It’s almost October, but not cold out yet, so I won’t have to worry about that. But the other logistics . . . I’d have to lie to Mom, which is a big risk because I suck at lying and sometimes cry and give myself away. I’d have to hide Chewbarka in the shed tonight when I get home and hope she stays quiet till I can sneak out after Mom goes to bed and attempt to put up the tent in the woods in the dark. Then if all that worked out, I’d have to sneak out every morning before Mom gets up and let Chewbarka out of the tent to pee. I’d have to go straight to the tent after school and sneak there again after bedtime, and probably spend some time playing with her because she’d be bored from being alone all day. And how will I even get her home tonight? Two miles is a long way to walk a bike while carrying a Pomeranian. I don’t have a leash or collar for her. And if I did take her and keep her in the tent, I’d have to find a way to feed her. I could maybe scoop some chow out of the kennel’s bin, but that’s stealing. . . .
There’s no way. Mom would be furious if she found out what I was trying to do. I’d never hear the end of it from Mitchell. I should put Chewbarka back in the cage. Walk away. Forget I saw anything.
I’m setting her back on her towel with a heavy heart when I hear tires on the gravel parking lot. The night kennel worker must be here. I’m always gone long before now, so I’ve never met her. I don’t know if she’s nice, if she’d understand about this, if she’d rat Tina out.
Chewbarka licks my wrist. Her tongue is rough and dry like she’s thirsty again. I look at her graying face and cloudy eyes.
She’ll be killed if I leave her here.
The kennel door opens. I pull room C’s door closed and turn off the light. I listen as the night worker plods down the hall to the office. The chair creaks when she sits in it.
Ten agonizing minutes later, she finally gets up and fills the mop bucket in the laundry room. I listen to her take it to room A, then put the first dog into an empty cage so she can clean the floor in there.
I tuck Chewbarka under my arm and grab a leash off the hook by the door. There’s an empty cloth shopping bag that held a kennel resident’s toys. I take the bag and slip outside. I’ll return it tomorrow.
As quickly as I can, which is not quickly because I’m holding a loopy Pomeranian, I unlock my bike from the tall fence around the dog-walking yard. I slide my arm through the short handles of the shopping bag, give it a yank to make sure it’s sturdy enough to hold Chewbarka, and slip her in.
This is going to be a disaster. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Why am I doing this? Mom will lose her mind if she finds out.
I text her, my fingers shaking with adrenaline: On my way. I get the bike free and push it clumsily across the gravel parking lot with one hand. Just as I go around the corner of the building, I hear the night worker open the kennel door to let a dog outside.
We’re safe. Barely.
But the real trouble is about to begin.
3
Klutzy Nincompoop
Ash
In photography class on Friday, which has kids from all three grades since it’s an elective, Daniel seems exhausted. He’s looked more and more wiped out all week. Like something’s really wearing on him. He takes out his folder and notebook at the table he and I share with Fiona Jones, the tall Black eighth-grade girl Griff said Daniel kissed, and Braden, an obnoxious sixth grader with a non-ironic blond mullet who likes to talk like he’s an announcer at a monster truck show. Fiona asks Daniel if he stayed up too late playing Super Smash with Mitchell again.
“Yep, I dominated,” he says unconvincingly. He knocks his folder to the floor with his elbow. When he leans down to get it, he bumps his head on the table.
Fiona laughs her perfect, dainty laugh girl-me would die to have. Her cheekbones are so defined when she’s smiling. “You’re a hot mess. You good?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Daniel rubs his eyes and starts to yawn, then notices me watching. He cuts it off and clears his throat.
I quickly look down at the Billie Eilish song measures I’ve been doodling to try to hang on to my fading femininity. I hate it when people stare at me too. I’m always worried they’re trying to figure out if I’m a boy or a girl. Even though Mom tells me all the time the puberty blockers I’m on till I “figure things out” are working just fine. That no one can tell what’s under my clothes, and even if they could it’s none of their ding-dang business.
Our teacher, Ms. Bernstein, is an older white lady with pin-straight dark hair and unfortunate bangs. She tells us we have two tasks today: to learn about an assignment due next week and to use the darkroom to load photo paper into the oatmeal-box pinhole cameras we made yesterday. “The rule of thirds is a way of composing a photo so the most interesting parts align with the intersections of four lines.” She flips on the projector, which displays a rectangular grid. “It’s easiest to see in landscape photography. The horizon falls along one
