Generic selectors
Exact matches only
Search in title
Search in content
Post Type Selectors
post
page
product
Want to stay in the loop with latest bookish news and views? Subscribe to HarperBroadcast!
harpercollins-broadcast
close
search

Discover Alaska: An Excerpt from Anna Woltz’s Talking To Alaska

Share

When Parker discovers her beloved dog Alaska – who she had to give away last year – now belongs to her mortal enemy Sven, she’s determined to steal Alaska back. Of course, that’s easier said than done…

Translated by Laura Watkinson, Anna Woltz’s Talking to Alaska is a touching story of two unlikely friends, bound by their love for Alaska. Read an excerpt:

PARKER

A policeman once told me that being observant is something you can learn. And he also said that if you start paying attention only after something’s happened, then it’s already too late.

So, by the end of the first day, I’ve noted everything about everyone in 1B. Their first names, their surnames. I could give twenty-seven accurate descriptions. And I know where all the fire hoses and the emergency exits are.

In the corridors on my way out, I try to make myself as small as possible. The girls around me can’t stop talking about Sven Beekman. They already thought he was funny and kind of cool, but now they can feel sorry for him too. Like one of those action heroes in a film who suddenly reveals that he grew up in an orphanage. And that he silently cried himself to sleep every night – which makes you like him even more. Even if he does kill loads of people.

Well, that’s not how it works with me.

I hold on tightly to my phone as I walk through the entrance hall. Giants are yelling all around me, but if my mobile starts vibrating, I’ll feel it right away. I look out through the window – and then I stop so suddenly that I cause a multiple collision.

But I don’t feel the impact at all.

Inside my head, I hear a frantic yelp of exploding happiness. The way dogs howl when they haven’t seen you for a whole week. I can hardly believe it and yet I’m absolutely certain: out there in the sunshine, sitting on the grey slabs beside the bike shed… It’s Alaska!

I haven’t seen her for four months, but I still remember every little hair. Every fold in her white- blonde fur. She’s sitting beside a woman I don’t know, waiting in the school playground. She’s not wearing an ordinary collar like the one she had when she was with us, but a harness and a bright- yellow vest. She’s watching everyone really closely, and all I want to do is rush outside and hug her forever and ever.

But then the woman waves at someone who’s coming out of the school. Alaska starts wagging her tail in excitement. The fringe of hair on her tail swishes, her dark eyes twinkle, her black mouth smiles.

I peer around. And then I see who she’s wagging her tail for.

He doesn’t even look at her. He hands his rucksack to his mum and takes Alaska’s lead, ignoring her sweeping tail. She pushes her nose into his hand, but he just walks off without saying anything to her.

I stand there at the window and think: So this is what it feels like. A short circuit inside your head.

For four months now, I’ve been trying to find out where she is. Who her new owners are. In my mind, I pictured her running in the woods through patches of sunlight and jumping into stinky ditches. But I never knew who put her in the bath afterwards. Or whose leg she rested her head on when she wanted to play. And now I know.

Alaska belongs to Sven.

SVEN

I can’t believe Mum’s brought the beast to school. Right on the very first day.

Everyone’s staring at that vest on her back, of course. Written in huge letters on the side, it says, ASSISTANCE DOG. DO NOT PET. But, as always, everyone wants to do just one thing: to stroke the hairy monster. Without speaking to the mob around me and without looking at my mum, I tug at the lead.

I’ve already messed things up with 1B by having that fit. And now the rest of the school has seen me with an assistance dog.

When people are in wheelchairs or when they’re blind, everyone just gets it. But with me, everyone thinks: Huh? An assistance dog? But why? He doesn’t look like he needs any assistance! So what’s the story?

I never used to feel like thumping strangers in the street and giving them black eyes. But now I want to do it on an almost daily basis.

***

The pavement, the cars, the houses – the sun has made every- thing boiling hot. I can feel sweat on my forehead and I pretend not to hear my mum’s hundred thousand questions.

I don’t get it. Every assistance dog has to do a course, but parents don’t have to learn anything.

The harness has a blue square on it, with a big white letter L. That’s because the beast is still in training. Well, they should stick an L on my mum too. And as far as I’m concerned, they should never take it off.

I storm past houses and parked bikes and a café full of people with ice creams. But just as I’m about to cross the road, I have to stop.

The beast has sat down. I swear at her.

She’s sitting on her bum and refusing to move. The lead is tight. I pull, but she doesn’t budge, not even a centimetre. Her dark eyes look guiltily at me. As if she’d really love to come with me – but sorry, it’s impossible.

“Oh, come on!” I yell. “Stop being so difficult!”

And then I feel my mum’s hand around my wrist. She pulls me back so that the lead is not so tight, and she takes a doggy treat out of her pocket.

“Good dog,” she says quietly to the beast. “Well done!”

***

I can tell from her hand on my wrist how angry she is. I can’t hear it in her voice though.

“I’m well aware,” she says to me, just as quietly, “that you’d imagined your first day at your new school a bit differently. But whatever the problem is, it’s not Alaska’s fault. She’s here to help you. And chances are she’ll save your life one day.”

She lets go of my wrist.

“You can yell at me as much as you like. But not at Alaska. And if you don’t take her training seriously, then I’ll call Yvonne and tell her it’s not working out. And that she should find another child for Alaska, someone who really will do their best for her.”

I know all of that. And honestly, yelling at the dog feels way worse than yelling at my mum.

But Mum’s always been around. And the beast only came along when I got sick. I look at the dog and it seems as if not only her vest but every centimetre of her white fur is covered in words: YOU HAVE EPILEPSY. YOU ARE NOT NORMAL. WITHOUT ME YOU WILL DIE.

To read more from Talking to Alaska, order your copy today!


Deprecated: File Theme without comments.php is deprecated since version 3.0.0 with no alternative available. Please include a comments.php template in your theme. in /var/www/html/harper_staging/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6085

There are no comments.


Warning: Undefined variable $aria_req in /var/www/html/harper_staging/wp-content/themes/harpercollins/comments.php on line 67

Warning: Undefined variable $aria_req in /var/www/html/harper_staging/wp-content/themes/harpercollins/comments.php on line 68

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Favourite Banner
Your favourite literary newsletter just got a makeover!

New Releases • Author Speak • Events & Festivals Recommendations • First Look • After School Tales Press Room • Pre Orders • Coming Soon • Special Offers Trending • Just In • Also Read • And much more...