave of sadness. It came at me from all sides. I couldn’t even say what I was sad about, but the feeling stuck to me like sweat.

  Was this what Towaco felt like?

  When Catman and I got to Pat’s Pets, Pat was talking to a man and a kid. I watched them and tried to shake off the blanket of sadness I’d walked in with.

  The boy struggled to hold on to a chubby puppy, whose tail wagged as fast as a horse’s tail in fly season.

  “I reckon it’s a case of puppy love already! No offense.” Pat chuckled, her apology aimed for the puppy. She never fails to excuse herself for her animal expressions. It’s just part of the reason she’s one of my favorite people. She reminds me of a feisty Shetland pony, good-natured but spunky and almost as short as I am. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a bad mood. I wish my mom could have known Pat Haven.

  Pat waved to Catman and me. Her brown curls bounced around her face, and she swiped one off her forehead as she turned back to her customers. “I’ll make sure Eddy Barker stops by as soon as he gets home. If anybody can stop that puppy from chewing on furniture, it’s Barker.”

  Besides working on the help line like Catman and I do, Barker has a part-time job helping Pat around the shop.

  Catman and I settled in at the computer while Pat walked the new dog owners to the door. Barker had created the coolest Web site for the Pet Help Line, filled with all kinds of animal facts. People can even send in pictures of their pets, and Barker posts them.

  All Catman and I had to do was answer the e-mails.

  Pat came up behind us just as Catman logged on. “What should we do about the dog questions?” she asked.

  Catman typed something fast, just using his pinkies and thumbs. Before I figured out what he was doing, I heard a phone ringing through the computer. The ringing stopped, and someone said, “Hello.”

  “Barker there?” Catman said into the computer.

  Pat elbowed me. I had to admit I was pretty impressed.

  Through the computer speaker, we heard somebody yell, “Eddy!”

  Seconds later, Barker’s voice came through. “Hello?”

  Pat and I shouted our hellos to Barker. Then Catman read the dog e-mails to him. Barker answered each question as if he’d already thought them through ahead of time. And Catman typed in Barker’s answers as fast as Barker gave them.

  Catman read:

  My dog, Bruno, hates our mailman [actually a mail lady]. What can I do?

  It was funny hearing Barker’s voice and seeing his answer go up almost instantly on the screen:

  Bruno’s just defending his t
erritory and protecting you! In his mind, he believes barking makes the mail lady go away. He’s done his job, and he’s proud of himself! Tomorrow, take Bruno out and introduce him to the mail lady. Show him you’re all friends. Bring along some doggy treats for the mail lady to give Bruno.

  When they finished the dog mail, we all shouted good-bye to Barker. Then Catman tackled his cat questions with the same speed he’d used on Barker’s.

  “Winnie, I hear tell you’ve got yourself company coming for Thanksgiving!” Pat exclaimed. “You and Hawk should have more fun than a barrel of monkeys! No offense.”

  “I hope so.” That wave of sadness flowed through me again. “Hawk hasn’t shown up yet though.”

  “Well, she’s probably saying her good-byes. Can’t be easy spending holidays without your folks.”

  I hadn’t really thought about that. Maybe Pat was right. She usually is.

  Pat wandered off to feed the tropical fish, so I watched Catman finish up the cat e-mails:

  Dear Catman,

  I get to buy a cat! Quick! Give me some tips!

  —NewCat

  Peace, NewCat!

  1. Get your cat from a noisy family. 2. Make sure someone’s loved your cat before it was 12 weeks old. 3. Check for clean, dry ears. 4. Choose a cat that digs moving objects. But hey, man! You’re getting a cat! Any cat’s cool! Bond, baby! That’s where it’s at.

  —The Catman

  Catman,

  I am at my wit’s end! My cat will not stop rubbing her face on me, even when I’m dressed for the office. How do I stop this annoying cat habit?

  —Ms. N

  Ms. N,

  Thank your feline stars! Your cat thinks you’re groovy. Cats have scent glands on their cheeks and chins. Rubbing you with her scent marks you as her owner. Congratulations!

  —The Catman

  I was glad Catman didn’t hang around to read over my shoulder. I can never come up with clever answers like he and Barker can. But at least I hope I’m helping the horses people write in about. I read my first e-mail:

  Dear Winnie,

  My Paint horse won’t trot! He paces or fox-trots instead. He’s done this since he was born. What can I do?

  —Frustrated

  Dear Frustrated,

  The pace is a much smoother gait, right? If that’s his natural gait, you won’t have much luck changing him to a trot. Sure, it’s unusual for a Paint to be a pacer. But can’t you just enjoy that smooth gait?

  —Winnie

  I worked through each horse question and felt like I had decent answers. At the very end of the e-mails was a question about birds. We almost never got a bird e-mail.

  Can anybody tell me if birds can see colors? I want to decorate my zebra finch’s cage, but my husband claims birds are color-blind.

  —Birdwoman

  Hawk! I could call her at her house. And if she answered, I’d ask her the bird question. Then it wouldn’t be like I was calling to beg her to come to my house.

  I used the regular phone and dialed Hawk’s number.

  “Hello? Hawkinses’ residence.” It sounded like Hawk’s mother.

  “Um . . . I . . . is Hawk . . . I mean, Victoria, there?” I hate how I sound on the phone. My voice is gravelly all the time, but on the phone, it gets all shaky.

  I heard Hawk’s mother call her to the phone.

  “Victoria Hawkins speaking.” She sounded so formal I almost hung up.

  “Um . . . Hawk? It’s me. Winnie?”

  I waited for her to tell me why she was still at her house. She didn’t.

  “Well, I’m at Pat’s Pets. We got a bird e-mail, and . . . I thought you could help.”

  “Certainly. Will you read it?”

  I read it to her.

  Hawk didn’t need much time to come up with an answer. “Tell her that birds do see in color. That is why they are colorful. Birds use color to attract mates or camouflage themselves. Zebra finches see more colors than humans. They are attracted by colors in the ultraviolet range, colors we humans cannot even see.”

  She stopped talking. The phone buzzed.

  “Great answer!” I said. Go ahead! Ask her why she’s not at your house.

  “Is that all?” Hawk asked.

  “Um . . . so I guess I’ll see you . . . in a little bit? At my house?”

  “My parents fly out in the morning. I can move my things over before school tomorrow . . . if that would be all right,” she added.

  When I hung up, the phone felt cold in my hand.

  I told Pat and Catman bye and headed home alone, pushing my bike into a head wind that blew through me as if I were hollow.

  Monday when I headed out for barn chores, Dad was already outside working on the Spidells’ horse clippers. I shivered in the morning chill, my breath making wintry puffs.

  “Two down, one to go!” Dad shouted across the yard.

  “You’ll get it!” I shouted back.

  He waved something that wasn’t a clipper in the air. “Got tied up last night working on this. It’s a dog watch!”

  “Sounds good!” I hurried to the barn before Dad could ask me to test-drive the dog watch, whatever it was.

  Towaco came in for oats, but he didn’t devour it the way Nickers did. I mucked stalls, then ran back to clean up for school.

  Lizzy was pulling something great-smelling out of the oven.

  “Oatmeal pie!” Geri announced. Since Hawk hadn’t come, Geri had slept over.

  Lizzy blessed the pie, and we dug in.

  I couldn’t get in a word sideways as the three of us downed our oatmeal in pie form.

  “What we want,” Lizzy explained, taking a sip of fat-free milk, “is to show the world that lizards and frogs can be friends—”

  “See,” Geri chimed in, “we discovered that lizards love frog music! I used my frog CD!”

  “—because,” Lizzy continued, “if God’s creatures, lizards and frogs, can learn to live together in peace, well, why can’t we? It’s a step toward world peace, Winnie!”

  Great. Even lizards and frogs had friends.

  They cleared the table, leaving Dad’s plate and my grape juice and what was left of the pie.

  “We’re walking to school. Hawk can ride my back bike with you if you want,” Lizzy offered.

  “Thanks, Lizzy!”

  They took off 45 minutes early. My little sister has always been the first one to school. I guess Geri would be the second.

  I waited for Hawk and had another piece of pie. Through the window I could see Dad fiddling with the watch. At his feet lay the clippers. I didn’t want to be around when Mr. Spidell came for them.

  A red sports car drove up. I ran outside just as Hawk and her dad were getting out.

  Mr. Hawkins wore a dark gray suit, striped tie, and shiny shoes. His short brown hair had definitely been cut someplace other than Claire Coolidge’s Beauty Salon. Even though he was a couple inches shorter than my dad, he stood up so straight he seemed taller.

  Dad, in his old tan overalls, shouted, “Welcome!” He wiped his hands on his pant legs before shaking Mr. Hawkins’s hand. “I’ll help you carry things in.” Dad opened the backseat door, and out flew a bright red bird with green-and-yellow wings. The parrot, a chattering lory, flew to Hawk’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Peter Lory!” I called. Hawk had named her bird after Peter Lorre, an actor who starred in the old gangster movies she likes to watch. “Hey, Hawk!”

  “Squawk! Hey, Hawk!” Peter Lory cried.

  “Thank you for having me,” Hawk said, hugging a pillow to her chest.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, sounding as weird as she did. The politeness reminded me how Dad and I were after Mom died—too polite, as if manners could make up for what we didn’t feel anymore.

  Her dad flashed a smile, showing perfect, white teeth. “Really, Willis. I appreciate this. Wish you’d let us pay you.”

  “For what?” Dad asked.

  Mr. Hawkins laughed. Then Dad chuckled along
. But I knew he’d really been stumped for a minute. Dad wouldn’t dream of having somebody pay to sleep over.

  The sports car was filled to the roof with stuff. I carried in a backpack and a down sleeping bag the first trip. I’d already told Hawk she could have my bed.

  She and I carried in two more blankets, a CD player, a bag of makeup, her laptop, and a bunch of little stuff, while the dads hauled huge suitcases and a bunch of boxes. When we ran out of room in Lizzy’s and my bedroom, we set things in our living room.

  Finally Mr. Hawkins carried in a tall, gold birdcage with Hawk’s two lovebirds on tiny perches. He set the cage down on one of the suitcases and frowned at the room, like he was leaving his daughter in prison. The birds stopped singing and scooted closer together.

  Outside, a car tore up our street and squealed to a stop. We moved to the doorway in time to see Hawk’s mom get out of a black Mercedes. She slammed the door and marched right for us. She wore a long, black wool coat with the collar turned up.

  “You couldn’t even wait for me?” she demanded, glaring past us to her husband. I wouldn’t have wanted to be him. Then, as if she’d just noticed we were there, she smiled. “Hello, Winnie, Mr. Willis.”

  “Jack,” my dad corrected, stepping back to let her in.

  “Jack,” she repeated. “We really appreciate this.” She whispered something to Mr. Hawkins that didn’t sound as nice as when she talked to Dad.

  Mr. Hawkins shrugged. “You slept in. What was I supposed to do?”

  Hawk stepped out of my room, her leather book bag over her shoulder.

  “Victoria! There you are!” Mrs. Hawkins stepped over boxes to get to her daughter. “I wanted to drive you over myself, honey.”

  Hawk didn’t say anything.

  “Actually, it was a good thing I didn’t come earlier,” Mrs. Hawkins went on. “The vet called. He got the final lab report in. There’s nothing physically wrong with the Appaloosa. The vet thinks it might be clinical depression. I didn’t know horses could get that. Did you?”

  Hawk glanced at me, obviously expecting me to step in.

  “Horses get depressed,” I said, my voice so hoarse Mr. Hawkins asked me to repeat it. I did.

  “Don’t they have drugs to help?” Mr. Hawkins asked.