Audrey Vernick - After the Worst Thing Happens

When I was little and woke from a bad dream, Id climb out of bed and walk through the dark hallway to my parents room. I would push the door open silently and stand there in the blackness, staring at where I knew my mother was sleeping. Before long, shed wake up and get out of bed and lead me to my room. Shed listen while I told her about the monster or quicksand or swampy lake that had scared me until I fell back asleep.

I never knew how to explain why my mom would wake up just because I was standing there looking at her in the darkness. I guess I thought it was some kind of magic.

These days Im the one who gets stared awake. By my dog, my perfect dog, Maybe.

He doesnt make a sound. Doesnt even move. But in the morning, Maybe stares me awake from his bed. I know now its not magic, but what is it? A link, a bond? It must be some invisible thread that connects us.

And as much as I love to sleep, especially under piles of blankets, I never mind being wakened by sweet Maybe. He is a fluffy little white mop of love, who wakes up, stays still, and stares. When I finally look his way, he starts stamping his front two paws with impatience until I swing my feet from bed to floor. Then he bursts from his bed to help me start the day, tail wagging with excitement. Once I reach for the leash, he has a helicopter tail going, full circles. Pure joy.

So even though I wasnt born a morning person, I love our seven-thirty walks around the block. Its Monday and early in October. Leaves have just started to fall from trees, but it doesnt feel like autumn. This year, the warm weather is holding on for dear life and as a summer lover, I am completely in favor of this.

We cross to the other side of the street and I hear Mrs. Rooney calling my name.

Army, sweetheart, can you come here for just a minute? Maybe and I meet her on the patch of curb grass in front of her house. She bends down and pets Maybe.

Ive been helping her and Mr. Rooney pack up their house into boxes. They have so much stuff. There is no way anyone on this earth has as much stuff as they do. I wanted to give you these, she says, placing a pair of soft red mittens in my hand. Though its been so warm, its hard to imagine itll ever be cold in New Jersey again.

Even before I helped Mrs. Rooney pack, she used to invite me over for tea and cookies and ask me to help ball her yarn. Id sit facing her, the skein of wool stretched between my two hands, while she rolled it into a ball. Her grandkids live in Maine, where shes moving now, and she knits for them all the time.

I thought these were for Addie, I say.

Mrs. Rooney shrugs in a guilty-looking way and says, I lied. And then she laughs.

She pulls me close to her and says, You think of me when you wear those mittens and promise me you wont feel bad when you lose one, because thats the thing with mittens. You will lose one. Just keep the other as a memory of me. And our lovely afternoons together.

Mrs. Rooney and I already said goodbye yesterday, so this is especially hard. A second goodbye. Thank you, I say. Ill miss you.

And I will miss you, Army. Thanks for being such a good neighbor.

I might start crying but Maybe tugs on the leash and I really do need to get this walk done so I can get ready for school before the bus comes. We head around the corner to Mr. Hoffarts house. The newspapers waiting, as it always is, at the top of his sloping driveway. I pick it up and fast-walk to his front door, where I leave it for him, next to the giant wire reindeer that has become an all-seasons decoration the last couple of years.

Mr. Hoffarts kind of old and very wobbly and Im almost sure he has won an award for walking more slowly than any other person on earth has ever walked. He was a slow walker before he broke his ankle on a patch of ice last winter, and it always makes me nervous to think of the slow walk he has to take all the way to the top of his drivewaywhich isnt only uphill, but kind of bumpy with cracks too. And theneven worseback down to his house. So Maybe and I bring his paper to his front door every morning.

He has no idea its me. I like being a secret part of his everyday life.

We head home, where I grab a breakfast bar from the pantry, thinking about doing all the usual stuffshower, double-check backpack for homework, make lunch, avoid Maybes eyes. If it were up to Maybe, I would never leave the house without him. I would be homeschooled, homebound, home-everythinged.

This morning my parents, who have to meet with a subcontractor all the way out in Orangeboro, dropped my nine-year-old brother, Navy, at school early, because he needs extra help with math. So Im home alone, which doesnt happen often enough.

I get ready fast so I can do my favorite thing that I will never admit is my favorite thing because its something I started doing when I was six and perhaps not the most mature thing a girl twice that age should still be doing. When no one is around, Maybe and I play wild animal race in the hall. I get down on all fours and chase him and let him chase me and sometimes Maybe gets so excited he starts barking and cant stop and thats usually when I go grab one of his favorite treats from the orange tin next to the fridge to quiet him.

Its silly and ridiculous and one of the most fun things ever because I manage to not think about anything but being an animal. I wonder if thats why my connection to Maybe is so strongbecause I get down on all fours with him whenever I can.

And now hes racing with his ropy ZippyPaws dog in his mouth, and he flies upstairs and hes faster than me, which is ridiculous because how can a body so little move so fast? But I race him into my room and he stands at my bed, drops ZippyPaws dog, and barks.

What? I ask. Like hes going to answer.

He waits for me to understand. I look on the bed. A mess, and a reminder to make it, so thank you, Maybe. What else? I look under the bed, which is so awful that if my mother ever looked there she might I cant even imagine, honestly.

But Maybes never wrong. He barks for a reason. Todays reason: tennis ball, wedged into an old sneaker under my bed. It barely fits in his mouth, but he trots away and our game is over, no need for orange-tin treats. I get my stuff together and walk to the corner to wait for the school bus.

I watch Mr. and Mrs. Rooney taking pictures of each other in front of their house.