Read Online The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook by Joanne Rocklin - Free Book Online Page B

minutes. A person’s memory is funny that way—ever notice?
    â€œWell, maybe Zook is a special cat,” says Riya.
    â€œHe sure is,” I say.
    We say good-bye at Telegraph and 49th, and I’m really not sure if we just had a discussion or some sort of argument. Riya and Kiran and I always have little arguments that blow over without even talking about them again. I guess that’s what makes us such good friends.
    Fred and I walk by Bank of the West and check it out. No problems there. We don’t walk past the Villain’s house, because I’ve seen much too much of him lately. There were two more just-going-out-for-coffees this week.
    But, drat, here he is anyway! He zooms over to the curb on his motorcycle and turns into the driveway of our apartment building, right in front of us.
    Freddy yells, “DYLAN!”
    Major, major caps.
    â€œWould you like to help me wash the bike?” the Villain asks. His silver earring glints in the sunlight.
    I shake my head no. Then I narrow my eyes, like that cop on TV. “I’ve got to go to work at O’Leary’s now. So does Freddy.”
    â€œWork!” says the Villain, flashing one of his white, toothy smiles. I’m thinking he must spend a fortune on teeth-whiteners. “Do they pay you well?” he asks.
    Then Freddy (oh, Freddy!) pipes up. “Yes, they do! We dance and the people on the street give us lots and lots of money.”
    The Villain gives me a funny look, but I make a face as if I don’t understand what Freddy’s talking about.
    â€œLet’s go, Freddy,” I say.
    â€œI don’t want to,” says Freddy. “I want to help wash the bike.”
    The Villain lifts Freddy and hugs him. My brother, looking like he’s going to faint with happiness, leans against the Villain, and before I can say anything else, they’re gliding down the driveway to get the hose from the back alley. Our special alley. The Villain’s acting as if he lives with us, usingour building’s hose. Doesn’t he have his own hose at his own house?
    I go to work dancing, and even earn a few dollars from some people strolling by.
    I’ve noticed something interesting about dancing: Bobbing up and down shakes up your brain cells, making some of them change places or flip upside down. Well, that’s not what really happens, but it sure feels like it. I get excellent ideas for stories while I’m dancing outside O’Leary’s, and that’s also how I came up with my idea for the Family Straw.
    Today, as I dance, I’m thinking I should suggest to Mr. Fry that he ask my mother for tea, not as a husband figure, but as a friend, because she’s so lonely. It wouldn’t hurt for them to get to know each other. They both enjoy mystery novels and movies, and the right mousse could certainly tame his cowlick, if my mom has a problem with that. Mr. Fry is shy and quiet, not loud and funny like my dad. So maybe Mr. Fry isn’t my mother’s type. But I never in a million years thought her type was a cat-shooter like the Villain.
    I hope Zook is discharged soon, so the truth about the Villain’s past (and Zook’s) can come out!

return my costume to O’Leary’s and go home. My mom is already busy at the stove. “Freddy’s in the back of the building with—” I start to say.
    â€œI know, sweetie,” she says. “I got a text from Dylan.”
    A text from Dylan. How long has the texting been going on? I go into my room and flop down on my bed to do some worrying.
    My mom is the fastest, most accurate text-messager in the world. It’s this talent she has, she says, with no known benefit to humanity. Here’s the thing: My dad and mom knew each other for years and years before they got hitched. But if two people are texting all day long, they could getfriendly pretty quickly, even if they’re not out together drinking coffee.
    The