Zeus, Dog of Chaos Read online

  “The fund-raising stuff is in! We’re still sorting it, but it should be ready for you to deliver to everyone who placed an order, starting tomorrow.”

  The pupils all groan, and boy, do I get it.

  Fun. Good times, like tennis balls or Frisbees.

  Razor. Getting groomed, which is never good times and involves scissors near very delicate places.

  It sounds like funrazors means all these kids are getting groomed, right here in the band room in front of each other. Mortifying!

  “I know, I know,” Mrs. S says with a flip of her wrist. The trombone player takes that as a conductor’s signal, and he plays a quick whomp-whooomp. The pupils laugh, as does Mrs. S.

  “But hey, we sold enough product this year to pay for our trip to the state band competition! Our band gets to play music longer and in front of more listeners because of all those goodies.”

  She points the chewed-up baton toward a heap of boxes near her desk, and my eyes draw a straight line from where my teeth once were to where my teeth should go next:

  Because holy wow, inside those boxes is FOOD, if the pictures on the front are correct! My nostrils open wide, and beneath layers of cardboard and packing plastic, I smell it: sausages and cheese and nuts and jellies and crackers and food of all kinds!

  I blink as my brain puts all of this new information together:

  If I destroy that food, the band can’t go to the state competition.

  If the band can’t go to state, Madden has to stop playing music.

  If I eat, they stop.

  I WAS BORN FOR THIS MISSION.

  Tomorrow, I feast.

  ★ 20 ★

  The Three of Us Win State

  Backpack + tuba + Zeus on the bus = utterances from Madden that would put those ducks to shame. (Also: I’m learning formulas in Number Pushing!)

  We clatter-clang-bang up the narrow bus steps. Jake and his buddies laugh; their odor is strong and teasing and taunting, like pizza when it’s still too hot to eat. Madden has to maneuver his tuba in front of himself, and I follow, so neither of us sees when Jake slides his foot into the aisle just before we pass.

  Madden trips. His fall is broken by his tuba case whacking into Jesus’s head. Jesus leaps up, fists balled. The bus holds its breath.

  His eyes land on Madden, who burns and fumbles dozens of “Sorry, dude. Sorry. I, uh, guess I tripped.” But Jesus’s gaze slides toward Jake’s back, his shaking shoulders. Jesus swipes at his forehead.

  This situation smells sticky as peanut butter.

  “No problem,” Jesus says at last. “You and Zeus want to sit here? I’ll hold your tuba.”

  Relief smells like hot laundry fresh from the dryer, and Madden practically explodes with the scent. “That’d be great. Thanks!”

  We squeeze in next to Jesus, and I ball up at their feet. Jesus’s left knee bounces constantly, and his scent is a big family who hug each other a lot.

  “Dude, that duet with Ashvi is fierce,” Jesus says, tapping the side of Madden’s tuba case. “All those eighth notes? That is tough.”

  Madden nods. “Easier than those sharps you have, though.”

  Jesus grins, and his smile is fast and easy. “Maybe. At least you’ll have some lungs left at the end of the show. After my trumpet solo on ‘Ode to Joy,’ I feel like I’m breathing through scuba gear.”

  They both laugh. I’m uncertain what scuba gear is, but it is apparently hilarious.

  “That solo’s going to win us state, though,” Madden says after his chuckle, and he immediately looks as though he wishes he could vacuum the words right back into his mouth. But Jesus grins wider, drums a small ditty on the side of the tuba case with his fast fingertips.

  “Thanks, dude. You nail that duet with Ashvi, and I bet Mrs. S will keep it in our lineup for state, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. That bit is smooth.”

  They chat for a few more minutes about things they are passionate about called Smash Brothers and Dori-tos. When we get to Madden’s stop, Jesus carries the tuba to the front of the bus, and he accidentally bonks it against the back of Jake’s head as we pass.

  Jesus hands the tuba case down the steps to Madden on the curb. “Me, you, and Ashvi,” he says, nodding. “Nail that duet and we got this. The three of us? We can win state for Page.”

  The bus doors screech closed, and the yellow machine disappears in a gray cloud of exhaust.

  Madden watches the bus disappear, and he chuckles like he has rocks in his throat. “The three of us, win state,” he mutters, and places his fingers lightly on the tip-top of my head. “No pressure, eh, Zeus?”

  And then Madden mutters something more shocking than stepping on a fire ant hill. He toes the sidewalk and says, “Win state. Huh. That’d be awesome.”

  He wants to win?

  He wants to be outstanding?

  Oh my. This mission just got that much harder.

  “Sorry about the bus,” the lieutenant says while getting eaten by the truck in the driveway. “I need a new alternator. This one keeps crapping out. How’s your day? Insulin levels good?”

  Madden shifts his weight, works his jaw. He smells guilty, but I don’t know why. “I’m going to set my bags down and take Zeus for a walk, okay?”

  “Roger that,” she replies, which makes me wonder if Madden’s middle name is Roger.

  Madden walks straight through the house, drops his backpack at the foot of the stairs, and strides out the back door with his tuba case in hand. We circle through the backyard and head to the pond.

  Huh. Being grounded doesn’t mean what I thought it means. By the way the lieutenant said it yesterday, I thought it was a Bad Dog for Madden. A fence, keeping him penned in.

  Ashvi is already there, and her whole self smiles and shines when she sees us.

  YOU. MUTT. BACK. SO. SOON? EAT. MY. FEATHERS, the ducks taunt me from across the pond. NICE. LEASH. LOSER.

  I wink at them. Pant. Beneath the thick glassy ice, shadows of fish lurk and slide. I can just make out the faint winter heartbeat of the frog who has buried himself in the frosty mud near the edge of the pond, and I nudge nudge nudge it with my nose.

  Ashvi and Madden sit and snack and spew orangey cracker crumbs everywhere and they take turns burning with awkwardness, which seems like an unpleasant way to pass the time. They open their instrument cases and giggle when they have to use Ashvi’s flute to dig Madden’s sheet music out of the horn of his tuba.

  Madden unclips me at last.

  I begin my haul around the pond, my paw pads instantly raw from the icy deep black mud. The ducks scream and paddle out into the water, and I laugh. Not so brave once the leash comes off, are you, now?

  But I pull up short, because there, carried on a light breeze, I detect it: Madden’s blood sugar is high. Too high. Lifting and getting higher, like a squeaky balloon.

  I spin and chase back to the bench. Madden and Ashvi have started practicing, and their twees and toots bounce across the surface of the pond like those rocks Madden likes to skip. The effort of the tuba + the cold = not great for Madden.

  I lick him. He pushes me away with his knee.

  I nudge him. He nudges me back and laughs at a face Ashvi makes.

  I circle the bench, once, twice, three times. I tickle his hand with my whiskers. Boy, do I ever wish I could bark! Ashvi offers Madden another orange cracker. He places two in his lips and quacks like those stupid ducks. NICE. LOOK. KID, the ducks scream. I paw his leg.

  “No cracker crumbs through the tuba,” Ashvi says, and Madden tosses his head back and gulps both crackers down like a pelican gulping a pair of fish.

  “So. Dry!” He laughs and spews neon-orange crumbs everywhere.

  This is serious. And I don’t just mean Madden’s severe lack of table manners.

  Madden is not listening to me.

  I know what I must do. Madden isn’t paying attention and doesn’t notice when I leave.

  Left-left-right is the
path back home, and I run it as fast as I can. Which is fast, when I’m off that short leash. The lieutenant is still in the driveway, thankfully. I lay my cold nose on her leg, and she bolts upright, her wrench clanging against the engine. An F-flat, I think of the sound it makes. I shake it off. Music, now?

  Don’t you get in my head, music!

  She blinks at me. “Zeus? Is everything . . .”

  Her eyes widen and her scent changes from motor oil to spewing volcano. “Where’s Madden, Zeus? Where is he?”

  She understands!

  I jerk my head in the direction of Madden’s scent; poor humans and their silly little downward-facing nostrils, always smelling the ground instead of out. I turn and lead her back to the pond: right-right-left. Madden and Ashvi are still on the bench, and I can smell how sky-high his blood sugar is from here. He smells like lollipops, fragile like sugary glass.

  “Madden Phillip Malone!”

  Phillip, right. His middle name is not Roger.

  Madden spins. He blinks from his mom to me, back to his mom. “Uh, hi? We were just, uh . . .”

  “What’s your blood sugar?” the lieutenant barks. She can be very doglike.

  Madden gulps, looks at the screen on his arm. “The CGM says two hundred. But, uh, I’ll double-check.”

  Madden bumbles his test kit out of his instrument case. While he’s stapling his finger, Ashvi stands.

  “Hi, Mrs. Malone,” she begins.

  “Lieutenant Malone,” the lieutenant says.

  Ashvi’s skin scalds pink as salmon. “Oh! I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m Ashvi Patel. I’m in band with Madden.” She extends her hand.

  The lieutenant eyes the hand, then grips it. “Did you know my son is a diabetic?” She tips her head to the pile of snacks between them on the bench. Madden’s embarrassment smells like burnt toast, charred and dry.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you know my son is grounded?”

  Ashvi purses her lips. She looks pained, like she’s licked a lemon. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I see.” The lieutenant whips toward Madden. “Level?”

  “Two eighty-six,” Madden replies. I pace. I don’t know what that number means, exactly, because Number Pushing hasn’t taught me about that yet, but I know Madden is unsafe, floating in sugar. He sees white; he smells like shards of rock candy sugar.

  “Did you bolus?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Madden replies. “Just now. The level should come down pretty quickly . . .”

  The lieutenant huffs her impatience. She turns to Ashvi. “What instrument do you play?”

  Ashvi blinks like sun on snow. “The flute,” she says, lamely holding her instrument up. “Madden and I were practicing our—”

  “It’s all good!” Madden leaps up, interrupting Ashvi. “Look, mom. My CGM says one ninety-three now. Almost back to the zone.” He attempts a chuckle. It sounds like the leftover flat notes played in band.

  The lieutenant’s arms are knotted across her chest, her lips are knotted across her face. I can smell her frustration, bitter and dark like coffee. “Get your tuba, Madden.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he mutters. He unscrews the bell from the body and packs it away.

  The lieutenant turns her knotted-up self toward Ashvi. “You seem like a nice kid, Ashvi. But you’re not to see my son outside of school. Not for the next two weeks. Understand?”

  Ashvi looks at the lieutenant’s shoes. They are shiny, scuff-free, smooth as the ice on our pond. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Me too. Thank goodness for Zeus, here.” At this, the lieutenant pats me roughly on the knob of my head. It is the least pleasant patting place, this knock on my skull. I wince.

  She spins and marches off. Madden picks up my vest out of the brown wintry grass and approaches me.

  “Thanks a lot, Zeus,” he mutters into my large, pointy ear as he clips my vest on. There’s something about those words: just like his blood sugar, they are plummeting in sweetness. His scent says the opposite of his words. I find him maddening all over again.

  You are welcome, I say back, and I am the opposite of him. I am earnest. I mean it. He was in danger. I’d get him in trouble with the lieutenant all over again if it means saving him.

  ★ 21 ★

  Murderous Pigs

  Days later, we study a poem in Language Arts labeled “The Pig” by a fellow named Roald Dahl. Pig is smart: he can do math and he knows things like how engines work and how airplanes fly. What Pig doesn’t know is this: Why are we all here? On Earth? What is life all about?

  I nod along, listening to pig’s plight. Yes, pig! Yes! So much to learn but WHY? But then the pig gets all murdery and he loses me. Seriously—I fear this poem might give me nightmares for weeks. But mmmm. Bacon. (That’s mentioned in the poem, too. My stomach may have announced my love for cured pork products at that point.)

  The rest of the classes are the same same same. But then comes band. Always new, always exciting. Always confusing, because band is the enemy! It cannot be enjoyable!

  “We’re going to practice outside on the bleachers today, kids,” Mrs. Shadrick announces. “We have a pep rally next week, but we can’t practice in the gym. Plus, well, it’s a balmy fifty degrees out and I want to work on my tan.”

  The kids all laugh, then bang and clatter toward the big metal door in the back of the room that leads outside.

  On the way out, many of the students sneak me a pat or a pet, and it makes me all zippy, and Madden just smiles and says nothing. “Hey, Zeus!” “Hi, Z!” “Whoossa sweet boy?” My heart is full to bursting.

  There is a huge, clangy metal structure outside, and the pupils overtake it like termites. It squeaks and squeals under their weight, and I think of Mr. Dahl’s murderous pig. I shudder.

  “Madden, make sure that door is propped open, okay?” Mrs. S yells across the field to him. “We don’t want to get locked out!”

  Madden jams a rubber stopper under the door and dashes to go find his spot on the bleachers.

  I blink and peer back inside the quiet classroom.

  There, lined up along the far wall: the FUND-RAISERS.

  This is my chance! Destroy the fund-raisers, destroy the music.

  I glance back at the musicians, but they’re all eyes on Mrs. S, tiptoeing into their songs. Their music sounds so different outside, like it’s climbing to the clouds.

  I crouch.

  I flatten myself, stiffen my tail.

  This gives me camouflage. I have a hard time breaking down that label, camouflage, but it has moo in it, and cows are the most polite animals you’ll ever meet, so it has to be pretty good, right? Every dog has this camouflage superpower: crouch and tuck.

  I sneeeeeeak inside.

  My toenails echo on the cold, hard floor. I weave through the chairs and music stands.

  I sniff the boxes—assorted meats and cheeses. It’s the best thing about humans, really: their ability to make food like this.

  I make quick work of the cardboard, rapidly chewing boxes into pulpy mulch. The plastic is not as much fun; it tastes like chemicals and oil, and it becomes overly slick from my own slobber. But I gnaw it apart bit by bit and spit it out—patoo—and eventually hit: YES.

  Gooey yellow cheese. Mmmm, delicious fermented cow udder secretions.

  Crunchy, hearty almonds. Mmmmm, earth nuts.

  Fruit. I skip that.

  Salty, springy sausage. Mmmmm, fat and pork pieces, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty because not only am I destroying music here, but the world has one less murderous pig in it thanks to this hunk of meat. My teeth pop through the skin of the sausage and I chew and drool, drool and chew.

  I do this again and again. Whew, these kids sure know how to fund-raise. There are boxes and boxes to go. But I can do this. I can defeat these meats and meat by-products.

  My belly starts to ache, but I cannot be deterred. I am thirsty beyond belief, but I cannot be deterred. My chin dri
ps with drool, my jaws grow tired, my tongue feels like sandpaper. I CANNOT BE DETERRED.

  Suddenly, a pupil laughs right outside the door. “I just figured out how to do a thing,” she says, and she blows a note into her instrument that sounds low and belly-gurgling, like a bullfrog. The door swings wide, painting the room with sunlight and cool air and the scent of grass and kid sweat.

  The pupils push forward, making all the noise of a middle school band, but they screech to a halt.

  They push more.

  They stop again.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It stinks in here! Is that—oh!”

  They’re all looking at me.

  I smile. A glob of slobber-coated cheese drips off my jowls.

  Madden works his way to the front of the crowd and stops when he sees me. His face is this math formula: embarrassment + anger.

  I don’t understand why he’s not thanking me; they all groaned so loud every time fund-raisers were mentioned. But I go ahead and repeat what I said yesterday: You’re welcome, Madden. YOU ARE WELCOME.

  ★ 22 ★

  This Won’t Do at All

  Can you see me?” Madden adjusts one of his blue screens, propping it against a book on his desk. Ashvi’s smiling face is there. Ashvi! I wag, but I don’t think she can see my happy tail.

  “Yes!” she says. “See? FaceTime is gonna work just fine for practice. We’ll nail this duet, and then Mrs. S will ask us to play it at state.”

  Madden cracks his knuckles under his desk, where Ashvi can’t see them. Snap snap POP! My whiskers twitch; he’s as nervous as a cat walking a fence. “It’ll be great.”

  Ashvi is here, but she’s not here, no scent of her anywhere, and I spin to try to find her in this room. Nope, just the slightest glimpse of my tricky tail. And the other direction: nope, still my almost tail. I’m confused, so I whine. Madden doesn’t notice; he’s wincing as his tuba rests on his insulin pump, grunting under its weight.

  As they shimmy up to their instruments, Ashvi clears her throat. “Zeus really did a number on that fund-raising stuff.”

  Madden stiffens, his scent tight and uncomfortable like crusty tree bark. He gulps, and I sense that he’s trying to puzzle out what to say.