Strong Like the Sea, стр. 69
Even though it’s awesome that the librarian loves my report, there’s one person who loves it even more: Uncle.
It makes me grin just to think about it. When I set my report up at Uncle’s house to show him, he got real close, looking at every detail of my machine. Then he called Auntie in to show her. I hardly had to say a word to tell Auntie about Mavis Batey, because Uncle remembered all the things I told him and was so excited, he pretty much gave Auntie my report all by himself.
All day, I’ve been trying to puzzle out what Uncle might have done to the kayak to help me not be so scared of it, but unless the kayak suddenly grew wings, I’ve got no idea what that would be. Maybe make a big bubble all the way around it? We could climb inside and bob around on the waves inside a clear bubble so we could see everything under the surface—except we couldn’t steer or paddle or breathe—yeah, no idea. Hopefully I’ll figure it out when I check on Saisei’s nest with Uncle today.
When I make it to Tanakas’ gate, Sarge’s deep huff echoes across the fence line. Silly dog, he’s barking like crazy, and when I grab the gate handle, he hits the door so hard it rattles. Great, did he forget me since yesterday? Or maybe he’s mad I brought Jack and his dad over.
I cup a hand to my mouth. “Uncle, call Sarge! I’m coming in!”
Probably he’s already kneeling by the turtle nest, watching for any signs of movement and writing down observations.
“Okay, Sarge, don’t squish me, okay? No Alex-squishing allowed.” I ease the door open a little, ready to pull my feet out from under his fluffy buffalo-sized behind, but Sarge backs up with a whine.
“Uncle?” I step to the side to peek around the lanai, but as far as I can tell, Uncle’s not by the nesting bush. Adjusting the strap of my backpack, I step under the lanai and head for the screen door, but Sarge blocks my path—worse, he barks at me. Not the huff, huff I’m used to, but a deep “Roash! Roash!” He’s so big and loud, I’d probably be scared of him if I didn’t already know he’s a gentle giant.
“Seriously? You’re guarding the whole house from me now? I’m ohana, remember? Come on, Sarge.”
A dangling string of drool flips up over his nose and smacks him right between the eyes, and I laugh. “Eww, gross. Keep that to yourself.”
The wide car gate swings open and Auntie pulls in. While the gate closes, Sarge dashes to Auntie’s side, then back to me, his foot knocking the empty food bowl into a noisy wobble.
“I think he’s hungry.”
“He ate this morning. If he tells you different, he’s lying.” Auntie pulls a grocery bag from the back seat, but Sarge darts in and snags a loaf of bread.
“Hey! īlio pupule, that’s our dinner.” Auntie holds the rest of the groceries high overhead as she nudges Sarge aside and makes a swipe—and miss—for the bread. “Big gourd!”
I hold the door open for Auntie and call inside. “Uncle! Your dog is lolo.”
“You here for Matthew?” Auntie bustles past. “You wan check on the noni already? It’s too soon. Try wait till tomorrow at least.”
“Naw, Uncle said he had a surprise for me for when we check the nest today.” I slip one shoulder out of the strap and lift my bag for Auntie to see. “Oh! And I tweaked a couple things on my project.”
“Even betta, hah? That’s our smart girl.”
A yank on my arm jerks me so hard I spin around and nearly fall. “Eeep!”
Sarge stands a few feet away from me, his paws prancing, with my backpack hanging from his jowls.
My entire report—the cardboard Enigma machine replica, my paper models, my diagrams—all of it hangs beside strings of drool. My stomach twists like I just drank a whole bucket of rotten noni. “No! Not funny. Not playing. You drop it right now!”
He shakes his head fast, once, twice. Long canines tear the waterproof covering as he shakes a third time. I swear I can hear things ripping inside, crushing under the force of his jaws.
I lunge for him. “Stop it!”
Mistake.
As soon as I move, Sarge races off around the house toward the beach.
“Oh, no. Sarge, no, no, Auntie! Make him stop!” My throat burns, and tears prick my eyes as he sprints for the water. I’d keep calling, but my throat’s so tight I can’t talk.
He splashes into the surf, his white underbelly soaked with waves as he pushes deeper into the ocean.
Not fair! Weeks of work destroyed by one stupid dog. He stands chest-deep in the waves, which splash over the holes in my used-to-be waterproof bag. I feel sick.
“Give it!” I kick off my slippers and toss my phone high on the sand, out of the water’s reach. With the beach deserted except for tiny figures way down the shore, I don’t have to worry about anyone taking it anyway. We’re pretty much alone—on land and at sea—and thank goodness for that, because I don’t need any witnesses while I tackle this overgrown fuzz-bucket.
I grab for him, but he leaps forward, drops my bag, and stands on his hind legs to keep his muzzle clear of the waves.
“My bag!”
A raw string of barking like I’ve never heard pours from his throat. Whining, barking, crying, howling, snarling.
“Geez, Sarge. What’s your problem?”
A wave slaps my bag, and I spring to the side to catch it before another wave pushes it under. Got it! With a heave, I haul it high out of the water. A little wet might have squeaked inside, but probably not enough to saturate the shoebox yet. If the models are safe, all I’ve got to do is reprint my report. My project is saved!
Relief ripples through