Hotel for Dogs by Lois Duncan ch 8-2
That day at lunchtime, when Andi was unloading her tray at the corner table in the cafeteria where she usually sat and read, she was surprised to find another tray suddenly placed beside her own.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Debbie Austin asked her.
Debbie had not tried to speak to her since asking her to play double jump rope in the school yard, and Andi could not imagine why she was doing so now.
“Sit wherever you want,” she said.
Debbie was unloading her tray and did not seem to notice the ungraciousness.
“I had to talk to you,” she said, “after this morning and what Miss Crosno said about your poem. Before, I thought you were just unfriendly, but I didn't know you were a poet. That makes it different. I mean, lots of poets don't play jump rope and things.” “I do play jump rope,” Andi said. “I didn't know that's what you meant by ‘Double Trouble. '“ “Why didn't you say so?” Debbie sat down across from her and regarded her solemnly. “The thing I wanted to tell you is — now don't repeat this to anybody, I don't want the other kids to think I'm a nerd — but I write poetry, too.” “You do!” Andi said. It never had occurred to her that other girls ever wrote poetry.
“I have a whole notebook of poems at home,” Debbie said. “I keep it hidden under my bed so my brother won't see it. He says only dweebs write poetry.” “That's not so,” Andi said. “It takes very bright people to be poets. Think of Shakespeare and people like that. Besides, you're not a dweeb. You're very popular.” “Well, yes,” Debbie admitted. “I guess you could say that. Still, I don't have anybody I can talk to — I mean really talk to — about things that matter. Most of my friends feel just like my brother does. I don't want people to think I'm weird.” “I personally don't mind it,” Andi said. Then she paused and added more honestly, “Well, yes, I do mind it some. It would be nice to be popular. Maybe I will be, now that I've stopped writing.” “What do you write about?” Debbie asked. “I mean, what did you write about back when you were a poet?” “Sad things mostly,” Andi said. “My last poem, the one I sent to the Journal, was about shipwrecks.” She drew a deep breath and quoted: Death owns a ship that roams the seas, A ship that the boldest seamen dread. It's made of the air and the clouds and the storm, And its cargo is the dead. “Wow!” Debbie's eyes widened in admiration, and she gave a shudder. “That's the goriest thing I've ever heard. I don't see how any magazine could help but buy it!” “Well, they didn't,” Andi said. “I'm practically eleven now, and I can't be spending all my time on something that isn't bringing any success. Especially now when I've got to start finding ways to earn money, because Friday isn't getting half the nice things Red Rover is getting and —” She stopped herself in horror and clamped her mouth closed tight. “Who is Friday?” Debbie asked, exactly as Tim had the first day he came to the hotel.
Perhaps it was the thought of Tim's question that did it, Tim's question and the memory of Bruce's answer, “Of course he won't tell.” What right had Bruce had to decide whether or not Tim could be trusted when she herself had not decided? Why should Bruce be able to pick out a friend and make him a member of the hotel staff when she, Andi, didn't? Two boys and one girl — it wasn't a fair balance. How could the girl ever hope to have anything her way as long as the boys outnumbered her? But if there were two girls — Thoughtfully, Andi regarded the girl across the table from her. Debbie was certainly not a blabbermouth. If she were, she never would have kept the fact that she was a poet from all of her friends.
“Can you keep a secret?” Andi asked.
“Of course.” Debbie's voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned forward eagerly. “Is it about a poem?” “No,” Andi said. “It's Friday. She's a dog, and Red Rover's a dog, and there are three others who are just puppies. My brother and I are running a hotel for them.” “A hotel!” Debbie exclaimed. “You mean you take homeless dogs off the streets and give them a place to stay?” “Something like that,” Andi said. Debbie's face was aglow with excitement. “That's awesome! Do you suppose — oh, Andi, does the hotel have an extra room for another guest?” “It has all sorts of rooms,” Andi said. “There's a whole second floor. But what other guest are you thinking about?” “MacTavish,” said Debbie. “Who?” Now it was Andi's turn to look blank. “That's the black-and-white dog who always hangs around the school grounds. He used to belong to a boy who went to school here, but last summer the boy's family moved and they didn't take MacTavish with them.” Andi was horrified. “You mean they left him here to starve?” “Oh, he doesn't starve,” Debbie said. “All the kids feed him, and he sits outside the cafeteria at lunchtime and the ladies who do the cooking put out scraps for him. The thing is, it's starting to get cold now. What will he do when winter comes and he doesn't have a warm place to go?” “Isn't there anybody who wants him?” Andi asked. She thought of the careful plans her own family had made to leave Bebe with the Arquettes. How could people possibly get into a car and drive off without making any kind of arrangements to have their pets cared for?
“Couldn't you take him?” she asked. “If only,” Debbie said wistfully. “But my mother has a cat. Fluffy is a very special, blue-ribbon Persian, and she hates dogs. If we got one, Mom is afraid Fluffy might run away.” “Isn't there anyone else who might want him?” Andi asked the question, but her mind was flying ahead of her. It was moving on wings down the hallway that led from Friday's pink bedroom, past the family room where Red Rover stayed, and up the stairs to the second-floor hall where a whole row of doors opened into unused bedrooms. I wonder, she thought, if a black-and-white dog would like blue wallpaper better than green?
