Maybe not Mitchell. I don’t know.
Ask for forgiveness.
That sounds easy. But it’s hard to imagine saying Please forgive me. It seems so . . . vulnerable. What if he says he can’t? Or he doesn’t want to?
Mitchell comes down and interrupts my musings. “Mom’s really ticked,” he says. “Might as well have told you to man up and stop being such a basket case.”
All traces of my improved mood evaporate. “Yeah, I got that.”
He crosses his arms. “She’s not wrong.”
Ow. “It must be nice to only ever feel one emotion. Two if you count anger and irritation.”
“That’s not true about me.”
“It’s all you ever act like you feel.” My phone buzzes with a number I don’t know. I let it go to voice mail.
Mitch squats and holds his hand out to Chewbarka. “She smells like pee.”
“You reek of chlorine and meanness.” I should stop rising to his bait. But I’m out of tolerance for his crap.
Mitch starts to scratch the top of Chewbarka’s head. She ducks away. He moves his hand under her chin.
I feel her shift her weight toward him. She leans into his palm. Just a little.
I sigh. I should take a page out of her book. Show him I understand why he acts like he does. He just makes it so freaking difficult.
“They’re really going to kill her tomorrow?” he asks.
I don’t answer. It hurts too much.
Mitch stays still with her head on his palm for a minute. Then he takes his old Spider-Man sleeping bag off the shelf, drops it over us, and heads for the stairs.
“You miss Dad too,” I say. “It sucked for you when you saw us do stuff together without including you.”
He goes still. I brace for whatever he’s about to say. But he just stands there looking at me like he’s trying to process.
“I’m sorry it made you feel bad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize it then. But I do now. If he comes home, I hope we can all do things together. Or even if he doesn’t come home. I want stuff to not suck.”
Time stretches like a rubber band. I hope it’s not a dry-rotted one that’ll snap and sting me. Things with Mitch have definitely felt dry-rotted lately.
“Does the dog need water or anything?” he finally asks. He puts his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
I wave a hand at the water dish on the floor. “She’s good.”
He keeps standing there like he wants to say something else.
Then he turns and goes up the stairs.
Hours later. Still awake. Nose stuffed from a crying fit that cramped all my muscles and left me shaky and exhausted.
The voice mail was Tina. All she said was “Give me a call.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded mad that I got her fired, or if she was mad I took Chewbarka instead of letting someone find her and finish her off and negate this whole mess, or what. I couldn’t tell if she was mad at all. She sounded as exhausted as I feel.
I didn’t call her back. I’d just cry again and I can’t cry any more today. I can’t. My phone’s down to 5 percent battery anyway, and getting all teary would bother Chewbarka. I’d rather just be here for her, holding her, on her last night alive.
Besides, Tina’s fired. Even if she offered to take Chewbarka, Mom said Dr. Snyder threatened “legal retaliation.” He’d find some way to get Chewbarka back and kill her.
I listen to Chewy’s faint snoring and wonder how Ash would draw it.
The guilt is so fresh and real. But I’m so deep into this sleepless night that I’ve thought all the other thoughts my brain can think, and now I have to think about Ash.
I don’t know how to get my mind around today. He said he was a girl when he kissed me. And that he’s a guy now. But how can that change? I keep thinking of when Ash-the-girl borrowed my hoodie in the gas station and tied her hair back. And seemed so different, but I couldn’t put my finger on how.
The thought of a bunch of jerks pinning him down and dumping Gatorade in his face while screaming at him makes me furious. It doesn’t even matter whether Ash was a girl or a boy then. Nobody deserves that. Especially not someone like Ash, who’s only ever been good to me.
I think back over every moment we shared, trying to pick out the shift from girl to boy.
I can’t find it. It’s all just . . . Ash. The same person regardless of what gender I think he was. Is. Wants to be.
So maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe that means it doesn’t matter. If I can’t find it.
Or maybe it means Ash was trying to hide it from me because he was scared of how I’d react, since people literally attacked him for it in the past.
Or maybe I’m so shook because I liked that kiss. Like a lot. Whether it was girl-Ash or boy-Ash I kissed. And adding Oh god, what if I’m gay or bi to everything else now is just . . .
I laugh aloud. It’s ridiculous. What does it matter? Chewbarka will be dead tomorrow. Who cares what I am? What Ash is? Who cares what other people think of us? We connected, and we worked together to help this dog. That’s what’s important. Not the specifics.
I hope I haven’t ruined everything. Even if things aren’t the same as before, I know I still want Ash in my life. However that looks.
I shift so Chewbarka is sleeping more comfortably. I can’t fix my broken brain and heart with my broken brain and heart right now. But I can make sure this dog’s last night
