Boy's Best Friend Read Free

Sheldrake?” she asked.
    â€œA scientist,” said George. “A biologist.”
    â€œWhat’s a biologist?” asked Vivien.
    â€œSomeone who studies animals and their behavior,” said George. “Stuff like that.”
    â€œOh,” said Vivien, still looking puzzled. She glanced down at George’s ankles, which were wrapped one around the other beneath the chair.
    â€œYour socks don’t match,” she said.
    George looked down at his feet. One sock was dark blue, the other several shades lighter. He’d put them on without even noticing. “I wonder how that happened?” he said.
    Vivien shrugged. “I guess you weren’t paying attention,” she said.
    â€œGuess not,” said George. He rarely paid attention to what he wore. He reached into his drawer in the morning and pulled out whatever he came to first. It didn’t matter to him if he paired red with orange, or mixed plaids with stripes. It seemed to matter to other people, though, like his mother and Charlotte Peacock. Charlotte sat next to George at school, and she claimed to get a headache when he wore colors that clashed. George guessed it was because she didn’t have any imagination. Or maybe he had too much.
    George looked at his logbook. Suddenly he found himself imagining writing to Rupert Sheldrake. He wasn’t sure what he would say. But he imagined Rupert Sheldrake responding. George smiled, then turned to Vivien. “If a total stranger wrote to you, would you write back?” he asked.
    â€œSure,” said Vivien.
    George realized that was a silly question. Vivien would write to anyone. She loved to write. She’d write to herself.
    George’s father’s voice drifted up the staircase. “Dinner’s ready,” he called.
    â€œComing,” George said. He followed Vivien down the staircase. Mr. Masson was in the kitchen putting the final touches on a platter of roast beef. He was an engineer by trade but he also loved to cook.
    â€œWhere’s Mom?” asked George, taking the platter to the table.
    â€œIn here,” cried Mrs. Masson, who was in her office off the kitchen. She was a pastry chef and catered from home.
    Zac came into the kitchen and turned up the sound on his portable speakers.
    Mrs. Masson sailed out of her office shaking her head. Her springy blond hair bounced off her shoulders, reminding George of a slinky. “Zac,” she cried, stepping on Boots’s tail. Boots was the family cat.
    â€œMeowwww,” wailed Boots.
    â€œMom,” cried Vivien.
    â€œSorry, Boots,” said Mrs. Masson. “Why is that cat always under my feet?”
    Vivien slid under the table and gave Boots a pat. “Because she likes you, Mom.”
    George’s father sat down at the head of the table. He opened his napkin and tucked it under his chin.
    â€œYou look like a baby,” said Vivien.
    â€œI spill like one too,” said Mr. Masson, heaping George’s plate with mashed potatoes and a mound of green peas.
    â€œDon’t forget my experiment starts tomorrow,” George said to his mother. She had agreed to record when Bart went out to the front steps to wait for him. She’d been the first to notice that nearly every day, minutes before George’s arrival, Bart stopped whatever he was doing and asked to be let out. Bart didn’t do this with Vivien or Zac or Mr. or Mrs. Masson.
    â€œWhoa,” said Zac, making a T with his outstretched palms. “Time out. How do you know for sure that Bart knows when you’re coming? It’s probably a coincidence.” Zac shoveled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
    â€œYou’re just a skeptic,” said George.
    â€œWhat’s a skeptic?” asked Vivien.
    â€œIt’s someone who doubts everything until there’s absolute proof,” said George. “Like Zac.” George turned to his brother. “Maybe Bart has some way of