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head farther out the window. Dumb dog. Any farther, and he’d fall out.
    I remarked to Whitney, “Sorelli rarely finds fault with you, I’ve noticed. That’s something to be said for the guy.”
    â€œYeah, I guess.” She pulled Pooch’s ears back and wagged his head for him. He panted louder and smiled wider.
    Whitney shrugged. “I come from a circus family. It’s in my blood. I’m used to the beam, to practicing nonstop, that’s all. I’ve been at it for years.”
    The bus ground to a stop at the crest of a big hill. The SPCA, a one-story building decorated with a mural of animals, was down the slope.
    We got off, and Pooch trotted along happily. He wouldn’t be so happy soon.
    I didn’t want to think about that, so I asked Whitney about her family.
    She replied, “The circus goes way back with us. In the 1930s, my great-granddad was a farmer in Saskatchewan. The Depression wiped him out. So he joined a traveling circus. He did odd jobs: cleaning stables, taking tickets, whatever needed doing. Circuses were thriving then. No matter how bad the economy, people always grubbed pennies together to see the big show. After all, everybody loves a circus.”
    There was something in her tone, a flatness that puzzled me. “And how about you?” I asked.
    Whitney hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the circus. But what I’d really like is to try out for the Olympic gymnasts’ team.”
    For a moment her face was hopeful. “I couldn’t work for Sorelli anymore though. I’d have to concentrate on training.”
    I thought of Sorelli, expecting his performers to practice and work out seven hours a day. That was not only during circus season, but in the months leading up to it as well.
    That didn’t leave room for Olympic training. It didn’t leave room for anything.
    Halfway down the hill, Pooch stopped and sat down. Maybe all the cars rushing by were scaring him. I carried him the rest of the way.
    I said to Whitney, “Why don’t you quit then?”
    Whitney grimaced. “Mom doesn’t want me to. She’s really into her society stuff: clubs, lunches, charity benefits, parties. If I were in Olympic training, she’d have to give a lot of that up. She’d have to travel around the country with me to meets and competitions.
    â€œDad says if I went for the Olympic team, he’d split the travel with Mom. But…” Whitney shrugged. “Mom shuts him down. She’s the boss.”
    Pooch was whimpering. Now I got it. He recognized the SPCA building. It was the place Aunt Ellie had got him, the place he’d been kept in a cage.
    Whitney scratched Pooch behind the ears. “What about you, Zack? You interested in a circus career?”
    The image of Philippe Petit flashed into my mind. Petit wasn’t much for circus performing. He liked to do things his own way. “The circus is okay for now,” I said lightly. “It beats my other option for a summer job—standing in front of my aunt’s grocery store with a Buy Fresh Oranges sign.”
    Whitney laughed. She was pretty when she laughed. “You’re a natural on the wire, Zack. And Sorelli likes you. That says a lot.”
    She was the second person to remark that the ringmaster liked me. Cubby had said it too.
    But I knew Sorelli wasn’t kidding about Pooch. The dog goes, or you go .
    I thought of my chewed slippers and my ruined juggling act.
    We walked inside the SPCA. At the sight of Pooch, a little girl jumped up and down like an out-of-control jack-inthe-box. “Wheee! Can I have that dog, Mommy? Can I?”
    Her mom turned and smiled. It was a nice smile.
    â€œYou see, fella?” I murmured in Pooch’s ear. “Everything’s going to work out just fine.”

Chapter Six
    â€œI thought you were getting rid of that dog!”
    The ringmaster loomed over me. Behind him, on the other