One step at a time
In the Herriot Room, Dr. Mac handles the ducklings, turns them over and makes comforting little clicking noises at them. She works slowly and checks each of them from bill to tail. One after another, she places them back in the stainless steel box on the exam table. I’ve put a towel in the bottom of the box. Dr. Mac says that they’ll have firmer footing that way. But none of them is doing anything but lying still and breathing.
“Brenna, it’s a good thing you kids found them. All three are weak. And this last one,” she says, holding the one I was worried about, “is in very bad shape. Let’s get them some water first.”
Dr. Mac prepares a shallow dish of cool water with a little sugar mixed in. The ducklings stick their bills into the water, lift their heads slightly, and slurp it down right away. But the one we’re most worried about does not. Dr. Mac makes a note on her chart.
I whisper, “You can do it.” The duckling just blinks. Then it dips its bill into the water and drinks. Yes!
Collect All the Vet Volunteers Books
Fight for Life
Homeless
Trickster
Manatee Blues
Say Good-bye
Storm Rescue
Teacher’s Pet
Trapped
Fear of Falling
Time to Fly
Masks
End of the Race
New Beginnings
Acting Out
Helping Hands
Treading Water
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First published in the United States of America by Puffin Books,
an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Laurie Halse Anderson
Title page photo copyright © Bob Krasner, 2011
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE
ISBN 978-1-101-63529-2
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Contents
One Step at a Time
Title Page
All the Vet Volunteers Books
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Special Excerpt from Homeless
Chapter One
I click the remote, and my next wildlife photo brings “Aww”s from the audience. It’s a good photo of the cutest kit—or baby fox—ever. I turn away from the screen to face the Ambler High School Outdoor Club. The twenty students are all older and way cooler than the kids at my middle school. This classroom is bigger than any we have there. Even the AV equipment here is amazing. They have a projector system that hooks right up to my computer, and it was super easy to figure out how to use. So the flip-flops of my stomach aren’t over the unfamiliar equipment but the unfamiliar audience.
I didn’t expect to be so nervous. My older brother, Sage, went here for four years, plus the high school is just on the other side of the parking lot from the middle school, so I’m familiar with the building. But today, it seems like a whole different world. I gave this presentation just last week to my middle school’s Environmental Club, but over there, it was like talking to a bunch of first graders. A few of the boys kept playing with a globe every time the faculty adviser left the room—which was way too often. They’d take the globe off the stand and toss it around like a basketball. Some of the girls thought this was funny and egged them on. Others pretended not to notice and whispered back and forth to their friends. Even my friend David goofed around with his buddy Bruce. Nobody really listened to me, I barely got through the presentation, and we didn’t get much else done at all.
So I jumped at the chance to be able to speak to older, more civilized kids. I thought I’d be just fine talking to students who are only a few grades ahead of me. But now that I’m here, I’m worried that I look like a little kid. I’m worried they’ll think they shouldn’t have invited me. And that my photos aren’t good enough to show. I take in a deep breath. At least I know they’ll like this one.
Focused pale-copper baby-fox face in the foreground and spring-green grasses in a perfectly blurred background. I hear a few more “aww”s from the back of the room. If they like this one, wait until they see the next one. I click.
Cheers and claps erupt. This photo is one of my best. I used to take pictures on my phone’s camera, but one day my dad told me I had a “good eye” and surprised me with a real camera. The pictures I can get are so much better than the ones on my phone. I’ve saved money and bought special lenses to get even better shots. And I’m still learning.
In this photo, three fox kits tumble in the grass as the sunlight turns the tips of their copper fur bright orange. It’s as if each one is being chased by the sun. As action shots go, it’s a winner. I feel myself blush. I don’t want to seem too full of myself, but everyone wants to talk about this shot.
“Brenna, did you just sit out there all day to get that picture? Like, did you know they were gonna play like that?” a boy in front asks.
Before I can answer him, the girl beside him asks, “Yeah, were you lucky, or are the kits that comfortable around you?”
I think a moment. “A little of both,” I begin. “To get wildlife shots like this, I do a lot of waiting. A lot of sitting. Or leaning. Or balancing in weird positions alongside streams, and cliffs, or in trees. I’m learning to wait for good lighting. And I wait for the wildlife to appear.”
I take a sip from my water bottle and continue, “But in this case, I didn’t want the kits’ mother—who, remember, is recovering from a broken leg and is stressed out—to see me. So I sat behind the enclosure. . . .”
I click back to an earlier photo to remind them of the setup we have at our family’s wildlife rehabilitation center. I stop at the one that shows the small wooden coop with the high chicken-wire fencing around it.
“When I’m sitting behind the coop, the mother can’t see me, but she can keep an eye on her kits. I’d been watching several afternoons, and I knew that this was an active time for the kits. I had clipped some fencing to stick my camera lens through—I didn’t want the chicken wire in the shot. I paid attention to the sunlight, and I was ready when the sun was at this fantastic angle to really light up those kits. So yes, to answer your question: it was both. Lucky that they were out tumbling in the clear late afternoon. But I had already put in plenty of time paying attention to the sun and to where the kits liked to play. So I was ready to get lucky. Does that make sense?”
Heads nod. A boy in the
back shoots me a thumbs-up. This is so cool. I’m enjoying this presentation much more than I expected. When the Ambler High School Outdoor Club asked me to speak on the Save Our Streams Cleanup Day that I organized with my fellow Vet Volunteers, I was not sure I wanted to do it. High school kids can seem so, well, intimidating. But then, Maggie Mackenzie, Dr. Mac’s granddaughter and one of my best friends, said she’d do the presentation with me. We came up with my slide show. We made notes about who would talk about which part of that day. And Dr. Mac even let us borrow some of the equipment from her veterinary office. I have examples of bandages, splints, and Edwardian collars—otherwise known as cones—that Dr. Mac uses with injured animals. Maggie was supposed to talk about all that.
But Maggie called last night and told me her teacher said she had to stay after school to retake a test.
“She’s giving me a second chance for a better grade. I can’t pass it up,” Maggie had explained.
I wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t blame her. It was too late to get Sunita, David, Josh, or Jules to step in. And Zoe already had plans to go shopping. So here I am. Just me.
I’m not feeling nearly as nervous now. It’s so much easier talking to kids who don’t fool around and who actually listen. A girl dressed in a tie-dye shirt and a long skirt has a question. “Do you get to play with those adorable foxes anytime you want, or are there only certain times of the day that are okay?”
“Oh no, we’re never allowed to play with the animals,” I say.
She looks surprised. “Well, I don’t mean actual playing, I guess. But handling?”
“Those fox kits are healthy. It’s their mother who needed medical care. So she does have to be handled occasionally. Her wounds have to be checked for healing. We have to be sure she isn’t showing signs of infection. But we try to observe her as much as we can to assess her health. Only when we absolutely need to do we handle her.”
“Are you afraid she would bite you?” asks tie-dye girl.
“No, it’s not that. We don’t want her to get too used to humans. We expect to release her back into the wild. And that’s even more true for her kits. If they became tame, they might be in danger in the wild.”
“And why is that?” another girl asks.
“They’d be likely to approach people. Which would make them more likely to get hit by cars, or to get shot at by people who assume they’re rabid. It’s safer that they remain as wild as possible when they’re in our care. So we keep out of their sight. They’re confined in this pen with their mother, but we do everything we can to be invisible to them. Even when we bring food, we don’t let them see us. We don’t want them to associate people with food.”
“I never thought about that,” tie-dye girl says.
I glance at the clock. I have only a couple minutes left, and I want to present one more idea before I go.
“We’re hoping to have another Save Our Streams Cleanup Day in late summer. Maybe some of you would like to volunteer?” I suggest. I hold up the handouts that I’ve prepared with the details of our Environmental Club that meets at the middle school. The handouts also have my blog address and bullet points about the next Save Our Streams Cleanup Day.
Nick, the one who invited me to speak, and the president of the club, speaks up. “I think we oughta do it as a club. It’s certainly in keeping with our mission.” He picks up the stack of handouts and starts passing them around the room.
“I’m in Philadelphia this summer doing an internship,” one boy says.
“And I’m a summer exchange student in Denmark,” the girl in front of me says.
“I’ll be working full time at the Dairy Bar,” says another.
“Come on,” the flannel-shirt boy by the door says to the girl beside him. “You won’t work twenty-four hours a day at the dairy.” He turns to me. “Is it a weekend sort of thing? An all-day commitment? How long will it take?”
“With enough volunteers, it only takes a half day. We’ve done it twice, both times on Saturdays. That seems to work out for most people.”
Flannel-shirt boy raises an eyebrow at the girl who’s working at the Dairy Bar. She nods her head yes. He winks at her, and she blows him a kiss. I feel my face flush again. I don’t know why I’m blushing. They’re the ones flirting with each other in front of everyone. And yet, I’m both embarrassed and curious. Weird.
Exchange students in foreign countries. Internships. Full-time jobs and boyfriends. High school is so cool. More and more, my classmates seem babyish to me. I can’t wait to be done with middle school. High school is going to be great.
“Let’s give Brenna Lake a hand,” Nick says.
I feel a rush of relief and a burst of energy. This went so well I could skip. Do cartwheels. But I won’t. Because that would be babyish.
Nick continues, “Thanks for spending time with the Outdoor Club.” The students clap and get ready to go. Some stop to say thanks as they file out the door. Some sign the volunteer sheet Nick has just made for the stream cleanup. A couple students stop to talk to me.
“What did you do about the hole in the fence?” the boyfriend of Dairy Bar Girl asks.
“The hole in the fence?” I ask.
“Didn’t you say you cut a hole so you could get that great picture?” He pulls Dairy Bar Girl in and puts his arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, right.” I turn off the projector and start powering down my computer. “Yeah, I had to patch that before my dad noticed. The fences are patched in a bunch of places around our wildlife rehab center.”
“You should do your slide show for the Photography Club here,” Nick says joining us. “They’re meeting every afternoon next week. It’s their Blitz Week.”
Dairy Bar Girl nods. “My best friend, Najla, is president. She’s always looking for presentations to do on their non-shoot days.”
“Photography Club? Cool.” Now I really cannot wait to go to high school.
“Give me your number, and I’ll have her contact you,” Dairy Bar Girl whips out her phone and puts in my info.
“See you around,” she says as she and her boyfriend maneuver out the door, still connected at the shoulders.
On my way out, I ask for directions to the school’s auditorium. I have a plan beginning to form. And it wouldn’t hurt to see this space again. I take a quick look at the stage and the amount of seating. I check out the school’s cafeteria, too. Just in case. Then I head outside.
The spring air cools my face as the doors close behind me. The light breeze feels much better than the overheated high school. I scan the parking lot for my brother Sage. His battered Camry usually sticks out. But not in a high school lot. Looks as if almost everyone drives a beater. Sage might be running late. His last class at community college doesn’t always end on time. If I didn’t have my computer and the box from Dr. Mac, I could have walked home. I set everything down on the sidewalk at the side entrance to the school. It’s where we agreed to meet.
At the far edge of the parking lot, a few students are gathered and looking intently at something on the ground. I can’t see what it is. As a group they move slowly as if they are surrounding something that is also slowly moving. My curiosity gets the better of me. I grab my computer and the box. What can it be?
I cross the parking lot to find out.
Ducklings. Three yellow, fluffy ducklings waddling slowly and hardly peeping. Looking closer, I see that only two of them are peeping. The third follows along behind and occasionally trips. It isn’t making any noise. I don’t know a lot about ducklings, but I do know they should be much louder than this.
“Brenna, what do you think?” It’s Nick from the Outdoor Club.
“Where did they come from?” I ask. “There shouldn’t be waterfowl out here. There’s no water for miles.”
A tall girl stoops close to the lead duckling. “They were just here when I came out to my ca
r. I was afraid somebody would drive over them. So I’ve been trying to, well, herd them. Keep them safe.” She uses her foot to stop the lead duckling from going any farther. It stops. So the other two do, too.
Nick crouches down, and the duckling scoots backward. Nick stands. “Oops. Didn’t mean to scare it. Should we just leave them here? Do you think their mother is here somewhere?”
We all scan the parking lot and the school’s running track beside it. A couple kids check between the parked cars. Nick and a few others race toward the middle school parking lot that’s right next to this one. After a thorough check, it’s clear: there is no mother duck. There is no place for another duck to hide.
“I think they’re abandoned,” I say. The other students agree.
That’s when Sage pulls up. I hear his car before I see it. “Whatcha got there?” he asks from the open car window.
“Abandoned ducklings.” I open his car door and drop my computer on the backseat. Then I carefully empty the contents of Dr. Mac’s box and put all of her equipment on the backseat, too.
“Grab a duck,” I say to Nick as I scoop up the fragile-looking one, then a second, and place them in the box. “We’ll take them to Dr. Mac’s Veterinary Clinic to get checked out.”
Nick puts the third duckling in the box. He holds the box while I scoot into the passenger seat and buckle up.
“Let me know how they’re doing,” Nick says to me as he hands me the box of ducks. And to Sage he says, “You oughta get that muffler fixed. Not good for the environment.”
Sage nods, and we’re off to Dr. Mac’s vet clinic with this box of fluff, too-quiet peeps, and quick-blinking eyes.
Chapter Two
In the Herriot Room, Dr. Mac handles the ducklings, turns them over and makes comforting little clicking noises at them. She works slowly and checks each of them from bill to tail. One after another, she places them back in the stainless steel box on the exam table. I’ve put a towel in the bottom of the box. Dr. Mac says that they’ll have firmer footing that way. But none of them is doing anything but lying still and breathing.