Brave Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  All About the Blue Lacy

  Acknowledgments

  Sample Chapters from POPPY

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH Kids

  Copyright © 2020 by Alloy Entertainment, LLC

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Produced by Alloy Entertainment

  30 Hudson Yards

  New York, NY 10001

  Cover art © 2020 by Julia Green

  Cover design by Celeste Knudsen

  Metal Texture © Mika Shysh/Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Shotz, Jennifer Li, author.

  Title: Brave / by Jennifer Li Shotz.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020]

  Series: American dog | Audience: Ages 7 to 10. | Audience: Grades 2–3. Summary: When twelve-year-old Dylan rescues Brave, he knows it will take hard work, patience, and training to convince his parents that he can keep the skittish stray dog.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019045790 (print) | LCCN 2019045791 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358108672 (board) | ISBN 9780358108726 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780358108610 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358343080 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358343219 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Dogs—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Family life—Texas Fiction. | San Antonio (Tex.)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S51784 Br 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.S51784 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045790

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045791

  v1.0320

  You were right, Mom.

  ★ Chapter 1 ★

  * * *

  * * *

  “How about these?” Dylan held out a plastic packet of multicolored water balloons.

  Jaxon, his best friend since forever, took the pack from Dylan’s hand and held it up for inspection. “Perfect,” he declared. “Just the right size for a good soaking.”

  The boys were gearing up for their last epic water balloon fight of the season. School had started for the year, but it was still hot enough in Texas for a full-scale battle—and Dylan and Jaxon were an unstoppable team. Their signature move was to ambush their friends from two sides at once—and they’d never lost. Not once.

  Jaxon tossed the package back to Dylan, who caught it in midair.

  Dylan grabbed four more water balloon packs from the rack and headed for the register.

  “When are we doing this?” Dylan asked. “Tomorrow?”

  “If you can handle it!” Jaxon punched him on the shoulder and Dylan winced.

  “You’re going to regret that!” Dylan chased Jaxon to the front of the store, where the cashier eyed them sternly.

  The boys slowed to a walk. Dylan cleared his throat and dumped a handful of change on the counter. Jaxon’s long brown hair flopped into his eyes as he looked down and turned his jeans pockets inside out to grab every last coin. Together they had just enough, even if Dylan was contributing more of his allowance than Jaxon was.

  “I’ll take those.” Dylan grabbed the shopping bag from Jaxon as they walked out of the store. He hopped on his bike, ready to head for home. “I’ll text you later to make a plan of attack. I have some ideas for a new strategy.”

  “Hey, Dyl, actually, I had an idea too.” Jaxon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, like he had thought of something brilliant. “What if we ditch the fight and do something else entirely?”

  Dylan shot Jaxon a skeptical look, to be sure his friend wasn’t just messing with him. The showdown was tradition. Why wouldn’t Jaxon want to play—or win—anymore? “What are you talking about?” Dylan asked doubtfully.

  “I’m just saying, maybe now that we’re in sixth grade, having a water balloon fight every weekend is for little kids.” Jaxon shrugged like it was no big deal.

  Dylan couldn’t believe it—Jaxon was serious. “I mean . . . I guess, maybe?” Dylan tried not to sound disappointed. If Jaxon suddenly thought the whole thing was babyish, he didn’t want to admit that he was looking forward to it.

  Since kindergarten, Dylan and Jaxon had always been like two sides of the same coin. They had played on the same soccer teams and gone to the same swimming classes. They had even looked alike until recently, when Dylan had his dark brown hair buzzed down to the usual crew cut to match his dad’s military cut, while Jaxon had let his hair grow out.

  But Dylan had to admit that it wasn’t just their hair that had changed recently. Dylan had also noticed that at school, the other guys had started to treat Jaxon a little differently. It was like he and Jaxon and their friends had always been a pack—equals—but now Jaxon had moved to the front of it, and the guys would do anything he told them to. Dylan had started to feel less like Jaxon’s friend and more like his follower. It seemed to Dylan that Jaxon had noticed it too—and kind of liked it.

  “Come on, Dyl—don’t you ever get . . . I don’t know . . . tired of doing the same stuff all the time?”

  The question took Dylan by surprise. “Uh . . . no. I mean, sometimes?” He felt something squirm in his stomach—like somehow Jaxon was reading his mind. He did get tired of some stuff, but not the water balloon fights. “I just think we should do something really different this time,” Jaxon said. “We’re twelve. Maybe we should do something . . . I don’t know . . . cooler.”

  Jaxon’s words stung, but Dylan did his best not to let it show. He couldn’t say Jaxon’s suggestion was coming out of nowhere. With his new status, Jaxon had been pushing boundaries lately, as Dylan’s mom would call it—asking Dylan to stay out late, skipping his homework, and thinking up elaborate pranks. Dylan liked having fun, and Jaxon always acted like whatever he had in mind was going to be the most fun thing ever. And if Dylan or one of the other guys hesitated, Jaxon was quick to tease them in front of everyone else.

  So Dylan had been telling himself to just go along with whatever Jaxon suggested, even when he wasn’t so sure it was such a good idea. What’s the worst that can happen? he’d recently found himself wondering more often than he’d care to admit.

  “Like what?” Dylan asked, trying to sound cool himself.

  Jaxon shrugged and jumped onto his bike. “Let me think . . .” A strange look crossed his face that Dylan had never seen before. There was a glint in his eye and a smirk on his lips—and it made Dylan instantly uncomfortable.

  “Um, why are you looking at me like that?” Dylan asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “You know that video I sent you? Of the guy with the hose?”

  Dylan nodded, hoping Jaxon wouldn’t notice that he was just
playing along. He didn’t remember that video because he hadn’t watched it—or most of the others Jaxon and their other friends had sent in the last few days. He’d meant to, and even held his finger above the play arrow a couple of times. But he just hadn’t done it. Lately, while Jaxon and their other friends were high-fiving and fist-bumping and hey-bro-ing about things Dylan usually cared about, he found himself tuning out. What so-and-so posted on Instagram. The latest Nintendo news. A viral YouTube video. Sometimes Dylan thought it just seemed . . . boring.

  “Yeah, sure. That one was crazy,” Dylan said.

  Jaxon broke out into a full grin. “So what if we copied that video, but instead of using a hose, we throw water balloons at the cars?”

  This time, Dylan’s stomach did a full churning somersault. “You want to throw water balloons . . . at cars? Isn’t that . . . I mean, that’s not . . . Is that a good idea?”

  Jaxon’s eyes bulged out of his head. “A good idea? It’s a great idea!”

  Dylan just stared back at him, unsure what to say. It was a terrible idea—a dangerous idea. This time, Jaxon was going too far.

  “Come on, Dyl—I thought you’d be up for a little adventure.” Jaxon mouthed boom! and mimed a water balloon exploding with his hands. He was getting excited now.

  Dylan was quiet as he thought it over. He didn’t want to say yes, but he really didn’t know how to say no.

  “Dude!” Jaxon laughed. “What is going on with you? What have you done with my best friend?”

  “Nothing!” Dylan forced himself to smile.

  “Good. Because I don’t want to tell anyone else until after we do it. It’ll be so much crazier if we surprise the guys with our own video.”

  Something about the look in Jaxon’s eye told Dylan that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, even if Dylan tried to get out of it.

  “Tomorrow. We’re doing this,” Jaxon said.

  “Okay, fine, we’re doing this.”

  Before Jaxon could question his enthusiasm, Dylan’s phone buzzed in his back pocket. Secretly relieved at the interruption, he checked the alert reminding him to get home. He had promised his mom he’d do his chores and get a head start on his homework, but if he didn’t leave soon, he was going to be late.

  “I . . . um . . . I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dylan said.

  Jaxon zoomed past Dylan with a cackle and grabbed the bag of water balloons out of his hand. “It’s gonna be awesome, Dyl!” he shouted over his shoulder, now in the lead.

  “Yeah,” Dylan muttered to himself, pedaling slowly after his friend. “Awesome. Right.”

  ★ Chapter 2 ★

  * * *

  * * *

  The wind whipped against Dylan’s face as he raced his bike down the street. He’d left Jaxon at the turnoff to his street and had to hurry home if he had any hope of beating his mom. He swerved around a tree branch lying at an angle in the road—a remnant of the hurricane that had pounded the city a couple of weeks earlier.

  Not that Dylan needed any reminders. The memory of the hurricane was burned into his brain forever: the wind as loud as a speeding train, trees snapping like twigs and slamming into buildings, windows exploding like they’d been dynamited. It had been a terrifying few hours. He and his mom had spent the entire night lying awake in their bathtub, listening to the destruction outside and hoping the walls around them would withstand the force of the storm.

  The city had hauled away most of the big wreckage, but there were still pockets of splintered plywood and wet debris scattered on the streets. The shock from the storm lingered along with the mess, but people had jumped into action to try to help one another through it. Neighbors had banded together to carry bucket after bucket of water from flooded living rooms. They had cleaned up yards and hammered boards over the gaping holes in the sides of their houses. People from the block had been especially helpful to Dylan and his mom because his dad was a soldier deployed in the Middle East.

  Countless families had been forced to move out of their mangled homes, and it seemed like a lot of them might not ever come back. Dylan knew he and his mom had been lucky. Except for a few patches of roof that had been sheared right off, and a giant hole in the exterior wall by the front door, their house had fared pretty well.

  Dylan sped up, swerving toward the sidewalk when he saw that the street ahead was clogged with traffic. He scooted back on the seat, shifting his weight until he was about to tip over, then yanked up on the handlebars at just the right second. He popped a half wheelie over the curb and whizzed by a woman carrying a bag of groceries to her car.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  “Sorry!” Dylan shouted behind him. He kept going, reminding himself to slow down around pedestrians.

  As Dylan made his way down the street, a delicious smell wafted toward him. He would know that scent anywhere: Tio Suerte tacos, voted best tacos in San Antonio three years running. They’d been closed since the hurricane, and Dylan’s stomach rumbled at the thought of them finally being reopened. He could practically taste the beef taco already.

  One little detour couldn’t hurt.

  He pulled a hard left and slammed on his handlebar brakes, skidding to a stop on the loose gravel in the Tio Suerte parking lot. Just as he dropped his bike to the ground, Dylan heard a man shout in the alley behind the restaurant.

  “Get out of here, you dirty little rat!”

  Dylan stuck his head around the side of the building and peeked down the alley. An old man in an apron waved a fist in the air—but it wasn’t a rat he was chasing—it was a dirty gray dog. The cook stomped his foot on the asphalt, and the dog whimpered and scuttled backwards into the corner by the dumpster, his ears back and down and his tail tucked between his legs. The chef was angry—really angry—and Dylan could tell that the dog was scared.

  The cook grabbed a broom and whacked the handle hard against the side of the metal dumpster, which let out a terrifying rumble. The dog flinched at the loud noise. The man was trying to scare the dog away, but the pup was so petrified that it was having the opposite effect.

  “Get out of here!” the cook shouted. “¡Lágate!”

  The dog hunkered down, shaking. Dylan had recently seen a few other strays wandering the city. He wondered if there were more of them because of the hurricane. But there was something about this dog that caught Dylan’s eye—it seemed so scared and sad. Did this pup have a family?

  Dylan suddenly felt protective of the poor dog, who had probably just been following the mouth-watering aroma of the tacos, like he had.

  “I think he’s hungry,” Dylan called to the cook.

  The man shot him an irritated look. “Every day he’s hungry. The little monster won’t leave.”

  Dylan studied the animal more closely. The dog looked from him to the cook and back again with big, round, frightened eyes—eyes that were a surprisingly intense amber color. There was no way this dog had a home, Dylan thought. His ribs were showing under his fur, and he was filthy—his coat was matted and stiff. He wasn’t wearing a collar or tags. And why would he stick around an alley getting yelled at if he had somewhere else to be? He had to be a stray.

  “How long has he been hanging around?” Dylan asked, getting closer.

  “He’s been here for at least a week,” the chef replied. “I’ve called animal control a hundred times, but this dog is too fast. They can’t catch him.” As the cook spoke, he took a step forward and tried to grab the dog. But the pup really was quick—he disappeared under the dumpster as the cook’s fingers snatched at nothing but air.

  The cook waved the broom handle one last time, then went inside, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

  The second the man was gone, the dog popped his nose out and sniffed at the air, then scanned the alley. When he saw that the coast was clear, he crept out from under the dumpster and looked up at Dylan.

  “You okay, boy?” Dylan asked, speaking softly. He didn’t want to scare the dog more.

  The dog gave
a nervous wag of his tail and gazed at Dylan with a sweet but desperate look in his eye.

  Dylan and the dog stared at each other while Dylan’s mind buzzed.

  Clearly this dog was starving. He couldn’t just leave it here, could he? That’s not the type of thing his parents had raised him to do—to leave someone in trouble. And this dog was definitely in trouble.

  Maybe—just maybe—if he took the dog home and fed it and gave it a good hot bath . . . his parents would let him keep it. After all, Dylan had been begging his parents for a dog for a long time. They’d said no a thousand different ways, but the last time he’d asked, his mom hadn’t actually said no. She’d pursed her lips and said We’ll see, which was a subtle upgrade that gave Dylan a tiny bit of hope. Maybe meeting the right dog would finally convince her. And this stray guy, with his striking eyes and funny tail wag, seemed like the right dog. Dylan couldn’t explain it, but it felt like he and the dog already knew each other somehow, as if they were already bonded.

  And even if his mom was mad at first, Dylan knew it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Jaxon always said it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Since asking for a dog hadn’t worked too well, maybe if he just brought one home and apologized a lot, his parents would let him keep it. Besides, how could they say no to a sad, hungry stray that didn’t have a family?

  Dylan made up his mind right then and there: The dog was coming home with him.

  He took a step toward the dog, who eyed him warily but stood still. Dylan took another step. When he got closer, he could see that underneath the layer of grime, the animal’s coat wasn’t quite gray—it was a mix of dark gray and blue that Dylan had never seen before. The dog was on the smallish side, but he was thick with muscle, his short legs powerful. The dog’s ears pointed straight up, ending in sharp points that framed his head. Dylan thought about a small dog like this surviving on the streets, fending for himself while people like the cook shouted and chased him away.