A Tale of Two Besties (17 page)

I honestly had no idea what to do. On the one hand, Nicole was right: Beth-Lynne, whether she meant it or not (and in my heart I knew she hadn't) had been
rude
. On the other hand, I knew Beth-Lynne, and knew that she, like Harper, cared about saving animals' lives and was generally a good person, if a little clueless. But there was Nicole, staring daggers at me, and I could tell by her look that my future membership in NAMASTE would be determined in how I answered. I had to make a decision.

So I made one.

“Beth-Lynne, instead of being so obsessed with my style, maybe you should find one of your own,” I said icily. “You notice how I never ask you why you're supporting animal cruelty every time you put on a pair of those
fugly
pink Uggs? Why do you assume I have all day to answer your questions about what
I
wear?”

“You tell her, Fairy Girl!” someone shouted from the hallway crowd. Nicole smiled triumphantly and for a second I felt vindicated and righteous: Damn the man! But that lasted as long as it took to take in the look of Beth-Lynne's reaction.

“I'm sorry, Lily,” Beth-Lynne mumbled. “I . . . I didn't mean it like that.” Beth-Lynne had never been that gifted with words, but I knew that she was truly sorry . . . for ever talking to me in the first place. Her shoulders slumped and her usually milk-pale cheeks flamed bright red. She could barely look me in the eye, and I realized that I had totally, utterly humiliated her. The way she looked at me . . . well, I never want to be looked at that way ever again. Her eyes spilled over with tears, and she hurried away without saying another word.

“See?” said Nicole. “If we hadn't said those things, we would have been lying to both her
and
to ourselves. There's nothing wrong with being honest.”

“Right,” I said. All I could think about was Harper, and that I was thankful she wasn't there to see this. Because if she had been, I don't think she would have ever spoken to me again. At least Pathways had banned students using SchoolGrams, because if there had been video footage of my dressing down of Beth-Lynne, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to look in the mirror again.

On Wednesday, Rachel offered to take me to my PuppyTales volunteer session. When she dropped me off at the Beverly Gardens Park, she said to text her whenever I need to be picked up. Lately I've noticed that Rachel's been being eerily nice to me, which meant even my snarky older sister felt bad for me. At least I didn't have to deal with her and her friends teasing me on top of everything else—that's one thing going my way. Well, that and my awesome grades: the combination of Lily-withdrawal-weirdness and a fear of running into Kendall anywhere outside of school meant that I wasn't really leaving the house much, and with nothing to do there but study and absorb some new MomTips, I've been pulling straight As.

In the summer the park tends to get overrun by tourists, but now that fall was arriving and everyone was back in school, there were fewer people than usual sitting on the perfectly manicured lawns, alternating between lattes, spring waters, and bottles of cold-press green juice. (Los Angelenos can micromanage their beverages like nobody's business.) I was running late: By the time we pulled up, there was already a line of kids and exasperated parents snaking back behind a tan-and-white RV that read “PuppyTales Mobile Center.” One of the panels of the RV was open, like a food truck whose window extended all the way to the floor. In fact, when the Jacobys originally bought the Mobile Center, it was a recently retired vegan taco truck, but they renovated the kitchen and bathroom area so that now the entire space is used to transport their rescues.

As part of our organization's outreach program, the Jacobys invite kids and families into the center once a month, and let them play with some of the dogs. They also give out literature for the kids to hand to their parents when they (obviously) run back and beg their moms to please please
please
let them get that Jack Russell terrier puppy with the crooked tail and the wonky ear. We also go to schools, low-income areas, and occasionally rehab centers and correctional facilities (though I'm not old enough to volunteer at those places yet). I also help out as the PuppyTales social media manager, which means I put the word out about where the Mobile Center is going next, and let our followers know what dogs we have up for fostering and adopting. My goal is to eventually become an “angel parent,” which means I would get to host some of the puppies in my home to help them adjust to family life. But I can't right now because a) You have to be at least eighteen to be an angel and b) my mom is allergic.

I don't want to be a vet or anything. I just really love dogs. Lily and I used to joke that the reason I get along so well with people is because I'm able to love unconditionally, the way dogs do. I know it's silly, but there's something magical about the way dogs look at the world. They're loyal and devoted, and they don't judge you the way that you
know
cats do. Dogs don't run or fly or swim away like other animals do when people try to pet them. They are just love, manifested as bundles of fur and paws.

Of course, some dogs need a little more love than others. The rescues at PuppyTales have had hard lives. Many of them have been beaten and trained to view other dogs and animals as enemies. Not to be overly dramatic, but after my first week at Beverly High, I could kind of see their point of view. We're only as nice as we're allowed to be, we're only as good as our conditioning. Some might find that worldview cynical, but there you have it. At least if I decided to bite Kendall, I wouldn't get put down. Probably.

PuppyTales is a total labor of love for the Jacobys, who are good friends with my parents. Mr. Jacoby is a mad inventor type, but he's never invented anything real before. He made a fortune back in the 80s after he bought a patent for some weird, super specific car part that no one had ever heard of, and that all of a sudden became standard issue in every single GM vehicle ever made. Their daughter, Beth-Lynne, used to volunteer at PuppyTales all the time and was a regular PuppyBash attendee, but eventually she got so busy with all her honors classes that she had to cut way back and I hardly ever see her anymore. Now I spent even more time volunteering for the Jacobys, picking up some of the extra duties Beth-Lynne left behind, like coordinating cage clean-up, scheduling vet appointments, and organizing awareness benefits, like PuppyBash, which I've done with Lily every year on the night before my birthday. Well, every year until this one, I guess. My birthday was in less than two weeks, and Lily still hadn't brought up our plans for Friday
or
Saturday.

This was especially weird. Lily knew how important her birthday parties were to me. Growing up, my mom would always use our birthdays as test labs for any new product or service she was promoting on her site. On my eighth birthday, I received a gift certificate for a laser hair removal treatment, which Mom promised to keep in a security box for me until I turned sixteen. Another year, Rachel woke up to discover three men from
Ambush Makeover
in her room tearing everything apart: Mom's “present” to her was an on-camera makeover and redecorating session with some second-rate Bravo-lebrity wannabes. For two years afterward, both Rachel's bedroom and outfits were dominated by ruffles, undertones of seafoam green, and a general air of being overpriced and basic.

It wasn't that Mom didn't love us. It's just that, despite all her MomTips about how to hack motherhood, she needed a lot of help planning and managing her own life. She was much less independent than Rachel or me; for instance, she always needed someone to remind her when to pack for her next conference, and then she needed another someone to tell her what to pack. Even our lame birthdays required all of Mom's staff on deck—drivers, assistants, publicists, nutritionists, trainers, data analysts, interns, documentary film crews—just to support her supporting us. By the time I was ten, I had already figured out that not bringing up birthdays to my mother was the best way to ensure a drama-free house in which I celebrate quietly—Rachel and I learned pretty early that the more we'd talk about our upcoming birthdays, the more cameras and nonessential staffers would be involved in the “celebration.”

Of course, all that changed the moment I first walked downstairs in fifth grade to discover the giant puppy surprise party Lily had planned for me. I don't think I ever told her how much it actually meant to me, to have a friend who made the day about me, and not about herself.

“Why, hello there, Harper!” Mrs. Jacoby waved as I slumped out of the car, lost in thought.

“Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Jacoby!” I gave her a big smile as I climbed up the Center's retractable staircase.

“Oh, don't even think about it. You're always so dependable, Harper.”

Secretly I felt a little bad. I hadn't been spending as much time with PuppyTales since high school had started, telling my mom that I was too busy with work. The truth was, I hadn't felt like leaving the house since Canyon Park and then the Walgreens incident.

Today the Mobile Center was full of noise and smells and shedding fur—all things that are as familiar to me as the cast of canine regulars inside. There was Humps, the sweet, blind pit-bull the Jacobys rescued five years ago, now so arthritic that she walked with her hind legs hunched up. Cocoa, a brown Labrador retriever mix with white patches on his chest and a bandana around his neck, making him look like he belonged on the cover of a Boxcar Children book. Dottie and Bandit were both part Maltese and part mutt, and they looked so similar that we were almost positive that they were siblings. Maxine, a yappy terror of a terrier who only calmed down when she was gnawing at a squeak toy, but was so loyal to the Jacobys that she once tried to attack a coyote prowling in their backyard to protect them. Buffy, the Great Dane with the gold eyes. Bruschetta the poopy poodle. Manny the Chihuahua. Georgie the beagle. Tonto the Welsh Corgi, who was so beautiful that he'd been adopted by at least three families, despite our warning all of them that he refused to be housebroken. Poor Tonto never lasted a week in any home before he was back at PuppyTales.

“Oh Mommy, can I hold the puppy?” A blond post-toddler waddled over in a fitted cardigan and suspenders, wearing a porkpie hat and the type of chunky, plastic rimmed glasses you usually see on aging indie rockers. Without waiting for an answer, the child put his hand near Maxine's cage which caused his mom, who up until that point had been engrossed with her cell phone, to snatch her son's hand in midair like a magic trick.

“Wolfgang! You don't know what kinds of diseases these animals have!” She scolded, vacantly, still scrolling through BabyFashionastas.com with one hand while admonishing her son with the other. I've got a cozy space in my heart for moms who can multitask like that, since they're the ones signing up for sessions with my mom, and thus essentially paying for my home and meals.

“Oh, don't worry, ma'am,” I said with a bright smile. “All of our dogs have had their shots and are up to date with their medical records. It's the
people
around here you have to be careful of!” It was a joke I'd been telling for so long now, I didn't even feel that weird about throwing in a wink.

“See, Mom?” Wolfgang whined in a petulant voice. “He's not going to hurt me! Can I play with him? Please?”

The mom, blond and coiffed, looked at me doubtfully. Obviously she hadn't come here with the intention of adopting a dog; she probably hadn't even realized where her son had been dragging her until it was too late. This kind of prospective foster parent was what my mom would call a “tough sell,” but I could use the distraction of a challenge.

“I was such a handful at his age,” I said, nodding my chin toward Wolfgang. “I drove my parents nuts asking for a dog all the time.”

“Yes, well, we don't really have the time to take care of another family member,” Mama Wolfgang said, starting to move away. I could see the tears spring preemptively to Junior's eyes. Man, sometimes these kids made it so easy.

“Of course, we're not trying to sell you on these dogs,” I said, as sweetly as possible. I opened up Maxine's cage and let her scramble into my arms, where she promptly began her ascension upward to frantically lick my face. “They pretty much do that themselves, anyway.” I laughed as Maxine's wet snout snuffled at my neck. “Aw, who's a good girl?”

Wolfgang looked up at his mom, his face as red as mine must have been, in anticipation of an oncoming tantrum. Mama Wolfgang looked beaten.

“Okay darling, if they have an area where you can play with it . . . her . . . I could use ten minutes of me-time, anyway.”

Wolfgang and I beamed. “Of course, right this way, ma'am,” I said, leading them to our outdoor playpen. As soon as I put Maxine down in the pen, the puppy ricocheted at the highest velocity possible into Wolfgang's torso, thumping him down and sending his ridiculous hat sprawling across the grass. There was a stunned silence, and then the kid began to giggle.

“Again, again!” He demanded, and Maxine, whose energy never subsided, was only too happy to comply.

Later, when Wolfgang's mom was talking to Mrs. Jacoby about Maxine's possible reaction to a gluten-free diet, I slipped out of the Mobile Center and headed toward the park to clear my head.

Though people think of Californians as being ultra-laid-back, the truth is that Los Angeles can be just as stressful as anywhere else in the world. I think we—and by “we” I mean the people who have grown up here, not the ones who come here chasing dreams of stardom or whatever—are better at pretending to be easygoing and relaxed, because we've spent so much time practicing how to give off the “not sweating it” vibe. It's as if we're always auditioning for something, and whoever's the most chill will win the part, but then we don't even
care
if we don't get the part. We're just happy to be here. Sometimes we keep up the mirage of coolheadedness so well that we almost buy into it ourselves. It's kind of tempting to present this image of yourself to the world, where you're all like, “Oh, I love surfing and donuts and Boba tea and macrobiotics and Soul Cycle, la-la! Let's all go to Coachella and jam out and eat fro-yo while doing yoga!”

But inside our heads—well, inside mine at least— it's more like “Oh my god, how badly did I wreck my life before the world even had a chance to wreck it for me?”

In Beverly Gardens, there is a smaller-scale model of the Hollywood Sign. But instead of being gigantic and up in the mountains, it's in the middle of a park, surrounded by gorgeous cypress and ficus trees. I don't know why—it's kind of like my Walgreens obsession—but I always felt more drawn to that smaller version of our famous beacon of hope.

I used to think it was normal to like things that everyone else in the world liked: convenience stores, the Hollywood sign, dogs. Now I was starting to think that, in this town, my attraction to normality was what made me a secret weirdo.

As I approached the walled entrance to the sign, I recognized a pair of fairy wings sitting on the lip.
It couldn't possibly be . . .
was all I had time to think before I saw the wings flutter and the figure they were attached to turn around, stand up, and come running toward me. All of a sudden the be-winged creature knocked me to the ground harder than Maxine had with Wolfgang.