Cole’s not like that. He’s wicked talented at oil painting, and he’s funny and smart and good at making people feel better when they’re down. It made him a great friend. One time last fall, before everything changed, I had a nightmare that my mom died. I couldn’t shake off the grief all day, even though I knew it wasn’t real. Cole sat with me at lunch and listened to me describe the dream in detail, and then he said, “I can see why you’re upset. That sounds really hard to forget.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear. He did that sort of thing all the time. I didn’t know how much I relied on him to prop me up until he ran out of patience and stopped doing it. I don’t just miss having a friend, even though that’s huge. I miss him.
I wish I knew how to fix it. I’m sorry wasn’t enough. Now he’s besties with Erin and they ignore my existence, which is awkward since we all have first-period chemistry together, and Erin and I have English together, and we see each other in the halls and all of us eat during the same lunch period. Which means I eat by myself.
In the house, I drop my bag in my room and go to the kitchen for a protein bar. I’m itching to head for the tent, but Mitchell’s sticking annoyingly close, and of course he wants to complain about our parents. Again. “How long do you think it’ll be before they officially split?” he asks as he peels a banana. “Seeing as Dad didn’t bother to come home the last three weekends. And when he came home four weekends ago, he slept in the basement.”
I unwrap the protein bar. “He’s had work stuff. A client moved up a deadline.”
“He could’ve come home at night. It’s not like he moved to Texas.”
I take a bite, but I can’t chew the tough chocolate. My tired brain is grinding through all the stuff over the last few months that’s left me sobbing in my bedroom like a Disney princess: my dog, Frankie, dying. Fighting with Mitchell. Getting ditched by Cole. Dad leaving. Mom saying I’m too emotional and need to grow out of it.
I swallow the lump of protein bar. It hurts going down, but I won’t cry in front of Mitch. It’s not like I’m going to ask him to take it easy on me because Ow I Have a Sad About Dad. He does too, big-time. I put the rest of the bar in a plastic bag and go to my room.
Fortunately, he doesn’t follow. I sit on my bed and try to find Tina on Facebook. Her last name is Martin, and there are thousands of Tina Martins. I filter it by city and the number drops to a few hundred. I scroll the list, searching for anyone who looks even remotely like the Tina I know. Some have pets as the profile photo, so I check those people’s other photos. None of them are her.
Maybe I could call the vet office and ask for her number. But I hate talking on the phone. Mom had me call a restaurant once to ask what time they stopped seating and I had a minor panic attack, which Mitchell found hysterical. And anyway, what would I say to the vet office? Hi, I’m a random kid who volunteers downstairs, can I have Tina’s number? Ten to one I’d sound like a jibbering dingbat and accidentally draw attention to the situation, which, yikes.
I search the Tina Martins on Facebook for ten more minutes. Twelve minutes. Fifteen. Finally, at 4:22, Mitchell leaves the kitchen and goes to the bathroom. I empty my backpack, slip out the back door, and pull my bike out of the shed.
When I get to the woods, I shove my bike behind a honeysuckle bush so it’s out of sight, then fight my way through the brush to the tent. As I’m coming up on it, I hear Chewbarka whimpering and turning in circles like she does when she’s excited.
I unzip the door a few inches and her little nose pokes out. She pushes her way through and bounds into my arms reeking of pee, her whole back end wet.
“Aw, baby, I’m sorry! I know, you were in there for so long! I’m so sorry.” My eyes sting as I clean her up the best I can with the paper towels and water bottles I’ve stashed in the tent with her. She needs to be brushed. Mats are forming in her long, thick fur. I pull out the old blanket from our basement that’s now her bed. The corner of it is wet with pee and the rest of it smells like dried pee. “Little doggo, what are we going to do with you?” I spread the towel over some honeysuckle branches, then pour some kennel food I’ve been stealing into Frankie’s old bowl. Chewbarka sniffs at it and then digs in. It suddenly occurs to me that I forgot to tell Ashley Chewbarka is sort of leaky.
Well . . . maybe it won’t matter. Maybe they can let her out more often than I can. Or maybe their kitchen has a tile floor and they can shut her in there during the day. They probably have a doggy gate already, since they have a beagle.
When Chewbarka’s finished eating, I put my backpack on my front and carefully tuck her into it, leaving the top unzipped so she can breathe. I tighten the straps and carry her out to my bike. I’m not sure if this is going to work.
I wheel the bike out to the sidewalk and give it a try. We’re wobbly at first, and I have
