Kristy and the Snobs by Ann M. Martin
“Yea!” cried Claire.
“You guys can play with this stuff until I bring the TV in. Then you can trade, and give the Kid-Kit to the boys, okay?”
“Okay,” said Margo, forgetting to scratch as she pawed through the box.
Meanwhile, Mallory had returned to the kitchen and was setting the trays and the table. Further downstairs, in the rec room, eight-year-old Nicky and nine-year-old Vanessa were playing — supposedly. But as Claudia joined Mallory again, she heard Vanessa shriek, “Stop that! You stop that, Nicholas Pike! … STOP IT!”
“Whoa,” exclaimed Claudia. “I’ll go see what that’s all about. You finish the trays, okay, Mallory?” She ran downstairs without waiting for a reply. “Hey! What are you two doing?” she cried.
Nicky and Vanessa were sitting on the floor surrounded by Legos. An entire town of Lego buildings had sprung up between them. Claudia couldn’t see anything broken or wrong.
“Vanessa?” she asked.
“Nicky gave me the Bizzer Sign!” Vanessa sounded practically hysterical.
“She gave it to me first,” grumbled Nicky. “She started it. Honest.” He drew a hand wearily across his eyes.
“Did not!” said Vanessa.
“Did, too!”
“Okay, okay,” Claudia cut in. Claudia has no patience for the Bizzer Sign, which is a hand signal the Pike kids invented purely to annoy each other. “Look, it’s almost time for supper. Come on upstairs. You’re going to eat in the kitchen with Mallory. A nice, quiet meal,” she added.
“I’m not hungry,” Vanessa whined.
“Me, neither,” said Nicky.
“Not even for cream cheese and jelly sandwiches?”
“Well, maybe …” Vanessa conceded.
Mallory, Nicky, and Vanessa did eat a quiet, almost somber, meal in the kitchen. Upstairs, Claudia tried to eat with the chicken pox crew, but she hardly had time. No sooner had she settled onto the end of Claire’s bed with her tray than she heard tinkle-tinkle.
“Coming!” she called, and ran into the triplets’ room. “What is it?” she asked the three spotty faces.
“Could we have soda instead of milk?” asked Adam. “Please? It feels so nice and cold.”
“Sure,” Claudia replied, feeling unduly sorry for them.
She was racing back upstairs with the soda when ding-ding sounded from the girls’ room. “Coming!” she called. She handed out the sodas rather hastily and dashed back to Claire and Margo.
“Claudia, there’s a speck in my cream cheese,” said Margo. “I think it’s a bug. If I eat it, I’ll throw up.”
Claudia examined the speck. “Just a crumb,” she pronounced, but to be on the safe side, she picked it out of the cream cheese.
“Could I have some more milk, please?” Claire asked then.
Tinkle-tinkle. The boys were ready for second helpings of fruit salad, and Byron, who loves to eat, wanted dessert, too.
Claudia brought all the food upstairs, then realized it was seven o’clock and time to switch the TV for the Kid-Kit. She did so, wolfed down part of her sandwich, then began carrying the trays to the kitchen so she could help Mallory clean up.
The bell and the triangle were quiet for a full five minutes before Jordan asked for an aspirin for his headache. It was during the next lull that Claudia peered down into the rec room to see what Vanessa and Nicky were up to. She saw them both sitting in front of the TV, their shirts pulled up, examining their tummies and chests. “What are you doing?” she called.
“Counting,” Nicky called back.
“Counting what?”
“Our spots.”
“Uh-oh,” said Claudia, and she dashed downstairs to find that, just as she’d feared, poor Mr. and Mrs. Pike had two new chicken pox patients.
“Bedtime, you guys,” she announced, and neither one objected.
Louie was in bad shape. Everyone could see it. Even David Michael. He didn’t understand it, but he could see it.
“He’s falling apart,” Mom said one Saturday as she and Louie returned home from a trip to the vet. “He’s simply old. Nothing is working very well anymore.”
It was true. Louie had lots of accidents now, so we had to keep him in the kitchen and the family room, where there were no Oriental rugs. His arthritis was worse, and we could tell he was in a lot of pain. He didn’t move unless he had to, and when he did, it was a big effort. Now, instead of calling Louie for dinner, David Michael brought dinner to him.
“After all,” said my brother, “when I’m sick, Mom brings me my meals on a tray, so I’m kind of doing the same thing for Louie.”
Even though he didn’t feel well, Louie tried to be the same good old collie as always. For instance, he usually tried to get to his feet and over to the back door so somebody could let him out before he had an accident. It’s just that often he didn’t make it. He was too slow. One day, the day before Mom took him back to Dr. Smith, he staggered to his feet as David Michael was approaching him with his dinner.
“You need to go out, Louie?” my brother asked. “Okay, hold on a sec.” David Michael set the bowl down. He went off in search of his slicker since it had begun to rain, and returned to the kitchen in time to see Louie’s hindquarters disappear through the open basement doorway.
“Louie!” David Michael cried. “No! Wait!”
Ever since Dr. Smith had told us about Louie’s eyesight, we’d tried to keep the door to the basement closed, but now and then one of us would forget. It just hadn’t become a habit yet. Which was too bad, because a steep flight of fourteen stone steps led from that doorway into the dark cellar below.
David Michael grabbed for the banister with one hand and Louie’s collar with the other, even though Louie had already stumbled down the first couple of steps. Thank goodness Louie moves slowly, otherwise he probably would have fallen headlong to the bottom of the stairs. As it was, he and David Michael fell several more steps together and David Michael banged his face on the banister and wound up with a black eye.
It was that accident that prompted Mom to take Louie to Dr. Smith the next day. And it was at that visit that Dr. Smith said Louie was deteriorating rapidly (translated into regular speech, that meant “getting worse fast”), and suggested injections. I hadn’t gone with Mom to the vet and didn’t ask what the injections were for. I didn’t really want to understand. All I did know was that Dr. Smith said she could try a last resort with Louie — she would give him special injections two times every day.
Needless to say, this was not easy to fit into our schedule, although of course we agreed that it must be done, since no schedule was more important than Louie. We finally worked out a plan where Mom left the house early and drove Louie to Dr. Smith’s for his first injection of the day, while Watson took care of breakfast and seeing us Thomas kids off to school. Then Mom dropped Louie back at the house and arrived at her office fifteen minutes later than usual. On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, Charlie sped home from school, picked Louie up, drove him to Dr. Smith’s for his second injection, sped home, dropped Louie off, picked me up, and drove me to my Baby-sitters Club meeting. On Tuesday and Thursday, when Charlie was busy, Watson skipped lunch, and used his “lunch hour” in the middle of the afternoon to take Louie to Dr. Smith. The new schedule was hectic, Mom and Watson and Charlie were harried by it, and worst of all, by Friday, after almost a week of injections, Dr. Smith admitted to Charlie that they weren’t helping Louie much — and that the two car trips every day were too much for him.
Charlie was upset by the news, and so was I, when he told me about it as we settled Louie into the kitchen. In fact, I was so worried that I actually called Claudia to tell her I wouldn’t be able to make our Friday club meeting. Dawn, as our alternate officer, would have to take over my duties as president.
It was a good thing I didn’t go. If I had, I wouldn’t have been around for all the commotion that was about to happen. Even though in a big family, especially a stepfamily, you learn to expect comm
Karen ran inside, full of energy, with Andrew at her heels. “Hi, everybody!” she called. “Here we are!” She dropped her knapsack and a tote bag in the front hall by the staircase. Andrew dropped his things on Karen’s.
“What’s for dinner?” asked Karen. “Where’s Boo-Boo? Have you seen Morbidda Destiny? How’s Louie?”
Karen usually leaves the rest of us in shock with her talk and excitement and enthusiasm. For the next half hour we were one step behind her as she and Andrew settled into the routine at their dad’s house. First Karen ran to one of the windows that faces Mrs. Porter’s house next door.
“Eeee!” she screeched. “I can see her! I can see her in her kitchen. She’s mixing something in a pot. You know what I think?”
(By this time the rest of us, including quiet Andrew, had gathered behind Karen and were peering at Mrs. Porter.)
“I think she’s mixing a wicked witch’s brew! She’s stirring up a brew that’s going to grow fur all over Andrew or —”
“Dope,” said Charlie fondly, clapping a hand over Karen’s mouth. He smiled at her and shook his head. “You know she can’t do stuff like that. She’s probably making soup.”
“Kristy?” asked Andrew, turning a worried face to me.
“Oh, Andrew,” I said, kneeling down, “you’re not going to grow fur. Don’t give it a second thought.”
By this time, Karen was already gone. She’d run into Watson’s den and found Boo-Boo asleep in a leather armchair. (I swear, that cat always picks the most uncomfortable spots for his naps.) And she summoned us from the window with another shriek.
“He’s growing fangs! Boo-Boo is growing fangs!” Karen was crying as we caught up with her. “It’s Morbidda Destiny again.”
I was positive, no matter what Karen said, and no matter what doubts I have about our next-door neighbor, that Boo-Boo was not growing fangs. I tiptoed to the leather chair while everyone else looked on in silence. Despite Karen’s shrieking a moment earlier, Boo-Boo was still sound asleep. He was sprawled on his back, and was, in fact, so sound asleep, that his mouth was slightly open. I saw why Karen thought he had fangs.
Smiling, I tiptoed back to her. “Those aren’t fangs,” I said, with a laugh. “They’re just his regular old teeth. They’re called incisors or something. I guess you never noticed them before. Look, even humans have them.” I opened my mouth and showed her my four pointy teeth.
“Whew,” breathed Karen. “I was worried … I wonder if Louie has those teeth, too.” And she was off again.
Her third screech came from the kitchen.
“What now?” asked Charlie wearily. We were getting tired of Karen’s games. But her third screech was followed by a fourth, and both sounded truly terrified.
“Oh, boy,” I said under my breath.
Charlie, David Michael, Andrew, and I ran to the kitchen. The four of us skidded to a halt behind Karen. For a moment, no one spoke. We just stared at Louie. I couldn’t believe what he was doing.
David Michael began to cry. I turned him away from Louie and hugged him to me.
Charlie drew in his breath and approached Louie, while I tried to turn Karen and Andrew around and hug my brother at the same time.
Luckily, Mom and Watson both arrived home just then. I hoped one of them would know what to do.
Louie seemed to have lost complete control of his hind legs. He was pulling himself around the kitchen with his front legs, dragging the back ones as if they were paralyzed. And he was, as you might imagine, in a panic. He crawled into a leg of the kitchen table, and then into the stove.
“Lou-ie!” David Michael howled.
“Charlie, take David Michael out of the kitchen,” my mother ordered.
“Please take Karen and Andrew, too,” added Watson.
Charlie did as he was told, but nobody had asked me to do anything, so I just stood by the doorway and watched.
Mom ran for the phone and dialed Dr. Smith while Watson tried to calm Louie down. He succeeded somewhat, and I relaxed a little and tried to figure out what the phone conversation was about, but all Mom would say was “Mm-hmm,” and, “Yes, that’s right,” and, “I see,” and finally, “Okay, thank you.” When she got off the phone, she turned to me. “Kristy, tell the others we’ll have a family meeting as soon as Sam comes home.”
That family meeting is something I wish I could forget, but know I’ll never be able to. The eight of us — Mom, Watson, Charlie, Sam, David Michael, Andrew, Karen, and I — gathered in the living room.
Mom said bluntly, “Kids, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Louie is very, very sick now. And he’s not going to get better.”
Charlie and Sam and I lowered our heads. But David Michael, Andrew, and Karen looked at Mom with wide, surprised eyes.
“What about the shots? And the pills?” asked my little brother.
“They’re not working,” Mom told him. “You can see that, can’t you, honey?”
David Michael nodded, his eyes filling with tears.
“So what do we do now?” asked Sam.
Mom glanced at Watson and I could see that her eyes were teary, too. Watson took her hand reassuringly. “Dr. Smith suggested that we have Louie put down tomorrow,” he said gently.
I expected my brothers to get angry, to yell that nobody would ever do that to Louie. But they all began to cry instead. David Michael cried noisily. Sam and Charlie tried to hide the fact that they were crying, but I know they were. Then a lump that had been filling up my throat all afternoon, dissolved, and I began to cry, too, which made Andrew and Karen burst into tears. It didn’t matter. Even Watson was crying.
After a few moments, David Michael announced, “I’m going to sleep with Louie tonight.” We knew he meant sleep in the family room with him, and I’m sure he thought someone was going to try to stop him, but no one said a word.
So Louie and David Michael spent the night together. Just as Louie had often joined one of us in bed, to keep us company, David Michael kept Louie company during his last night with us.
Mom said it wasn’t necessary for all of us to go to Dr. Smith’s the next day, and I worried that we would argue about who stayed and who went. Sam and Charlie looked relieved, though, and said they wouldn’t mind staying home. (I think they were afraid they’d cry at the vet’s, and that people would see them.) Watson then asked if my brothers would watch Karen and Andrew. He’d decided they were too young to go. Sam and Charlie agreed right away. And that’s how Mom and Watson, David Michael, and I became the four who accompanied Louie to the vet.
David Michael had spent an uncomfortable night with Louie. He’d insisted on sleeping next to him, on the floor. He wouldn’t even consider the couch. Louie whined a lot that night, according to Mom, who (although David Michael didn’t know it) spent most of the night reading in the kitchen, keeping her ears open for problems in the family room. But toward dawn, both Louie and my brother fell asleep. They stayed asleep until nine o’clock when Mom reluctantly woke David Michael. She wanted to get the trip to Dr. Smith’s over with as soon as possible.
At breakfast that morning nobody ate much. And we were silent. Nobody even asked for a reprieve for Louie. He was just in too much pain. We knew that giving Louie an extra day or two would be one of the cruelest things we could do to him.
At ten-thirty, David Michael and I wrapped Louie in his blanket and Watson placed him on the backseat of our station wagon. Karen and Andrew looked on in awe.
“Do you want to say good-bye?” Watson asked them.
Karen stepped forward solemnly, ducked into the car, lifted Louie’s ear, and whispered into it, “Good-bye, Louie.” Then she fled to the house in tears.
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Charlie and Sam asked to say good-bye in private. When they returned to the house to watch Andrew and Karen, the rest of us reluctantly climbed into the car. I squinched up in the very back part of the station wagon so that David Michael could sit next to Louie.
Nobody spoke during the drive to the vet’s, but David Michael held one of Louie’s paws the whole way. And Louie, our noisy vet-hater, didn’t so much as whimper, even though he must have known he was going to Dr. Smith’s. After all, he’d been there ten times in the past five days.
When we reached the vet’s, Watson parked the car. Then he lifted Louie out and handed him to Mom. Watson had decided to let us Thomases take Louie inside by ourselves. He hadn’t known Louie the way we had.
We walked slowly to the door to the veterinary offices, and David Michael held it open for Mom, while I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pair of sunglasses, and put them on so nobody would see my red eyes.
Five other people were in the waiting room, but the receptionist called to us right away. “Dr. Smith is seeing a patient now,” she said, “but as soon as she’s done, you can go in.”
My mother nodded. Then she turned to me. “Kristy, I want you and David Michael to say good-bye out here. I’m the only one who needs to go inside. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I began stroking Louie’s muzzle.
“How do they put him to sleep?” asked David Michael tearfully.
“They just give him a shot,” replied my mother. “That’s all. It’ll make him go to sleep and he won’t wake up.”
Mom had sat down on a couch in the waiting room with Louie stretched across her lap. Several people looked at us sympathetically. One elderly woman began to sniffle and dab at her eyes with a tissue.
“Will you hold him while he gets the shot?” asked David Michael. “I want you to hold him.”