A Tale of Two Besties (22 page)

“Young lady,” Tim boomed at a small, rapt child in pristine overalls. “You look like you could use a new friend. How about this one here? Um . . .” Tim checked the name tag on a doggy crate. “. . . Cocoa! I know what you're thinking! Cocoa's not a puppy anymore. But Cocoa is the perfect dog for your family. Did you know that Labrador retrievers are known for their even-temperedness and total lack of aggression? Making them perfect for families with young children? C'mon folks! If these puppies are still with us at the end of the night, they'll be in trouble. Please don't ask what we do with the dogs afterward. You don't even want to know.” Tim winked at the little girl, who was staring at him with giant, awe-filled eyes.

“Tim, knock it off!” I said, trying to act less neurotic than I felt. I turned to the crowd gathered behind us and forced a smile. “Ha-ha. Sorry everyone. That was, um, a joke. He doesn't even work with us, normally. We are
not
a kill shelter. I repeat: we are definitely not a kill shelter! We care for all of our animals humanely and with kindness.”

“So.” The father of the little girl stepped forward; he was trying to get to his wallet but was having a little trouble due the sheer tightness of his cool-dad jeans. “Are you telling me this little guy is for sale, then?”

“Oh, um,” I coughed. “We don't
sell
the dogs, sir. This is more of a rescue and adoption service. We pay for the neutering or spaying and the basic shots. . . .”

Hipster Dad was running out of patience. “Great. So you can just give us the dog, then. We'll take her. Him. Whatever.”

“Uh.” I was imagining this guy going home to his unsuspecting wife with a new dog. This was exactly how animals ended up cycling through the rescue process multiple times. “You still need to fill out your application and adoption forms, and we'll have to check out your references. The whole process takes two to three weeks.”

The dad stared at me. I couldn't tell if he was confused or annoyed, and to be honest I don't think he knew which was the dominant emotion, either. This really wasn't the way PuppyBash was supposed to go down. When it was Lily's and my pre-birthday ritual, we had a whole system in place on how to get people interested in PuppyTales. We'd show them the dogs, encourage them to play with the dogs while we supervised and told them stories about the absolute cutest thing Bonezilla the Basset Hound did when we first took her swimming, or how Kevin the Pekinese makes this adorable little oinking noise when he sleeps. None of these “Step right up!” shenanigans that turned the puppies into sideshow stars. Adopting a dog was serious business!

“Tim,” I said after clearing my throat with authority. “May I speak with you when you have a moment?” I wasn't sure if he could hear me over my grinding jaw. Tim shrugged at Hipster Dad and shooed Cocoa off back into the RV. It was time to go to the next stop on the itinerary, and I would have to set Tim straight on the way.

“Okay, so how did I do?” Tim asked after we'd packed up the van to head for Laurel Canyon. He looked so pleased with himself, which annoyed me even more.

“Not great,” I said. I licked my finger and tried to get a white smudge out of my black shorts. I tried to wear only dark colors during my volunteer work, but somehow they still always ended up dirty. “You should really be following my lead, and maybe just stick to handing out pamphlets. This isn't some joke, and you don't know what you're doing.” Was I being too harsh? Maybe. But this was my passion, and even though Tim meant well, he was just barging in on it like a Great Dane in a delicate figurine store, messing everything up.

“Okay,” Tim said, looking appropriately abashed. “I'm sorry Harper. But I was just trying to be funny, you know? Entertain people. Make them want to take home the dogs. That's the whole point, right?”

I could have given any number of reasons why he was wrong. That the PuppyBash wasn't about unloading shelter dogs onto people who make decisions based on a whim or a charismatic salesman—that's exactly how these dogs end up in shelters in the first place. Or I could have told him that, despite his joking around, there wasn't going to be a happily ever after for any of those dogs if a place like PuppyTales couldn't raise enough funds to sustain itself, which was 90 percent of the purpose of our community outreach tonight. Hell, I could have told him he had no right to argue with me, and that tagging along for this thing was HIS idea.

Instead, I just snapped. “No, the point, Tim, is that this isn't about you. It's about the fact that Lily and I always spend the night before my birthday doing something that she knows means a lot to me. And instead of her, I have to do it with
you.
” It was the worst possible answer, since it was the one that was the closest to how I really felt. I felt the warmth in my cheeks spreading down to my neck.
Rein it in, Harper
, I thought. I took a breath, closed my eyes, and found my center. In and out, in and out, breathing with my lower diaphragm. Just like mom's trainer/nutritionist/breathing coach Raoul taught me. Finally I felt calm and relaxed.

“So,” said Tim, leaning against the truck but no longer smiling. “This is really about you and Lily.”

My eyes flew open. “THIS IS ABOUT THE DOGS!” I scream-splained.

Buffy and Georgie and Bruschetta and Dottie and Bandit howled in agreement from their crates.

I looked at Tim. He was already looking at me. I know one of us was the first to crack, but I can't remember anymore, because soon it was a rolling wave of unending, howling laughter.

The rest of the night went better. On Mulholland in Laurel Canyon, we introduced our buddies around the park, gave away some literature about PuppyTales, cleaned up our fair share of dog poo, and finally shooed away those scam artist “dog walkers” who ignore their fifteen plus charges as soon as they're fenced into the park. Then we were off to Lake Hollywood Park, right in the shadow of our most famous sign. We were there for no more than five minutes before a giant German shepherd bowled Tim over—literally—while making a play for his sweaty handful of Snausages. Instead of freaking out, BoyWonder just giggled that new Matthew McConaughey laugh of his—heh-heh-heh—and let volfehounder perform an intensive cavity search. All right, I told myself. All right, all right
, all right
.

“Hey, so . . . sorry about earlier,” I told Tim when we were finally on our way home. It was after dark and the dogs were happily pooped (literally and figuratively). From the front of the Mobile Center's cab, we could occasionally catch snippets of the Jacobys murmuring their gratitude in our general direction. “I know you've been really cool to me and I appreciate it,” I went on. “I just . . . I'm just used to doing this only with Lily, you know? I still can't believe she bailed on me.”

“I can't believe it either,” Tim said. “That doesn't seem like something she'd do.”

Then, the Mobile Center took a sharp left turn, causing me to lose my balance and practically fall into Tim's lap. Even in the dark I could feel him blush, and he quickly angled his arm out from under where I was splayed, resting it on my shoulder in an awkward, one-arm hug, his chin resting on the top of my head. He smelled nice, like laundry detergent and . . . firewood. Is firewood even a scent? I don't know, but whatever it was, I liked it, and for once I wasn't going to question how I felt or what it would look like to anyone else. I closed my eyes, feeling myself drift a little bit over to Tim. In the front of the RV, Mr. and Mrs. Jacoby were singing along to Crosby, Stills and Nash.

“This part is nice,” I said groggily, letting my head rest on his chest.

The hand on my shoulder relaxed. “Wuzzat? The song?”

“Sure, the song, the drive . . . it's all nice.” I held my breath, but Tim didn't respond at all. In fact, his breathing had slowed down considerably.

“Tim?”

There was a beat, and then a loud snore. Tim had fallen fast asleep. The dogs in the back howled.

The day of Harper's birthday and the F³ re-launch party, I spent an inordinately long amount of time picking out my outfit. It had to be just perfect, and I went through a bunch of options, frowning in the mirror at each one. Vintage Girl Scout uniform? Too drab. Coral sleeveless silk top paired with blue culottes? Too formal. Floral print midi dress? Too young. Oversized chambray shirt, belted, with black leggings? Too
stylish
.

Ugh, fashion was the hardest thing in the entire world and I hated it and I wished Nasty Gal and Man Repeller had stayed Nasty and Repellant, instead of making alterna-wear a “thing.” I wished I had never found WhoWhatWear.com and I wished that I could go back to the time when I thought “street fashion” meant something you actually saw on the street, not the Internet. Finally I settled on the first thing I'd tried on: a Free People layered tulle tutu in soft pink, paired with a cream-colored leotard. I tried to wrestle the pink tutu skirt over my head as I heard the doorbell ring. Ugh, why could I never remember to step
into
these things? The skirt was scratchy against my bare legs. I could already tell it would be itchy all night, and that I was definitely going to get hives. I wished that I hadn't made a pact with Harper about staying true to ourselves, when I didn't even know what that meant anymore.

I muttered something to myself that even I didn't catch and threw my phone on the bed, right in time to hear a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I said, wincing as the girl I saw in the mirror put on a too-bright smile. Harper entered almost shyly, wearing a dark red dress that fell around her shoulders in a cowl. She had arranged her hair in a messy up-do, and was wearing smoky eyeliner, like an adult. She had done something (or Mrs. Carina had) to her cheeks as well: they now had capital D Definition. I cringed, and not only because I suddenly felt like a kid next to a well-dressed adult: I wondered if Harper knew how inappropriate she looked for a Pathways party. Not to mention the fact that she didn't have any wings. Darn it, had I forgot to mention those over the phone? I must have been too busy planning this whole party, which actually should technically count as planning Harper's party, so who cares if I forgot a detail or two?

“Wow, you look amazing! Let me get a good look at you!” God, I sounded like a daytime TV host. “Happy birthday, birthday girl! How are you?”

“Thanks,” Harper said. “Fine.” She was looking at me oddly, like she was expecting something. It made me nervous, so I pretended to rummage through my bag for something I didn't need: gum, a Band-Aid . . . anything. Unfortunately, all I had in there was some lint and three citrus flavored Tic-Tacs that had fallen out of their plastic container. I put one of them in my mouth anyway, because I'm disgusting.

“So, are you excited about tonight?” I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Why couldn't I think of anything else to say?

“Sure.” Harper coughed. “Um, if that's really what we're doing. Going to your friend's party, I mean.”

“Of course it is!” I said, as brightly as I could. “Where else would we be going?” Harper seemed to sag a little bit when I said that, so I tried to pump her up. “Isn't it great? I scored us an invite to the hottest party in town! The F³ rebranding is, like, the biggest event this season!” Whoa,
hello,
where did that come from? Was I on some terrible scripted show about my own life?

“I don't know, Lily.” Harper sighed as she drifted toward my dresser, absentmindedly picking up and putting down random objects: my crocheted tea cozy, my porcelain rocking horse, my mirrored tin with all my jewelry. “This seems like a whole . . . thing.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to smile. “That's the point, Harper,” I stressed, sitting on my bed. “It is a
whole thing
. We're going to change it up for once. And you said you wanted to meet my friends . . . I just wish you could have gotten more in the spirit of things! Like, do you maybe want to borrow something of mine to wear that's a little more . . . fun?”

“Fun?” Harper sounded doubtful. “Since when do you care what I wear? Plus, Lily, I know you put a lot of thought into this, but I was thinking we could maybe just stay in this year? Hang out? Just the two of us?” This was totally not a Harper-like reaction to the idea of going to a cool party. She was usually the one who got pumped about meeting new people, and I was the one who was always begging to stay in and eat cheese and watch weird movies. I had to shake her out of her funk. What would Nicole do?

“Oh, come on! It'll be fun! There is no ‘I' in ‘Us,' Harper!” I walked over to my dresser with more determination than I'd ever had and spun Harper around so she was facing me. “But there are three of them in ‘Individual!'“

“What are you talking about?”

“Uh, well, it's just that . . . maybe this year, we could try to do something a little more . . . unique. I was really hoping we could try being, uh, real. The real us. By not following the crowd, and doing something, you know . . . unique?” This kind of stuff sounded so much better when it came out of Nicole's mouth.

“Wait. You want us to
not
follow the crowd by going to . . . a party?” Was it just me or was Harper starting to sound a lot like her sarcastic sister these days? Nothing was ever going to be easy with Harper, even when I was . . .

“. . . trying to help her . . .”

Harper looked confused. “Lily, what did you say?”

“Nothing!” I threw my hand over my mouth, all of a sudden feeling totally overwhelmed. Sometimes it was like my brain couldn't think about stuff without having it also come out of my mouth. I would have to watch that little tendency of mine tonight, while Harper and Nicole were in the same room together. I tried to regroup.

“I'm just . . . trying to help us—
help you—
become the best possible version of yourself,” I said, making sure no extra words were getting out. “I put a lot of thought into this . . . and . . . I just think, you know, we need to put more Energy and Art and Nature and Magic into your birthday this year.” I left out Sheganism and Alienation, but managed to throw out the other core tenants of NAMASTE in my Hail Mary speech. I crossed my fingers and toes and prayed for it to work.

“Fine,” Harper finally said, looking down and fidgeting with her cowl collar. “Lead the way, oh brave fashion pioneer.”

I tried not to take that as an insult and instead practiced harnessing my good vibes. “Great! Oh my god, you're going to adore Jane! And Drew! And my friend Nicole, she's the president of this club I've told you about . . .” I reached behind Harper and pulled the finishing touches to my outfit out from my top dresser drawer: a cool floral crown that I'd found in an excavation of my attic, and of course, my wings. Can't leave home without them. At least not to any event planned by my Pathway friends.

I really hoped the party would live up to my hype. I hoped Nicole and my Pathways friends would really love Harper the way I did. But the thing was, I was worried. As much as I loved being accepted at my school, my new friends weren't really
accepting
. I used to think that the word “intolerance” referred to bigots and racists and bros (and lactose and gluten, obviously), but it turns out that the most open-minded people can also be the least forgiving. At Pathways, if you're not unique, you're “basic.” If you like anything that's accepted by the mainstream culture, you're “brainwashed.” If you don't wear your originality on your sleeve, literally, every single day, then you are being a conformist and not thinking for yourself. You're Beth-Lynne, and you end up in tears in the middle of a hallway filled with judgmental classmates.

No. It didn't have to be like that. I was sure my new friends would love Harper, I decided. Of course they would. They had to.

They had to.

Right?