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  So Dad and I return to the waiting room. The chairs are actually comfortable, nothing like the old, hard chairs at Dr. Andris’s place. Earphones back on. Music cranked. Dad tells me not to listen to music loudly ’cause it’ll hurt my hearing in the long run. But today is special, so I let the music blast away. I try to imagine sitting in the car, traveling up north to Vacaville, California, for a hockey tournament. One time we left at four in the morning and caravanned with some others families, going up the coast and stopping to play Frisbee on the beach. The parents sometimes complain about the travel, but then they end up having as much fun as the players. Truth is, hockey kids spend a lot of time with their parents, so most of the players come from super-close families.

  I relive that whole trip in my head. Jae-won’s little brothers were there. Mrs. Kang was trying to get them to wade, but they only wanted to be around the big boys—us. They were four then, and they kept running around in the middle of our Frisbee game, screaming and laughing and trying to make angels in the sand. I had a teammate named Jammer who was there, and when an ice cream truck came by, he ate seven bars, no joke. The great thing about hockey is you just have so many perfect days. When we got up to Vacaville, we won all four of our games. Jammer and Jae-won each scored a hat trick that weekend. Of course, you also have days that suck pretty bad, like when you lose a game and your coach has a mental breakdown about it.

  Then really suddenly I think about Sinbad with an IV, not knowing what’s going on, and I kind of feel like throwing up. He’s lying there now, chemicals surging through his body, a stranger in a respirator and impermeable gown standing next to him. I groan a long, soft groan.

  I like Amy Winehouse a lot when I feel sad after a loss, so I switch my music to that and actually feel better, ’cause her voice is so unreal that when you listen to it, you’re not really where you are anymore; you’re someplace else.

  When the chemo is over, Dr. Pierre shows Dad how to give Sinbad a couple of more pills at home. I listen carefully, ’cause no matter what anyone says, I’m the one who’s going to do it next time. We have to wait while Sinbad starts pawing at a wall. He does that sometimes if he thinks there’s a mouse or something in there. Dogs can probably smell through the wall, so maybe that’s what’s going on. Dr. Pierre talks statistics: Average survival time is about one year, and 20 percent of dogs can live two years. Half will live longer than twelve months, and half less than twelve months. She has a patient who got cancer five and a half years ago, and he’s still alive! That’s Sinbad, I just know it.

  Then we go home. Sinbad seems fine—great, even—so Dad and I are relieved. The only thing is, he might feel nauseous or tired in a few days. He probably won’t. Hard to tell, though, since every dog is different. I take him for a short, slow walk right away. He pulls on the leash to go faster, but I heel him. Dr. Pierre used the phrase “quality of life” several times, as in, “With dogs we’re not going to cure them, we just want to maintain as much quality of life as possible.”

  He pulls me toward the hills, but I don’t want to take him up a hill ’cause he’s supposed to take it easy. We walk past Mr. Reynolds’s house. He’s got a big sheet of blue plastic over some poles to make a shaded area with a lawn chair underneath. He also throws blue plastic over his car sometimes, and then it blows off and just lies there for days in his front yard. It all makes him look like he’s homeless, but Dad says when you’re in your eighties, you don’t care what people think so much. Man, being eighty is so far away I can hardly imagine it! I can’t even imagine getting through the next week, let alone another seventy years. I don’t even want to be that old. I mean, Sinbad will be long gone, and probably my dad, too. My hockey career will be way in the past. So what’s the point?

  We walk around the cul-de-sac. It’s quiet and empty—Sinbad and me seem to be the only ones left in the world. Sinbad jumps up and places both his front paws on a tree, but I don’t see any squirrels up there. He stares intently, totally in the moment per usual, then starts snarling. But he’s just playing. I suddenly get that spiderweb feeling again and rub my face. Then I sit a long time with my face in my hands, like Dad does when he wants to get away without really getting away. Sinbad pushes his nose on my hands, and I feel a rush of love as I take hold of his head. “I got your back,” I tell him. “Just like you always got mine. We’re going to get through this chemo thing.”

  I like to think I’m pretty tough. One of the things you learn from hockey is that sometimes you’re just wiped out, destroyed. You don’t make a team you want, or you make an idiot move and cost your team the game. It’s just like a tree getting burned down. Then you regenerate. That’s what me and Sinbad are going to do, once a week at first and then every two weeks. Regenerate.

  Finally I stand up. Down the block, Mr. Reynolds is in his yard, messing with his blue plastic. It’s flying around in the wind like it’s alive. He keeps trying to tame it. I hurry down to see if I can help, but he gives up and goes inside before I get there. His blue plastic lies in the middle of the yard, rippling in the wind. It’s just crazy to think I’ll be eighty someday. Crazy!

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  SO DOG CHEMO usually doesn’t make them lose their hair or anything like that, ’cause they’re not given as strong a dose as humans get. When my dad picks up the prescription, he stops to buy latex gloves. So now I’m looking at two gloves sitting on the counter next to two meds on a paper towel. Dad watches as I stretch my arms and back and even my legs, like I’m getting ready for a game. Then I put on gloves. I get those spiderwebs on my face again, but I can’t do anything about it just now. I chew on some gum, look at the pills. I’m a little surprised that they’re vitamin-size. I was expecting something smaller.

  Dr. Pierre doesn’t want me to wrap the meds in pill pockets or food. I squeeze the top of Sinbad’s snout and pull open the bottom while holding the first pill. Then I stick the pill as deep down his throat as I can, blow on his nose, and he swallows! He lopes a few feet away, sits, and looks at me. I hang out cross-legged on the floor like nothing’s going on, just sitting here chewing my gum and studying the ceiling.

  After a minute I say, “Sinbad!” but he doesn’t budge.

  I get up, but he runs off. Dad and I have to chase him down in the living room, but I don’t want to touch him with my hands. Dad picks him up and carries him into the kitchen. Sinbad’s not happy, but he takes the second pill. Okay! Dad holds open a plastic bag, and I drop the gloves in.

  “All right!” I say. We high-five.

  Sinbad chews a bone for about an hour, but then he stops almost mid-chew and lies there with the bone in his mouth. I pull it out and set it aside, and he closes his eyes and lies very still. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, so I panic. “Sinbad!” He opens his eyes. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Just rest.” He closes his eyes.

  I wonder whether I should have given him some water after the pills. What if he gets thirsty but feels too tired to drink? I think about petting him while he sleeps, but maybe he just wants to be left alone. Sometimes when he goes to sleep, he goes out hard, so I’m not exactly worried. I check e-mail on my phone—got two e-vites for birthday parties. One’s from my new teammate Ryan Morgan, and the other is from a kid at school. The friend from school is having his party at Magic Mountain, which means I’m not going. The last time I was there I got a sore neck from a roller coaster and had to lie in bed with headaches and dizziness for two days. The only thing I’m willing to get hurt at is hockey. Other than that, I’m a wuss. Never getting on a roller coaster again. Period.

  I answer both e-vites and sit on the floor next to Sinbad, watching a movie about a tsunami on my phone. Even on such a small screen, it’s pretty lit—super realistic. Think I’ll avoid the beach for a couple of years, maybe forever. So, no roller coasters, no beach. I’m down to 1 percent battery. I plug it in and lay a pillow on the floor next to Sinbad. In the dark, chewing some gum. Sinbad’s been totally still for hours, not even shifting his bod
y. I stop chewing and listen to him breathing deeply. I try to breathe with exactly the same rhythm as him, over and over, then over and over some more, until we’re totally in sync: just me and him, floating through space together.

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  EVEN THOUGH THE pills aren’t supposed to affect him that much, Sinbad mostly sleeps for an entire day, but then by the morning of the second day he’s so eager to go for a walk that he jumps all over me, yelping and barking. He’s acting like his regular self!

  Outside, he pulls so hard I have to hold him with two hands. “Sinbad, heel!” He starts yelping, and I see it’s a squirrel, the bane of his existence. I let him pull me to a tree, where he jumps up, whining and pawing at the bark. The squirrel is hiding in the leaves. Sinbad sits with his head raised. I look around, see Mr. Reynolds moving slowly toward us.

  Sinbad lets out a half whine, half howl. He just sits, panting, while I wait.

  “Conor MacRae!”

  I turn. “Hi, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “You know, you could do me a favor.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “You know anything about washing cars?”

  “Yeah, I wash our cars, except my dad won’t let me wash his police motorcycle ’cause it’s his love child.”

  “I’ll pay you—” He’s reaching into a pocket.

  “You don’t need to pay me,” I quickly reply.

  “Yes, yes, I do. I’m a man of my word.”

  I don’t know what that means, since he hasn’t said anything that would be breaking his word if he didn’t pay me.

  “I’m not too old to wash my car, but I just pulled a muscle in my back. Darn muscle! Darn back!” He takes a crinkly one-dollar bill out of his pocket. “I don’t have much . . . Social Security.”

  “You don’t have to pay me.”

  “Don’t insult me!” he says sharply, so I take the bill and thank him.

  “Sinbad!” I yank on the leash, and we walk—slowly—with Mr. Reynolds.

  “I owned many dogs in my life,” Mr. Reynolds says. “I owned a chimpanzee once!”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Unfortunately, it was. I didn’t give him the life he should have lived, out in the wild. So I always felt bad about that. There are still people left who own chimps in the country, but there’s nobody selling them anymore. So this is a good thing.” Then he places his arm around my shoulder like my dad does sometimes. “I’ve had a good life, Conor MacRae. You’re going to be the same way, I can tell you that. I’ve seen you walking around.”

  I’m a little surprised at all this, ’cause literally the only thing he ever says to me is “Conor MacRae!” Somehow he even knows my aunt’s name, ’cause he was strolling by once when she was there, and he said, “Maureen MacRae!” as he passed.

  When we reach his house, I tie Sinbad to one of the poles holding up the blue tarp. Hopefully, he won’t pull on it and knock the whole thing down! Mr. Reynolds struggles to drag the hose out, but when I offer to help, he snaps again, “Don’t insult me!” Then he goes and gets a bucket, then he goes and gets soap and wax, and then he goes and gets rags. Fifteen minutes basically pass. Not complaining, just saying. I text Dad: I’m washing Mr. Reynolds’s car. He paid me $1. Dad texts back: That’ll go far.

  Mr. Reynolds disappears while I work. He’s got a big, old car. He hardly drives faster than my dad and I jog, to be honest. Once we saw him in a nearby shopping area, and another driver yelled out at him, “Get off the road!” That made me mad, so I yelled back, “He’s old!” but I don’t know if the other guy heard me, since he was already speeding off.

  Mr. Reynolds has got me using dishwashing soap, which I’m pretty sure is bad for the wax, so I go home with Sinbad and grab some car-wash detergent. Sinbad seems tired, so I have a moment of indecision—he hates it when I leave, but I don’t want to stress him out by making him walk even a little bit more. So I leave him behind, then hear him howling in displeasure, then run back to get him. When we return, Mr. Reynolds is standing there with his hands on his hips.

  “Thought you abandoned me.”

  I hold up the detergent. “Got car-wash soap.”

  He nods. “Fancy.” Then he sits in the lawn chair under the tarp while I tie Sinbad back up.

  I actually really like washing and waxing cars. It’s so relaxing. It takes me about an hour ’cause I don’t like to do a lot of things, but I do like to get it right when I do something. At one point, there’s a big crash, and I see that Sinbad has pulled down the tarp and poles. My jaw drops— What if he killed Mr. Reynolds? I rush over, the blue tarp moving around as Mr. Reynolds tries to get free. When I pull it off, he continues to flail his arms around. He says, “Those poles have never collapsed before. I got them in there good.”

  “I think Sinbad did it. Are you okay?”

  And he just laughs suddenly, which makes me smile. He nods. “Reminds me of something my chimp would do.”

  “I’ll put the poles back in when I’m done.”

  “No, no, that’s my job.”

  I finish waxing, and the car looks brand-new. I love that feeling of seeing a shiny car I’ve just cleaned and waxed. I take a picture of it on my phone, then turn around proudly. Mr. Reynolds is kneeling down, messing with a pole and grunting. I walk over and say, “I’ll do it,” but I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  “Don’t insult me!” Then he says, “Aw,” and grabs at his back. I kneel down, and he says, “Don’t insult me!”

  I reach into my pocket and say, “Here’s your money back. For knocking the poles over.”

  He says, “That’s fair,” and takes back the dollar. He gets up with a grunt, mumbling, “I’ll get those poles up later.”

  “Bye,” I say as he walks off. “Let me know if you need your car washed again.”

  He says, “Conor MacRae!”

  That all gets me thinking, so the next day I knock on doors up and down my street, asking anybody who’s home if I can wash and wax their cars for twelve dollars. Ten of them say yes. I do three a day, letting Sinbad hang around with me, and by the end of the week I’m in the money again. Except for the pepper spray, Dad’s one of those cops who’s a stickler for the law, and he says as he understands California child labor laws, I’m not allowed to have a regular car-wash route without getting a work permit from the superintendent of schools. He thinks I’m allowed to wash people’s cars in an irregular and intermittent manner. All the laws in the world sometimes drive Dad crazy. He read an article once that said just about everybody in America is committing felonies all the time without even realizing it ’cause there are so many laws. He mostly just keeps up on traffic laws. So after I wash each person’s car, I don’t try to set up appointments to wash their cars regularly. I do give them my phone number and ask them to call me if they need their car washed again. I try to do a perfect job on every car so they call me soon. If I manage to wash a hundred or even fifty cars over the summer, that might help out Dad quite a bit.

  And that’s the way it goes for the next few weeks. I wash cars, except for I don’t do anything a few days after Sinbad’s treatments, ’cause he gets super tired, and then a couple of days after that he acts like a puppy again. We spend every minute together. When it’s my birthday in July, we go with Dad to work out at the park. No party, and three presents, including a Star Wars sweatshirt from Aunt Mo. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a Star Wars anything—I mean, I’m twelve now!—but I’ll wear it next time I see her. Cards from my grandparents and my ex-stepmom. She signs her card Mom. She’s sent me two notes since she moved out, and she signed one Jenny and one Mom. I don’t know how I feel about her right now. I guess I’ve never known, ever since the day she said she wanted a real kid.

  I offer my money to Dad, but he won’t take it, says I can use it for hockey. It’s not enough for me to play in-house. I decide to wait until I accumulate more before starting lessons again, just in case something comes up and Dad needs money aft
er all. So there’s a lull in my hockey world. Dad does drive me to public skating a few times to keep me from getting rusty. I glide around the rink feeling like a superhero next to all the newbies. I have an incredible hunger to be around the rink, so Dad and I and a couple of times Jae-won watch some in-house games.

  Several of the best bantams in Southern California are playing in-house at this rink right now. They probably all discussed it and decided to get some serious off-season competition against one another. There’s a set of twins who used to play at the Grizzlies—they’re probably six feet, a hundred and ninety. They’re so good—especially one of them—that at one point Jae-won actually lays his head against my shoulder, and when I glance at him, he’s all starry-eyed with his mouth hanging open, like he’s in love. He lifts his head, and we look at each other, and I know exactly what we’re both thinking: hopefully, that’ll be us after we go through puberty. Puberty is always going through the heads of a lot of peewees. It’s the future, man. And it’s a mystery.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  WHEN IT’S TIME for Ryan’s party, I wear my usual T-shirt and athletic shorts. A lot of my shirts have holes at the collar ’cause I have a bad habit of chewing on my shirts when I’m at the computer. So of the shirts without holes, I choose a light blue one that’s kind of dressy for a T-shirt. Aunt Mo got it for me, and Dad said it cost thirty-five dollars—on sale. Ryan lives all the way in Los Angeles. I have a feeling he’s rich, ’cause he told everyone that he has a private hockey coach he skates with five times a week for an hour. There’re quite a few rich kids in hockey, and a few are seriously loaded. That’s probably ’cause of how much money hockey costs. But the ice is the great leveler. Like, Jesus’s family doesn’t have much money, but he’s the fastest skater in peewee by far. I’m a fast skater, but he’s a god. Some people think he’s the best kid skater in California. Madden’s probably more agile, but he’s not as fast. And Jae-won led our team in scoring last year. He came in first in scoring in Southern California peewee AA. His hands are touched by God, man. Honestly, sometimes it makes me want to kill him from jealousy and bow down to his awesomeness at the same time. I hope he works out his skating problems, ’cause if he does, he’s going all the way. Me, I skate better than Jae-won, and I have better hands than Jesus. I have better ice vision than either, like I just have a sense of what’s going on all over the ice, where everybody is, and where they’re going. But I need to bring my skating up to the level of Jesus, and my hands up to the level of Jae-won. Basically, if you’re in youth hockey, you got lots of stuff to work on in terms of your game.