Strays Like Us Read online

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Teaser

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Cecilia Galante

  Copyright

  I heard the barking right away, the noise of it carrying over the wind like a lost kite.

  It was an urgent, frantic sound, and even though it was coming from behind a fence that cut through the yard of my new foster home and I was still on the back of Margery’s motorcycle with my helmet squished down tight over my ears, I could hear the desperateness behind it. If barks could be turned into words, these might have said something like: “I-know-you’re-there-and-you-can-hear-me-so-why-aren’t-you-answering-why-won’t-anyone-please-just-answer-me?”

  Margery slowed the motorcycle to a stop, switched off the engine, and pulled off her helmet. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “That’s the neighbor’s dog. He gets a little worked up whenever he hears someone over here.” She ran a hand over the top of her head, smoothing down the stray hairs, and swung her leg over the seat. “He’ll settle down eventually. Come on inside. It won’t be so loud in the house.”

  The dog kept barking.

  I didn’t move.

  I had no idea what my short-term plan was just yet, but I was pretty sure it didn’t include going inside. At least not yet. Margery Dawson, who some dumb caseworker at the Philadelphia Children and Youth Services center had decided would take care of me for the next few weeks or months or however long it was going to take, and who I’d known for exactly two hours and twenty-six minutes, hadn’t seemed like someone who would tie me up and throw me down her basement steps, but then she didn’t look like someone who drove around on a motorcycle, either.

  I thought she was kidding when we left the Children and Youth building and she walked over to the red-and-black Harley-Davidson in the parking lot—until she held out a shiny blue helmet and told me to hop on. I didn’t take the helmet. I didn’t do anything, really, except just stare at the bike for a minute. It was huge, with orange flames painted on the sides and all sorts of shiny dials on the front. The tires were as thick around as a man’s arm, and the silver handlebars gleamed.

  “You ever ride a motorcycle before?” Margery asked. It was the first thing she’d said to me besides “Hi, I’m Margery” inside the Children and Youth office.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, you don’t have a thing to worry about. I’ve been riding Luke Jackson here for twenty years. He doesn’t do anything without my permission.”

  “Luke Jackson?” I repeated.

  “That’s what I call him.” She reached out and patted the seat. “After one of my favorite movie characters.”

  “What movie?”

  “Cool Hand Luke. You ever hear of it?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s an old one. ’Bout a guy who goes to prison and works on a chain gang.” She nudged the helmet at me. “Here. Put this on. And then sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  I was glad I was wearing a helmet. I was gladder still that I was sitting behind Margery so that she couldn’t see the look of terror on my face as she gunned Luke Jackson’s engine and sped out of the parking lot. I wasn’t sure if I was more frightened of the motorcycle itself or the fact that she’d named it after some guy in prison, but it took me a good ten minutes to open my eyes, and another half hour to finally start breathing normally again. But by the time we passed the sign for Lancaster, and Margery rounded another bend, I realized she’d been right. She knew exactly what she was doing. And, man, she did it well.

  “You coming?” Margery turned around now, her helmet tucked under one arm. Her khaki pants, denim shirt with white buttons down the front, and heavy work boots reminded me of a construction worker. She had a man’s face, too, with rough, weathered skin and a large nose. Carmella, the caseworker at Children and Youth Services, had told me at least twenty-five things about Margery, including what she did for a living, but the only thing I’d remembered was the part about her never having had a foster kid before. I was her first. I’d blinked when she said that. Wondered if such a thing would turn out to be very, very good. Or very, very bad.

  “Winifred?” Margery asked. “You want to come in now?”

  I shook my head and stared at a large tree with yellow leaves, behind the fence. The dog’s barking got louder. I wondered if he was under the tree, straining against some kind of leash. More likely, he was racing around the trunk, making himself dizzy.

  “Okay, then.” Margery spoke a little louder over the noise. “I’m not going to force you. There’s not much to do out here, though. And it’s going to get cold soon. You want me to bring you a jacket?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll be inside when you’re ready.”

  I listened to the sound of her boots crunching against the gravel behind me, and then the heavy thud of them as she made her way up her porch steps. My neck was sweaty, and the tips of my ears felt numb. The helmet was as big as a bowling ball and almost as heavy. I wondered if Darth Vader felt this way inside his: hot, stiff, and slightly claustrophobic. I pulled it off and rubbed my ears for a moment, trying to piece together all the things that had happened since this morning. But it was impossible. Every thought I had was interrupted by another bark.

  Called out of science class by the principal—BARK!

  Some lady from Children and Youth Services in there—BARK!

  “Have a seat, Fred.”—BARK!

  “There’s been an incident.”—BARK!

  “Yes, with your mother.”—BARK!

  “You’ll have to come with me now, Fred.”—BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

  “Shut up!” I screamed, hurling the motorcycle helmet into the grass. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  A high-pitched whimpering sounded behind the fence, as if the dog had just dodged something heavier than my words. For a moment, everything was still. The only sound was the wind gusting through the yellow leaves. I slid off the bike slowly, taking care not to bump the shiny sides.

  Just like that, the barking started again. It was even more desperate than before, almost pleading: “I-know-I’m-annoying-and-that-you’re-already-angry-but-I-also-know-you’re-still-there-please-come-talk-to-me-please.”

  “Man.” I
walked over and picked up the helmet. “You just don’t give up, do you?” I headed toward the back of the fence, where the barks were coming from. Maybe the dog would settle down if I said a few words to him or let him lick my hand. I’d do anything to get him to be quiet. My head hurt, and my ears were starting to ring.

  The fence was just high enough to prevent me from seeing over the top of it, but some of the slats along the bottom were rotted away. I knelt down next to one of the wider openings and peeked through.

  For a split second, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at. It was definitely a dog, but I’d never seen a dog that looked so awful. Or so sad. He was smaller than I imagined he’d be, and his fur, which was so dirty that it hung in matted clumps against his body, seemed to be mostly black and white. Parts of his neck were rubbed raw where the metal links of a chain had bitten through, and a large, open sore on his front leg was bleeding around the edges.

  “Hey,” I said softly, reaching two fingers through the wooden slats and wiggling them in the dog’s direction. “Hey, boy. Hey there.”

  The dog lunged when he saw me, barking so rapidly that saliva flew out of his mouth. The chain around his neck was just short enough that he couldn’t reach the fence or my fingers, but he strained so hard against it that I thought he might choke. At least half of his left ear was missing, as if something had bitten it off, and a thick, gooey fluid leaked out of the corners of his eyes. “Oh, buddy,” I whispered. “Who did—”

  Something heavy slammed against the fence, narrowly missing my fingers. I jumped back so quickly that I fell over.

  “Get out of there!” a man’s voice growled. “You go on home and mind your business!”

  The dog shrank back along the fence and yipped, a high-pitched, terrifying sound that frightened me even more than the voice did. I scrambled to my feet, looking around frantically, but there was no telling where it had come from.

  “I said beat it!” I looked up as the voice snarled from above. Leaning out of the second-floor window of the house next door was an old man dressed in a red-and-blue flannel shirt. His gray beard was shaggy and unkempt, and a shotgun with a long silver barrel on one end rested against his left arm. He glared down at me and nudged the gun with his opposite hand. “Now!”

  I stumbled as I tried to get back up, and fell down again, cutting my hand on a rock. But the only thing I could feel was the bite of the wind against my face and my heart knocking inside my chest as I raced over to the house and burst through Margery’s front door.

  “Winifred?” Margery’s voice floated from somewhere in the back of the house. “That you?”

  “Yeah.” I leaned over, planting my hands on my knees as I tried to slow my breathing. The edge of my right hand stung, and I winced as I caught sight of the blood trickling down one side.

  Margery appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She stopped when she saw the blood and then moved toward me quickly. Tossing the dishcloth over one shoulder, she took my hand in hers, examining the wound. “What happened?”

  “I fell.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside.”

  Margery gave me a look as she turned my hand over. “Where outside, Winifred?”

  “It’s Fred,” I said, pulling my hand back. “I like to be called Fred.”

  “Right.” She nodded. “Where did you fall, Fred?”

  “By the back fence.”

  Her face darkened. “You didn’t go over the fence, did you?”

  I shook my head. “Just next to it. By one of the holes. I wanted to see if I could get the dog to stop barking. And then some guy yelled at me to beat it.” I paused, not sure if I should mention the gun. “So I ran. And then I tripped.”

  She looked at me silently for a moment and then balled the dish towel under my hand. “Come on in the kitchen. I have iodine and bandages to wrap this up.”

  I followed her down a short hallway, holding the towel with my other hand. The floors in the house were hardwood, bare for the most part, except for one or two small rugs. At the end of the hallway was the kitchen. It was enormous, maybe even the entire length of the house, and half as wide. The walls had been painted a bright yellow, and a real fireplace sat at one end, big and broad as two ovens. Flames sparked and crackled atop five or six logs, and the scent of woodsmoke filled the room. It was warm and cozy.

  “Have a seat.” Margery pulled a chair out from under a long table and walked over to a row of cupboards. I sat down. The chair was metal with a tall, solid back. I turned, peering carefully at the back of it, startled to realize that what I’d thought were scribbles were, in fact, carefully etched designs. There were leaves and vines, flowers and branches and crescent moons, even a tiny mouse with whiskers peeking out from one of the corners. I stared at the mouse, examining the small ears and the hint of a tail, which disappeared around the edge.

  “You find the fox in there?” Margery pulled out a chair next to me and sat down, plunking a brown bottle, a white box, and a little silver bowl onto the table. “He’s a tough one. You’ve got to look real hard.”

  I turned around, embarrassed that she’d caught me looking at all. I hoped she couldn’t tell I was impressed, either. Stuff like that just led to trouble.

  “Hold your hand out over this bowl,” she directed.

  I did as she said, sucking in hard as she poured the brown liquid over the cut.

  “You like dogs, Fred?” Margery blotted my hand again and placed a square of cotton over the top of it.

  “I guess.”

  “You ever have one?”

  “No.” I’d wanted a dog for as long as I could remember, but Mom said they were too much work. She had a hard enough time trying to take care of the two of us, she always said. A dog would make things impossible.

  “Well, let me tell you something about that dog next door.” Margery ripped a piece of surgical tape with her teeth and placed it over one side of the bandage. “He belongs to John Carder. And John Carder is probably the meanest person on God’s green earth.”

  I thought about the horrible chain biting into the dog’s neck, the gooey stuff leaking from his eyes, and the ear that looked like it had been bitten off. I wasn’t about to argue.

  Margery nodded as she finished taping the other side of the bandage. “If you’re here long enough, you’ll find out that Mr. Carder never brings him inside, either. Rain or snow, ice or wind, that poor animal is attached to his pole.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Even during the winter?”

  “Twenty-four/seven.” Margery’s voice was grim. “Although he does have a little shed now. Carder built it last year after the ASPCA called and threatened to take the dog. There might be a ratty old blanket in there. Maybe a bone. But the dog never goes inside Mr. Carder’s house. And in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen the man give that animal a pat on the head or say a kind word to him.”

  “And you’re okay with this?”

  “Of course I’m not okay with it.” Margery got up and put the supplies back in the cupboard. She filled a copper teakettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. “Who do you think called the ASPCA?”

  “You?”

  “You bet. And before that, I went over and tried to talk some sense into the man. I even offered to take the dog myself.”

  “But he wouldn’t listen?”

  “Oh, he listened,” she said. “And then he told me that if I ever came on his property again, he’d shoot me right between the eyes. I’m only going to tell you this once, Fred. I know you feel sorry for that animal. And he will probably keep trying to get your attention by barking on and on the way he does. But you cannot, no matter what, go anywhere near him or the Carder place.” She paused, studying me. “Promise me.”

  I could feel something flare inside me. I’d known this lady for all of three, maybe four hours, and she was already ordering me around? Making me promise things? “You’re not my mother,” I said. “And I wouldn’t go near that disgustin
g dog anyway, even if you paid me.”

  Margery held my gaze for a moment. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers. “Well, I guess we’re okay, then.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess we are.”

  She turned around as the kettle began to whistle. “You drink tea?”

  “No.”

  “How about a hot bath? You can soak for as long as you want while I finish dinner, and then we can eat here by the fire.”

  “A bath?” I could feel my face flush. Did I look like I needed a bath? Or worse, did I stink? The water at our apartment back home had been turned off for almost four days, but I’d been washing off every morning in the locker room at school. Maybe I hadn’t been doing a good enough job.

  “I’ve got a great tub upstairs,” Margery said. “You’ll love it. Come on.”

  I followed her up a flight of stairs and into a bathroom, which was about the size of Mom’s and my entire apartment. The walls were a pale blue color, and a window on the opposite end had been hung with green-and-white-checkered curtains.

  “You ever taken a soak in a nineteenth-century claw-foot bathtub?” Margery asked.

  “Nope.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a soak at all. Our bathtub at home was too short to stretch my legs out straight, and no matter how much I scrubbed, the rusty orange ring around the drain never went away.

  “Well, then, today’s your lucky day.” Margery went over to the tub and turned the faucet on. She reached into a cupboard and pulled out a thick yellow towel, a washcloth, and a small bottle with a rubber stopper. “This here’s lavender bubble bath. It’s my favorite, so don’t go crazy. You just need a few drops. This stuff bubbles up like some kind of science experiment.”

  I took the bottle from her gingerly, wondering if it was some kind of trick. This lady, who was as tall and broad as a man, and rode a motorcycle named Luke Jackson, took bubble baths?

  “Here’s shampoo and conditioner, too.” Margery placed two bottles next to the tub. “Don’t be afraid to use a little on that head of yours after you’re done soaking.” She looked around. “Is that everything?”

  “I need my clothes,” I said. “You know, the ones that Carmella gave me back at the office? In the paper bag?”

  “Oh.” Margery frowned. “Right. They’re still in the wash.”