End of the Race Read Free Page B

says, pushing dog-food bags and cleaning items aside to make room for the heat lamps in the supply closet.
    David shoves in the last heat lamp and shuts the door before the clutter has a chance to tumble out. The heat finally came back on just as the last patient was leaving. We walk back together to the empty waiting room. David snaps his down jacket and pulls up his hood. “I’m off into the sunset on my trusty stallion.”
    “Make that off into knee-deep snow,” I say, openingthe front door. Sunita and I laugh as David’s boots sink into the drifts.
    Gran picks up a stack of patient charts and groans. “I forgot about these.”
    “I’ll file those for you,” Taryn offers. “My mom’s not picking me up for another ten minutes.”
    “Thank you, Taryn. You’re a big help,” Gran says.
    Why does Taryn’s offer annoy me so much? “Oh, Taryn,” I say, picking up Gingerbread’s chart and pointing to the blank lines. “Next time you need to get the owner’s full name and address.”
    “Roselyn said she’d rather not give her last name and address.” Taryn shrugs.
    “That’s odd,” Gran remarks, then turns to me. “Maggie? Homework time.” She looks at her watch. “But dinner first! There’s lasagna in the fridge.”
    “Going right in, Gran.” I turn to Sunita, wrinkling my nose. “Homework, what a time-hog.”
    “Don’t feel bad, Maggie,” Sunita sighs. “I’ve got a huge report on the American legislative system due in a week. I won’t be able to volunteer at the clinic until the House meets the Senate on twenty pages of binder paper.”
    “You have to write a twenty-page essay? Yikes!” Shaking my head, I wander toward the door leading to the kitchen with my basset hound, Sherlock, at my heels.
    “See ya, Maggie. It’s cool getting to work with you. I saw one of your practice games last week. You were awesome on center,” Taryn calls.
    “Thanks,” I answer halfheartedly. I don’t need a cheerleader—especially not a wannabe from fifth grade.

    My school books are spread out on the coffee table. I have a sudden urge to pick up the remote and zap on the TV to news, a silly game show, even a babyish cartoon… anything to avoid homework. But my old science teacher, Mr. Carlson, helped me set up a study guide last year, with firm rules: hardest subject first, keep moving, easier subject next, fun one last—that would be thinking up basketball strategy for tomorrow’s game. Double duh!
    The hardest is reading for English, so I pick up
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
. After I spend five minutes staring at page one, with the words floating likesnowflakes, the snowflake-words start to sift down into lines, and the lines settle into hardpack sentences. The girl’s story actually begins to grab me, and before I know it, I’m done with chapter one and on to my second-hardest subject: history. More reading. At least I don’t have the same teacher as Sunita does, so I’m not staring a twenty-page essay in the face.
    Just when I’m getting to the fun stuff (pivot-turn around my opposing point guard, bounce-pass the ball over her left knee, leaving her confused and dazed. A pass to Lucy, her pass back, ball’s in my grip, pivot-turn and…BASKET!), Gran breaks my concentration.
    “How’s the homework coming along, Maggie?” Gran asks as she pours herself a glass of milk.
    “You won’t believe this, but I’m done.”
    “Good girl. That was fast,” Gran says as she cuts herself a piece of lasagna.
    I consider trying to convince Gran that my basketball practice won’t prevent me from doing all my clinic chores, but I don’t want to wreck this happy moment. Besides, I’m not completely sure that practice won’t interfere. Instead, I ask, “Isn’t Taryn a bit too new to be handling the phone?”
    “We’ll have to see,” Gran says. “But she cleaned the kennels so fast, I didn’t have anything else for her to do at that moment, and she’s good on the phone. I told her to page me if