Masks #11 Read online

  I wave them away. “I’m not afraid of animals,” I say.

  She hands them back to me. “Use them anyway. Some of these animals are sick. The lab doesn’t want its employees taking any chances.”

  Wearing the heavy gloves, I go from tank to tank. The little guys are really cute. There’s a tank of longhaired calico hamsters that are so pretty. Another tank has three lop-eared bunnies that are just too adorable. Then I come to a tank of five white rats. People think of rats as being dirty, but these rats are clean and full of personality. Their pink noses twitch and they look up at me with their trusting eyes, eager for their food.

  I forget all about why these animals are here and just enjoy feeding them, picking them up and stroking their fur. One rat with a slightly bent whisker is especially friendly. He sniffs my glove and then curls up as if he’s getting ready to sleep in my palm. Gently, I return him to his tank.

  Julie comes back after about fifteen minutes. “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Good,” I reply.

  When my shift at the lab is over, I unlock my bike and ride out to the street. As I near Dr. Mac’s Place, I spot Brenna, David, and Maggie walking to mask-making class. I don’t want them to be mad at me. I need to fix yesterday’s fight. I can’t go through everything I have to face—Mittens, working at the lab—without my friends. Pedaling fast, I catch up to them. “Hey, guys!” I call out. “Wait.”

  “I thought you were at the lab,” Brenna says coldly as I brake beside them.

  I ignore her tone. I’m not in the mood to fight. “I just finished,” I tell her.

  “Well, how was it?” Maggie asks.

  “The people were all very nice to me,” I say.

  “Forget the people!” Brenna says passionately. “What about the animals? It’s as though they’re in jail there—and on death row! Only they aren’t guilty of doing anything wrong. Don’t you think they have rights, too?”

  “Of course animals have rights,” I agree.

  “Then how can you be a part of what goes on there?” Brenna asks, shaking her head forlornly.

  “It’s a medical research lab,” I say, repeating what Dr. Mac told us the other day. “The research there is done to find new cures and treatments for sick animals. That’s a good thing.”

  “There’s a laugh!” Brenna chimes in. “Killing animals to save them. Figure the logic of that!”

  “Oh, give Sunita a break!” Maggie says. “Let her make up her own mind on the subject. Besides, didn’t Gran say that those labs are needed to make new medicines for animals?”

  “Yes, she said that,” Brenna replies. “And I think there has to be another way to do it without killing poor defenseless animals.”

  “Why were you at school so late?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  “We stayed to play basketball in the gym. Now we’re going to the mask-making class,” David says. “Are you coming?”

  “Well, it depends,” I say. “Do you know how Mittens is doing?”

  “Slightly better,” Maggie says. “I called Gran to tell her we’d be at school till late and I asked about Mittens. She told me Mittens’ fever is a hundred and two.”

  I nod. “Then I’ll come to class and see her after.”

  The walk to Michaela’s house is quiet and uncomfortable. Brenna acts icy and clearly mad at me. Maggie is just quiet and thoughtful. David tries to keep up the conversation, but it isn’t easy to act normal when it’s only he and I talking.

  At class we continue to work on the wire framework for our masks. Several times I look up and catch Michaela watching me. When our eyes meet, she doesn’t seem embarrassed. “Nice work,” she simply says.

  I ask Michaela for permission to call home. My mother had wanted me to check in when I got to the mask-making class. Michaela directs me to the wall phone in the kitchen. As I leave my message on the answering machine at home, I have the oddest feeling of being watched. I look over at Michaela, but she’s helping David with his wire work. Then I glance at the picture window in the kitchen and see the matted black cat sitting on the outside windowsill, staring in—staring directly at me.

  Is it Michaela’s cat? I look around to ask her, but she’s not there.

  I hurry to the kitchen door. I’m determined now to catch that cat. I want to cut all those matted clumps out of its fur—to brush it, to feed it, to de-skunk it. I’d make sure to be careful and not do anything to endanger this creature. It would be my final animal rescue.

  I open the back door and look out at the cat. It peers at me with those amazing green eyes. I take a step outside the door. In a flash, it jumps off the sill and darts into the woods behind Michaela’s house. I walk a few more steps into the yard, searching. The cat has, once again, disappeared.

  Chapter Eight

  On Wednesday I leave the house early so I can check on Mittens. When I arrive, Dr. Mac is sitting in the waiting room doing paperwork. She looks up at me and smiles softly, but her eyes are worried. “Her fever’s gone back to a hundred and four,” she tells me before I even ask.

  “Why aren’t the antibiotics working?” I ask.

  “You know how it is, Sunita,” Dr. Mac replies. “You can’t always predict how an animal will react to medication. Peritonitis is a serious infection. I’ve changed her antibiotic to one that’s stronger. We may have to take her back to surgery and put in a drain. A drain is a little rubber tube inserted into the abdomen that allows infected fluid to drain out of the abdomen and sterile fluids, or even antibiotics, to be flushed in. The drain can be removed when the infection is under control.”

  “Can I see her?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Dr. Mac agrees. Mittens’ cage is by the window. That’s nice of Dr. Mac to give her sunshine and a view. She’s sleeping all curled into a ball.

  When I unlatch the cage, Mittens raises her head a little and looks up at me miserably. I wonder if she blames me. Could she possibly think I hurt her on purpose?

  She extends one of her paws, and I cover it with my hand. She licks my hand with her small, dry tongue. At least she doesn’t hate me.

  Mittens tries to meow but it comes out like a pathetic croak. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  Maggie comes into the room. “The new medicine will help,” she says.

  “I hope so,” I say.

  She comes to my side and pets Mittens. “Gran will do everything she can,” Maggie says.

  I blink back tears and nod.

  In science today, I’m scolded for not knowing the lab instructions the teacher has just given. My math teacher stops me after class to ask if I’m all right. “You were a million miles away,” she says. The worst of it comes in gym, when I’m hit in the shoulder with the basketball because I’m standing on the court not paying one bit of attention.

  In English our teacher shows us a video of the play Les Misérables. In the beginning of that play, a man goes to jail for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving family. “Is it all right to break a rule if you have a good reason?” my teacher asks us after we’ve viewed the first act of the play.

  I recall Brenna’s words about animal rights. I raise my hand and say, “Maybe it could be all right to break a rule if you did it because someone’s rights were being violated. What if you freed a person who was being held captive unjustly?”

  The teacher asks my classmates what they think. Everyone agrees that freeing an unjustly captured person would be the right thing to do.

  “Who determines what ‘unjust’ means?” my teacher asks.

  Hmmm. Brenna thinks it’s unjust to do medical testing on animals. But Dr. Mac thinks it’s sad but necessary—a few animals die so that lots more can live. I raise my hand. “I guess it can mean different things to different people,” I say. But what does it mean to me?

  School’s finally out, and I get on my bike to go over to AVM. At the lab, Julie smiles when I arrive. “You can start by giving all the rodents fresh water and food,” she says. “Then I’ll show you w
here we keep the cats and the monkeys. You can start caring for them, too.”

  She hands me a white lab jacket. I feel sort of cool in it, like a real scientist. Even though washing and refilling water bottles isn’t exactly hard-core science, I enjoy it because the animals are so cute.

  In the tank, three white rats sleep huddled together and two scurry around. One of them—my little pal with the bent whisker—comes right over and stretches up, as if he wants to say hi. I push the lid aside and lift him out. As he sniffs my gloved hand, his nose twitches. “Hi, cutie,” I say softly. “I don’t have any food for you now, just water, but I’ll come back with food.”

  He sniffs the air and looks around, as if wondering where I’ll be getting this food. His little eyes sparkle alertly.

  John, a researcher I met yesterday, walks by. “Don’t get too attached to those guys,” he says.

  “Why not?” I ask. “Are they being…killed?”

  He nods. “They’ve been genetically altered to be diabetic. Two have been given an experimental drug and two haven’t. We’ll put them all down, then dissect them to compare how the drug has affected their internal organs. If we get the results we expect, we’ll conduct the experiment on a larger population of rats to double-check.”

  John grabs a stack of petri dishes and leaves. The little guy in my hand hasn’t understood a word of this. He rests his paw on my finger and looks up at me. He trusts me so much—and he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know that I’m standing here, learning that he’s about to be killed, and I’m not doing anything to stop it. I feel so guilty. It’s horrible!

  I remember our discussion in English class today. Would it be fair to say that this little rat is an unjustly captured creature?

  After finishing at AVM, I grab my bike and ride to Michaela’s barn. It’s cold, so I make myself small and tight inside my jacket. The wind blows my hair all around my face. Tree branches whip into one another and throw long shadows. There’s something spooky about October, even without Halloween being at the end of it. Maybe that’s why they put a scary holiday in October in the first place.

  It’s almost dark. I think of stories I’ve heard, about how people once thought witches actually turned into black cats. What if that cat really was the woman who moved in down the street? I smile at the silly idea. It would be kind of cool, though—to be able to walk around town as a cat, then hop on a broomstick and fly.

  Pretty soon I see lights from Michaela’s windows. We’re having our third mask-making session today. I haven’t decided yet what kind of mask I want to make. I’m almost to Michaela’s door when a black streak races in front of me. I hit my brakes, hard. It’s the stray. I try to see where it’s running to, but it’s too dark and shadowy.

  “That’s twice!” David says, coming up from behind me with Maggie and Brenna.

  For a second I look at Brenna, but she turns away coldly. Maggie waves.

  “You’ve been crossed by a black cat two times,” David reminds me, sounding as if this is a big deal. “How’s your luck been?”

  “Not great,” I admit.

  It is pretty weird how my luck has gotten so bad since the black cat first crossed my path. Now what does this second crossing mean—is more bad luck coming my way? What if a second crossing reverses the luck, making it good?

  This can’t possibly be me thinking this!

  The other kids we know from school are already in Michaela’s big main room. Michaela—dressed today in loose black pants and an oversized purple velour shirt—is showing them something. As we sit at the table, I see what she has. It’s another mask of the black stray.

  This one is larger and much more beautiful than the one on the wall. Instead of being covered in fur, this mask has been fired with a black glaze. Michaela has created the cat’s wild, swirling fur by twisting and molding the clay into fine points. The eyes are green and luminous.

  “Hello,” Michaela greets us. “I was just explaining that recently a fabulous animal, an amazing cat, has come into my life. It’s such a magical creature, and it intrigues me. You will see that I’ve already done one mask of it there on the wall.” She nods toward the one I spotted on Monday.

  “Told you,” I whisper to my friends.

  “I’ve decided I’m not pleased with that smaller mask,” she goes on. “The fur is all wrong. It makes it silly, like a stuffed toy. So I’m having a second try at it. This is clay, which I like better for this particular subject because it has an earthiness that befits this cat. If any of you continue to work on masks after this workshop, I urge you to think about what medium is best for your subject, as it really is an important decision.”

  She gathers up some burlap from the floor at her feet and drapes it over her creation. We sort through the pile of wire mask frames Michaela has placed on the table. Michaela goes to her kitchen and begins mixing a powder with water. For a moment I can picture her as a witch working on a potion.

  She looks up sharply. “Papier-mâché,” she explains, as if she’s heard my thoughts. “Some of you will be ready for it today.”

  “You’re blushing,” Maggie whispers to me. “What’s going on?”

  I realize I’m embarrassed because I feel Michaela has caught me thinking she’s a witch! Of course that’s totally goofy.

  “Nothing’s going on,” I answer Maggie. “It’s just warm in here.”

  Brenna glances over at us. When I look back at her, she quickly looks down at her wire work.

  As I work, I think about Michaela and the black cat. It must be her pet. But if she loves it so much, why would she let it get so ragged and matted? I feel angry at her for neglecting her pet. I decide to ask Michaela why she doesn’t take better care of it.

  When the other kids start packing up to leave, I dawdle until they’re all gone. The idea of confronting Michaela makes me jittery, but I have to say something to her about how she’s neglecting that cat or I’ll never feel right about myself.

  I glance around, looking for Michaela. She’s gone. Maybe she’s gone outside.

  When I push open the back door to look for her, something seems to push back. I force the door open and am blown by a strong gust. A light over the door makes a pool of yellow and casts the rest of the yard in gray shadow.

  Meow.

  I look toward the sound and see Michaela several yards away—on all fours, making meowing cat sounds! I step closer, wondering what she’s doing. She keeps crawling and meowing among the bushes. The trees behind her rustle in the wind. Michaela crawls in so far that I can’t see her.

  Then something moves. It’s the black stray running from the bushes back toward the house. Michaela has turned into the stray! I know that’s insane—but it’s what my eyes are telling me!

  Chapter Nine

  The shrubbery moves again, and Michaela emerges. She stands, and I feel my face flushing with embarrassment. I’m glad she can’t see me. How could I have thought even for a second that she had turned into a cat? What’s happening to me?

  She walks slowly toward me. “Can you catch that cat?” she asks me softly.

  The black cat pauses between us. It looks from side to side, realizing that we’re closing in on it.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” I coax.

  While it’s looking at me, Michaela moves toward it from behind, closer and closer. But the cat turns, sees her, and bolts off into the woods. Michaela and I exchange a look of defeat and frustration. If it’s her cat, wouldn’t it come right to her?

  “That cat’s coat is in terrible condition,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, tossing her wild hair back over her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to catch it for weeks. I leave food for it every night.” She nods toward a plate of cat food and a bowl of water over by the corner of her house.

  I was wrong about her. This isn’t her cat and she hasn’t been mistreating it at all. Instead, she’s been trying to help it. I’m so glad I didn’t get a chance to confront her. I would have felt like an idiot when I disc
overed the truth.

  “This cat isn’t the least bit friendly. It just eats and runs,” she continues as she goes back inside the house. “It’s definitely on its own. I’d like to bring it in on Halloween. I’ve heard that people should keep their cats in on that night.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing,” I say as I follow her. “If we could catch it, I could cut those clumps from its fur. Otherwise the clumps will spread over its whole body.”

  She sits on a chair in the kitchen and gestures for me to sit, too. “I was planning to brush her,” she says. “It would probably be difficult, though.”

  I sit beside her. “I’ve done it before at the clinic,” I say.

  “That place up the road?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I tell her about Dr. Mac’s Place and how my friends and I volunteer there. “Well, I used to volunteer there,” I correct myself. “I’m not sure I will anymore.” I tell her how I’ve started the lab internship at AVM. “And now Brenna’s disappointed and angry with me. She thinks it’s unethical of me to work in a place with lab animals.”

  “You’re having a shift,” Michaela says.

  I look up, curious. “What do you mean?”

  She speaks slowly, as though she wants to choose her words carefully. “Sometimes in life, people go through a period of time when they move from one way of being to a different way,” she explains. “It’s a time when you feel a lot of confusion and you don’t know who you are. You might not even recognize the feelings you have and words you say as being your own.”

  “That is exactly what I’ve been feeling!” I say excitedly. “Why is this happening?”

  “Because you’re ready for it to happen.”

  “How will I change?”

  Michaela laughs lightly. “I have absolutely no idea. It’s different for everyone. The change might take a long time. You have to pay attention.”