The Book

Tuesday morning, I pushed open my window. A cool breeze slid in, carrying the faint scent of pine sap. Two goldfinches hopped around in search of seeds, their butter-yellow feathers bright against the new grass. Beyond them, sunlight glittered on the lake.

Way too cheerful for exam day.

I pulled on my jeans and peach top and padded out to the living room. Our log walls kept the space dim in the morning, when the sun shone in from the east. I switched on the kitchen light. Mom hadn’t gotten up. Maybe the pain pills would help her sleep late.

Careful not to make a sound, I stacked yesterday’s dirty plates into the sink, but a commotion came from the kitchen window. Blue jays shouted in alarm.

I scanned the yard for an intruder. Sure enough, a cat scurried through the tall grass, its tail tucked against the ground.

My heart lifted. Animals always did that for me. Cats, dogs, hamsters, lemurs—it didn’t matter what kind. I pressed closer to the glass.

The cat slunk toward the house.

I yanked open the fridge and fished out the leftover chicken nuggets. Outside, I stepped down from the front porch.

Two skinny cats crouched in the brush—one a tabby and the other as black as spilled ink. They saw me and froze, poised to flee. Their worried faces made them look like lost waifs.

I stepped onto the grass, keeping my voice low. “Hi, fluffers.”

The tabby stretched out one leg. The black one vanished into a bush.

I squatted down, resting on one knee, and held out a piece of chicken. “It’s okay.” I tossed the nugget toward the tabby. “You’re safe.”

The cat sniffed the ground, inched closer, and snatched the bit, gulping it down as if he hadn’t eaten in days. His brown and black stripes brought back a warm memory inside of me—my grandma’s old tomcat—Lord Whiskers.

When I was eight, Grams and Lord Whiskers came to live with us. Some of my best times were with that big cat. We’d play hide-and-seek, or I’d sit cross-legged on the floor, feeding him canned cat food with a baby spoon. Mom laughed more back then. Smiled more, too.

Every afternoon after school, Lord Whiskers barreled down our driveway to greet me. We’d walk to the cabin together unless he caught sight of a squirrel. Then he’d take off like lightning, sprinting halfway up a tree trunk until the squirrel leapt to another branch and disappeared into the forest.

And after dinner, Grams and I would sit on the couch watching her gameshows, Lord Whiskers between us, his purrs a soft, steady hum.

When Grams’ cancer came back, things got really bad. She couldn’t get out of bed. Mom started getting drunk at night, then she’d rant about bills and even yell at Grams. Mom didn’t have the greatest bedside manner.

Lord Whiskers was different. That cat sat next to Grams’ pillow day and night. When I brought Grams her morning pills or a glass of water, he’d look up for a moment, then lay his head back down. I’d sit in the chair beside them and watch, helpless and incompetent, as Grams struggled to smile at me. She always wanted to make me feel better.

Lord Whiskers just stayed there at her side, quietly purring. Sometimes he’d graze her ear with his nose or press his forehead to her cheek. He didn’t leave her side until the very end.

A sweet, questioning mrow brought me back to the present. Two anxious yellow eyes stared up at me from the grass.

I tore apart a chicken nugget and tossed a piece on the grass. The tabby slunk a few steps closer and chomped it down.

Slowly, I held out my hand. “Can I touch you?”

He stretched his small nose toward my fingers, sniffing at my pinky with little kisses of air.

The black cat crept out from the shadows, his fur matted, his face questioning. I had to win him over.

I lobbed him a bite. “Here you go.”

The little guy twitched, his eyes fixed on the food. He licked his lips.

My breath quickened, but I didn’t dare move.

He took a step, stopped, then another. Finally, he snapped up the nugget and disappeared into the brush. A moment later, he reemerged for more, eyes shining.

I fed them what I had, happiness spreading inside me. They devoured each piece as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

When they’d finished, the tabby rubbed against my leg, back and forth like a wind-up toy. Every brush felt like a plea. Someone needed to protect these cats. If what had been following me in the woods was a bear, these cats could become its dinner.

I held out my hand. “Do you need a home?”

The black cat sized me up, his eyes still wary.

Behind me, the screen door slapped open. The cats scampered to the brush.

Mom stood on the porch, her arms folded, her messy hair falling over her army T-shirt. Her voice had that brittle edge. “Whose cats are those?”

“No one’s, Mom,” I said over my shoulder. “They don’t have a home.”

Maybe they didn’t. Cats didn’t typically stray through the yard. Except for Evan Hoffman’s house across the street, we didn’t have neighbors close by.

“Well, you better not be feeding those rats my food.” 

I sucked in air. Her words poked at something tender inside me. These two were perfect. Scared and somehow still trying. Something inside me ached to have them close, to pet them, to hold them. Ever since Lord Whiskers, I’d wanted a cat, but Mom always shut me down.

I stood and faced her, searching for a way to make her understand. None came.

“Can I have them?”

“Are you crazy? We’re not keeping those fleabags.”

I took a breath to stifle my temper. Raising my voice would backfire, that was for sure. I swallowed the angry words at the tip of my tongue and jammed them back into my chest.

“I have your skinny ass to feed,” Mom said. “One mouth is enough.” She pivoted back into the house. “Now, hurry up. You need to wash the dishes before the school bus comes.”

The screen door banged after her.

I turned to the cats, but they seemed to sense they were unwanted. The black one trotted across the yard toward the road. After a moment, the tabby loped after him. He stopped, looked back at me, and then they were gone.