What comes next, p.1
What Comes Next, page 1
ALSO BY ROB BUYEA
THE MR. TERUPT SERIES
Because of Mr. Terupt
Mr. Terupt Falls Again
Saving Mr. Terupt
Goodbye, Mr. Terupt
THE PERFECT SCORE SERIES
The Perfect Score
The Perfect Secret
The Perfect Star
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Rob Buyea
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Buyea, Rob, author.
Title: What comes next / Rob Buyea.
Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2021] | Audience: Ages 9–12. | Summary: Twelve-year-old Thea, devastated after seeing her best friend die, begins to open to the possibility of new friendships and forgiveness, and comes to believe in what cannot be fully explained.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020048029 (print) | LCCN 2020048030 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-525-64802-4 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-525-64803-1 (library binding) | ISBN 978-0-525-64804-8 (ebk)
Subjects: CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Selective mutism—Fiction. | Dogs—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.B98316 Wh 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.B98316 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780525648048
Cover art used under license from Shutterstock.com
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Contents
Cover
Also by Rob Buyea
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Forewarning!
Part I
Chapter 1: Sparky
Chapter 2: My First Fish
Chapter 3: Know-Nothing Diana
Chapter 4: Running Away
Chapter 5: Saying Goodbye
Chapter 6: Nightmares
Chapter 7: Dad Loses His Mind
Chapter 8: Research
Chapter 9: A New Nightmare
Chapter 10: The Crate Is Most Important
Chapter 11: Hickory Rescue Shelter
Chapter 12: Dog Shopping
Chapter 13: The Puppy in Space Number Nine
Chapter 14: In the Play Yard
Chapter 15: A Name and a Collar
Part II
Chapter 16: Bonding Over Training
Chapter 17: Mom’s Non-Negotiables
Chapter 18: The Not-So-Perfect Crate
Chapter 19: On Repeat
Chapter 20: Repeat Interrupted
Chapter 21: Dinner Blow-Up
Chapter 22: Loyal Jack-Jack
Chapter 23: The Mystery Box Set-Up
Chapter 24: The Mystery Box Fallout
Chapter 25: Mystery Box Apology
Chapter 26: Free!
Chapter 27: Whitman Forest
Part III
Chapter 28: Bunny Attack
Chapter 29: Wedding Bells
Chapter 30: Explaining the Imposter
Chapter 31: Hippo Face
Chapter 32: Close Call
Chapter 33: Rockets
Chapter 34: Simon
Chapter 35: Ms. Stacy’s Idea
Chapter 36: Wanna Be My Partner?
Chapter 37: It’s Okay
Chapter 38: Dreamland
Chapter 39: November’s Regular Routine
Chapter 40: Thanksgiving
Part IV
Chapter 41: Santa
Chapter 42: The Million-Dollar Question
Chapter 43: I Tell the Story
Chapter 44: Turning Ugly
Chapter 45: The Stranger
Chapter 46: A Knock on Our Door
Chapter 47: Hurt Together, Heal Together
Chapter 48: The Hardware Store
Chapter 49: I’m Sorry
Chapter 50: Perfect Conditions
Chapter 51: Searching
Chapter 52: Christmas Eve Dinner
Chapter 53: Merry Christmas
What Comes Next
Months Later
Years Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my dogs, who’ve been loyal writing partners and have given me many incredible stories to tell
FOREWARNING!
When you own a dog, you end up with lots of incredible tales to tell, but none are quite like the one I’ve got for you now—not even Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows. And I know, those are forever classic dog stories. I love them too. But what happened to me is totally different. It’s something you’ve got to hear, and I’ll warn you, you’re probably not going to believe it, but it’s true—every word. I swear on Charlie’s grave.
1
SPARKY
Sparky was our first family dog, but really he was Mom and Dad’s dog. They had him well before me, so by the time I was ready to run, good ol’ Spark was already beginning to slow down. And by the time my sisters joined us—Livvy first and then Abby—he had slowed down considerably.
Sparky was a faithful companion, as loyal a dog as you’ll ever find, so he hung on for quite a while. I remember how he would struggle up our stairs every night so that he could sleep by Dad’s bedside—and when I say struggle, I mean struggle. It got to the point where Spark started dribbling pee and dropping turds when he made the climb—it was that bad. That was when Dad started carrying him up the two flights.
It wasn’t long after that when we had to say goodbye. I was eight and my sisters were four and three when his time finally came to an end. That was a hard day—but not my worst. Mom and Dad were especially sad, but they smiled through their tears as we stood by Sparky’s fresh gravesite and took turns recalling favorite memories of our beloved dog.
“I’ll never forget the day Spark grabbed Thea’s dirty diaper,” Dad mused. “Boy, was it a messy one. And ripe. I must’ve used thirty wipes trying to clean your butt,” he said to me. “Sparky snatched that thing when I wasn’t looking. Your mother and I tried, but we couldn’t stop him. He streaked past us and raced down the hall.”
“And jumped right in the middle of our bed,” Mom finished.
My sisters and I giggled. It didn’t matter that we’d heard that one a hundred times before. The poopy-diaper-makes-poopy-bed story was a classic in our house.
“Or how about the time he got into the closet and scarfed down all the Halloween candy I had hidden,” Mom continued.
Dad groaned. “He’s lucky it didn’t kill him. You can still see the stain on our living room carpet from the chocolate mud puddle that dummyhead threw up. It just poured out of him.”
“Yucky,” Abby said.
Mom and Dad shook their heads and laughed. My sisters didn’t know any better, so those funny stories had them asking for another puppy before we’d even finished putting Sparky to rest. Silently, I was hoping for the same thing, so I didn’t shush them.
It took a while—almost four years to be exact, and a lot had happened and changed by then—but eventually we got our wish. Only problem was, I didn’t care anymore. After something terrible happens, you stop caring about dogs and everything else.
2
MY FIRST FISH
I was better at observing and sketching and writing in my journal, but I gave in to Charlie’s persistent requests and held his fishing pole like he’d shown me, line in my left hand and rod in my right.
“Now pull back and let it rip,” Charlie said, stepping out of the way.
I think he was more excited than me—his best friend was finally giving this a try. I did what he said, but when I threw it forward nothing happened. My line didn’t go anywhere.
“Tree fish!” Charlie cheered.
I turned and looked. My lure had caught on a leaf behind me. “Ugh,” I gr
“Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us,” Charlie said, walking over and getting it unhooked for me. “Reel up the slack and give it another try, but watch out for the trees,” he teased.
“You could’ve warned me about that the first time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just be careful. That’s one of my best spinners you’re using.”
I set my feet, took aim, and let it rip. My line flew out over the creek and fell into the water.
“Good,” Charlie exclaimed. “Now reel. That’s what makes the spinner do its thing. Nice and easy. And don’t stop.”
I kept reeling, silently hoping, barely breathing, until I had the lure back in. “Nothing,” I grumbled.
“That’s all right. Do it again,” Charlie said. “If you can get your lure to land closer to those rocks, you’ll get a fish.”
“How do you know?” I challenged. I may have asked that question, but only because I was growing frustrated and not because I doubted Charlie. He was amazing at fishing. I’d seen him catch hundreds.
“I told you, that’s one of my best lures,” he replied. “And that’s where the fish like to hang out. So get it out there.”
I gritted my teeth and threw another cast. Harder this time. I watched my lure sail out over the water, coming down just behind those rocks. I started reeling. And then—wham!
“Oh!” I squealed.
“Lift the rod tip,” Charlie instructed. “And keep reeling.”
“Oh!” I cried louder. I could feel the fish fighting.
“Keep it steady,” Charlie yelled. He waded into the water, net in hand. I continued bringing the line in and then Charlie bent and scooped my fish—my first fish!
I scrambled down the bank and rocks to get a closer look.
“It’s a rainbow trout,” Charlie said. “A nice one.”
I gazed at the fish, admiring its silver scales and flashes of color. It was actually quite pretty, a beautiful piece of nature that I wanted to sketch and maybe write about later. “Is it okay?” I asked, worried.
“Yup. It’s fine. Let’s take a picture and then you can release it.”
Charlie pulled the hook from my fish’s mouth because I didn’t want to do that part, and then I snapped a selfie of us posing with my fish. When we got done with that, Charlie showed me how to hold the fish so that I could place it back into the water.
I knelt and stuck my hands into Clover Creek. A second later my fish kicked and swam away. I straightened and looked at Charlie. “Yay!” I cheered, hugging him. “That was incredible!”
He smiled big. “You’re a real fisherwoman now.”
That first fish of mine…was also my last.
3
KNOW-NOTHING DIANA
I won’t keep you in suspense. Charlie died. He died right in front of me.
The accident happened during our spring vacation, the same day that Charlie helped me catch my first fish, and even though I hadn’t uttered a word since, my parents had me returning to sixth grade a couple of weeks later, hoping that might help. It didn’t.
I entered the building and was immediately surrounded by stares and whispers. I kept my head down and pressed forward, but by the time I reached my locker I was struggling to breathe, and when I heard the hushed voices behind me, “There she is,” and, “Poor Charlie,” that was when everything went black.
Mom had to come and get me. Clearly, I wasn’t ready for school. After that Mom moved her nursing shift to evenings so that she and I could homeschool during the day while Dad was teaching. My parents didn’t make me go back to sixth grade for the remainder of the year, but they did sign me up with Know-Nothing Diana—a wretched grief counselor. Apparently, talking about a traumatic experience is part of the healing process, but I still hadn’t said a word and I was most definitely not ready to talk about it with a stranger. Sadly, Know-Nothing Diana couldn’t get that through her thick skull.
I would sit in her office—mute—and she would plow ahead asking me the same questions that I never answered at every one of our sessions. I couldn’t tell if she was stubborn or stupid—or both. I decided on the latter when I heard her giving my parents her list of do’s and don’ts, while also assuring them we were making progress. There was no telling how long this would’ve continued had that dingbat never crossed the line.
“You know, Thea, if you don’t start talking soon, people will start filling in the silence for you, saying things like you pushed Charlie or that you tripped him,” she warned. “Did you? Is that why you won’t talk?”
How could she? I bolted from her office and didn’t stop until I was in the parking lot. I had to get away. I needed air.
I don’t know what that evil witch tried telling my parents after that, but that was the end of my sessions with Know-Nothing Diana. Mom and Dad had seen enough. It was time they took matters into their own hands. Together, they decided we needed a change—we were moving.
4
RUNNING AWAY
“How did we collect so much junk?” Dad complained in the midst of all the packing.
“That’s what happens when you own a house,” Mom replied. “Especially one with kids.”
“Well, I’m not bringing it with us. We’re getting rid of it,” Dad declared.
His orders were simple: Sort through our stuff and throw out what we didn’t need or want anymore. That was a good idea, except my little sisters didn’t want to part with anything.
“No!” Abby cried when Dad tried trashing some of her ragged stuffies.
“No!” Livvy shrieked when Mom suggested donating a few of her old baby dolls.
What could you expect from seven- and eight-year-olds? They didn’t get rid of anything—but who was I to talk? I didn’t do any better.
Here was my problem: My junk equaled memories. Like Charlie’s spare EpiPen that I always carried in my backpack because he was highly allergic to bee stings. Or Roscoe, the stuffed bunny I got out of the prize box in first grade because I had the closest guess for how many jellybeans were in Mrs. Hobby’s jar. (Charlie saw where Mrs. Hobby had written down the answer and told me so that I could win. We were partners in crime from the beginning.) Then there was the Christmas card Charlie had given me. He drew a picture of Santa Claus dressed in swim trunks and sporting a snorkel mask and flippers because he was scared of the fat man wearing a red suit and large black boots. Even my nature drawings that had once decorated my walls reminded me of Charlie and our many trips to Clover Creek, which was why I’d taken them down and shoved them inside my desk after the accident.
Charlie had been gone for three months now, but I couldn’t throw any of those things away. There were kids I was friendly with in school, but I’d never been good at making real friends, so when the only one you have dies…you’re left with nothing. Those things, my junk, was all I had. But I also couldn’t bring myself to look at it for too long. So I zipped my backpack closed, then put the bunny and card and the rest of my Charlie items into a small box and taped it shut—not knowing if I’d ever open it again.
Mom and Dad liked to say we were getting a fresh start, but the truth was we were running away. Hoping to get as far from the terrible past as possible. But I already knew, no matter how far we ran, I wasn’t getting away from it—not ever.
