by Katie Wismer
“Now’s the fun part,” I say as I recollect the bowls and stack them beside the counter. I point to the leashes hanging on a peg nailed beside the door. “You wanna help me get them out back so they can get some fresh air?”
Sam already has the leashes in hand. “Do you take them all at the same time?”
“There are only ten of them right now, so yeah. And especially with two of us, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I start with Squirt’s cage because she’s the easiest to get on a leash. Also, she’s my favorite. She starts doing her weird jumping thing again until I finally slide the cage’s door up, and she jumps right into my arms. As I try to wrestle the leash onto her squirming body, she lands a couple of kisses just below my chin.
Once I get the leash secured and set Squirt on the floor, she starts jumping up and down in excitement.
Sam laughs aloud. “She’s like a little jumping bean.”
“Right? I actually wanted to name her Bean,” I say as I open Banjo’s cage. “But Nick, the owner, gets final say, and he liked Squirt better.”
As I get the rest of the dogs out, I attach their leashes one-by-one to the counter in the center of the room until they’re all out and staring at me, tongues hanging out of their mouths, tails wagging.
“This is their favorite time of day,” I tell Sam and give him half of the leashes. The dogs take off, yanking him forward. “They’ll show you the way,” I call after him, laughing as he runs with them instead of yanking on the leashes and forcing them to walk, as most people would do.
My five dogs take off after them, and I let them yank me along until we reach the backdoor. The moment I open the door, they all try to break through, one yanking the leash right from Sam’s hand. His eyes go wide as it falls to the floor and the dog takes off.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say before he can take off after the dog. “The back is fenced in.”
We follow the dogs out and close the door behind us. The back is really just a big patch of grass, with a couple of toys and bones scattered throughout. We’re only required to take them out for twenty minutes or so after dinner to see if they’ll go to the bathroom outside, but I usually keep them out longer if the weather permits. Even if it is fenced in and they don’t have a lot of space to run, it’s better than those cages, and they seem to like the sun and fresh air.
Sam helps me release the dogs from the leashes, and they take off. The younger ones immediately jump into a wrestling match, as if picking up where they left off from a previous day, whereas some of the older dogs just like to go lie in the grass and soak up the sun. Squirt and Banjo start a chasing game, one sprinting across the yard, then waiting for the other to catch up before taking off again.
“Do they always have so much energy?” Sam asks.
I sink into a seated position in the grass, and Pluto, our old German Shepard, comes and plops his head in my lap. “Squirt does.” I smile, my eyes tracing her progress across the lawn. Just looking at her makes my chest feel warm.
Sam joins me in the grass and scratches Pluto’s head.
As if she can sense we’re talking about her, Squirt bolts over to where we’re sitting, jumps up, and licks Sam from one corner of his mouth to the opposite ear. He flails back, wiping at his mouth.
“Could you at least buy me dinner first?” he says.
Squirt barks in response and circles us before finally plopping herself into my lap, forcing Pluto to move. He doesn’t look too upset about the change. He just slumps against my side and licks my hand to remind me of his presence, or rather, remind me to pet him. I use one hand for Pluto and one for Squirt, and hope none of the other dogs look over and notice, or they’ll all come bounding over in jealousy.
The second I start petting Squirt, she rolls onto her back to give me better access to her belly. “You’re such a little flirt, Squirt.” I nuzzle her nose.
I glance over to see Sam watching me, his head cocked in that way of his.
“You’re so good with them,” he says.
I’m the first to break the eye contact. “It’s because I’m so bad with people. Gotta make up for it somehow.”
Sam laughs, leans over, and scratches Squirt behind her ears. “So, how often do you volunteer here?”
“At least four days a week, sometimes more if they need me.”
“That’s quite the commitment.”
I shrug, my gaze still trained on Squirt. “I like it here.”
We fall into silence, and my mind immediately starts spinning in frantic circles, searching for something to say. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t seem to mind the lull in conversation. He’s just watching the dogs play, a slight smile on his face. The breeze picks up and rustles his hair.
“So I actually have an ulterior motive for coming today,” he says. “Though I did want to meet this one.” He scratches Squirt’s belly and she rolls her head to the side to look at him.
“Ulterior motive?” I ask.
“Well.” He pulls out a few blades of grass and twirls them through his fingers, then trains his calm and unwavering gaze on me. I can feel my cheeks burning, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to look away. “I’m here so I can formally ask you on a date.”
Okay, so that was not what I was expecting. My face is definitely hot now, and no matter how much I try to fight a smile, the corners of my mouth curve without my permission. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head and leans back on his hands. “Trade secrets. You’ll just have to wait and see. How’s Friday night sound?”
My throat goes dry, making it difficult to swallow. This is happening. This is actually happening.
A very large and loud part of me wants to say no. To say no and get out of here and run and just forget about this whole thing. And not because I don’t like Sam. Not because I don’t want to go. But every nerve in my body is burning and shaking, and there’s so much turmoil inside of my veins that I think I might be sick with it.
But more than that, I’m sick of this. I am sick of this feeling. I’m sick of listening to it and letting it control everything I do.
So, I take a deep breath, stretch my mouth into a smile that probably looks forced, and say, “Friday night sounds perfect.”
8
Around two o’clock on Friday afternoon, I get a text from Maman. Buried beneath a dozen emojis and unnecessary exclamation marks is a plea for me to drop off food on my way home from school since she’s been so busy at work and hasn’t taken a lunch break.
I immediately find this odd, unless her employees didn’t show up for work today. Her boutique is doing well and always turns a generous profit at the end of the month, but it rarely has more than a handful of customers inside at a time. Definitely not enough to keep her from running next door to the sandwich shop at the very least.
Still, I go. If nothing else, it’ll distract me for a bit so I can’t obsess and over-think about my date with Sam tonight. I stop at Panera on the way back for a soup and salad and pull into the parking lot outside of her boutique. The moment I pull in, I can tell she has some ulterior motive, because the only other car in the lot is hers.
I grab the bag of food and head inside. The layout of the store has been the same for as long as I can remember. The first thing you see when you walk in the door is the big round table full of jewelry made by local women, most of whom are stay-at-home moms trying to make some extra cash. Racks of clothes span out from there, organized by color and season. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors with golden decorative frames are propped in every corner, making the shop appear much bigger than it actually is.
I used to love coming here when I was younger. Harper and I would run through the aisles, spinning around in front of the mirrors, swallowed by dresses three times our size. I think Maman has a photobook full of pictures from our visits and impromptu fashion shows, all blurry and crooked, taken by budding-
photographer Johanna on a disposable camera.
I can’t even remember the last time I was in here.
The checkout counter—really just a glorified desk—is tucked away in the corner, so I weave my way through the clothes in that direction. When I reach the back, however, there’s no one else in sight.
“Maman?” I call.
“Mon Cœur!” She scurries out from the back room in gray skinny jeans, chucky black ankle boots, and a stylish black sweater with flared sleeves. Her hair is done up in an elaborate twist, exposing the large silver hoops dangling from her ears.
I’m wearing an over-sized T-shirt that says Adopt Don’t Shop and plain black workout leggings that I’m pretty sure I’ve already worn twice this week.
“I brought your favorite.” I hand her the bag.
“Thank you.” She pulls me in for a hug and promptly sets the bag on the desk, clearly not as hungry as she’d led me to believe.
“Well.” I shrug and start to turn for the door. “See you—”
“Wait! Wait! While you’re here…” She grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the storage room.
And now, the moment of truth.
The storage room is usually just a couple of rows of shelves with various boxes full of things like the supplies needed for tagging clothes, sewing kits, and extra inventory. Today, Maman has hung a dress from every available surface like some sort of art gallery.
She grins as she pulls me inside and starts gesturing around. “Now, don’t think too much about it; which one catches your eye first?”
The dresses range from full-blown prom dresses with shiny gemstones and puffy skirts to cocktail dresses with slits and open backs. It’s a sea of black, cream, hot pink, neon green, and every color in between. I blink a few times.
“What am I looking at?” I ask, my voice flat.
“Well.” She scampers over to a white minidress with lace sleeves and floral embellishments. She takes its skirt in both hands and stretches it out as if I hadn’t been able to see it well enough before. “I know you have your date with Sam tonight…and I just thought…”
“Maman,” I groan.
“What?” she whines. “Can you blame me for wanting to be included? It’s your first date. This is so exciting!”
I take a deep breath before responding, urging myself not to be frustrated, because the look on her face is so excited and genuine, and I really don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I just don’t think it’s that kind of date, Maman,” I say.
Her entire face scrunches up in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s a lot more casual. I’ll probably just wear jeans.”
“Jeans?” she gasps, scandalized.
“I don’t want to be overdressed! Then I’ll just look silly.”
Her entire body deflates in disappointment. “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
She sighs and runs her hand down the full-length red dress closest to her. “I didn’t even get to pick out your prom dress.” She sounds on the verge of tears.
This is correct, because I didn’t even go to junior prom, and I don’t plan on going this year, either. But even if I did, I don’t think she realizes pretty much no moms get to pick out their daughters’ prom dresses. Pointing this out now will win me no points, though.
“You want to go eat your salad?” I offer.
She waves a hand and sniffles. “I’m not hungry. I already ate.”
I hold back my scowl. I can’t even be mad that she sent me on a pointless errand and made my entire car smell like clam chowder for nothing. She just looks so crestfallen and pitiful. And as misguided as it was, she was just trying to do something nice.
“So, I was thinking,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “Since I’m about to graduate and head off to college, before I go, maybe we should have, like, a girls’ day?”
The last two words are almost physically painful as they come out of my mouth, because I already have a good idea of what such a thing is going to entail, but the peace-offering clearly works, because Maman stops sniffling.
“Girls’ day?” she asks.
I shove my hands in the side pockets of my leggings and shrug. “Yeah, like, you, me, and Harper could go do something. Maybe see a movie…”
Her eyes widen, and I can practically see her thoughts erratically cartwheeling behind her eyes. “We could make a whole day of it! Nails, massages, shopping—”
I open my mouth, but she keeps talking.
“You’ll have to talk Harper into it, though.” She paces as she talks, probably already planning every second of the day in her head. “She’ll never agree if she thinks it’s my idea.”
I gape at her. “And what makes you think we’d have any more luck if she thought it was my idea?”
Maman rolls her eyes. “Of course she will.”
“Harper hates me!”
Maman opens and closes her mouth a few times, like she can’t decide on what to say, which would be a first for her. She settles with tilting her head to the side, a small smile teasing at her lips.
“Meredith,” she says. “Harper worships you.”
“Yeah, right,” I snort.
Maman’s small smile has turned into a full-on smirk. “Mon Coeur, you have much to learn. So, will you tell Harper?”
“What day do you want to do it?”
“How about Sunday, after church?”
“Okay.”
Maman grins and shuffles toward me, flapping her hands, which is her way of showing she’s about to hug me. I don’t even complain when she plants a wet kiss to the side of my face, surely leaving behind bright red lipstick prints.
The bell above the door rings as someone enters the shop.
“Oh!” Maman squeezes my arm, then hurries toward the front. “Bonjour! Welcome in!” she calls.
I wind around the racks of clothes, heading for the exit, but freeze by the navy dresses when I see who Maman’s latest customers are. Ashley Miller is standing by the jewelry table, arms folded over her chest, looking like she’s been dragged here against her will. An older woman in head-to-toe bright-white Lululemon and platform black flip flops (they still make those?) is standing next to her, sifting through the rack of white dresses. Her blonde hair is yanked back in a severe bun, almost as severe as her thick cat eyeliner. She glances up as Maman heads toward them, asking if they need any help, and I immediately see the resemblance.
Same puckered facial expression, like she just swallowed something sour. Same cutting gaze, like she’s judging everyone around her. Oh yes, Ashley is definitely the spawn of this woman.
“We’re looking for a dress for my daughter,” the woman tells Maman, turning away from her. “Something not…trashy.” She flicks away the dress she’d been holding as if it left something gross on her hand and paces back toward her daughter.
Maman doesn’t respond at first, probably also trying to figure out if the woman just insulted her store.
“What’s the occasion?” Maman finally asks.
“A wedding.” The woman glances down at the jewelry table and purses her lips.
“Oh! I have some great dresses for that.” Maman crosses over to the dresses on the opposing wall. “I think this would look nice on you!”
Maman holds out a dusty-rose lace dress to show Ashley. My body tenses, waiting for her reaction. If she treats Maman the way she usually treats me at school, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Ashley looks at the dress, her eyebrows raising. The expression isn’t entirely…unpleasant. She reaches out to feel the fabric.
“Oh, no.” Her mother comes over, examines the dress, and then examines her daughter. “Absolutely not.” She takes the dress out of Maman’s hands and puts it back on the rack.
“I kind of—” Ashley starts.
Her mom cuts her a look. “It’ll make you look fat,” she says.
Ashley’s mouth
tightens, but she doesn’t respond.
Maman stares at Mrs. Miller, who just whips back around and starts shuffling through the remaining dresses, before turning her gaze on me with a can you believe this? expression. Unfortunately, yes, I absolutely can.
The moment I start edging toward the door, Ashley’s gaze cuts to me. She looks startled for a moment; she clearly hadn’t noticed me standing there before. Her expression quickly shifts to the all too familiar look of disdain.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps, but there’s less weight behind it than usual.
I don’t even bother responding. “See you at home.” I wave to Maman and skirt around Ashley to the door. I almost feel bad about leaving Maman alone with them, but I don’t have the mental capacity to worry about the Millers right now. I have a date to get ready for.
9
I’m not sure who is more excited about this date, me or my parents. At 6:55 p.m., I’m sitting in the living room waiting for Sam to pick me up when they both come shuffling into the room, grinning like someone just came on the television and announced we’ve finally achieved world peace. Maman eyes my jeans-and-black-tank-top ensemble. The grin fades.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wear a dress?” she asks.
“You look magnifique, my love,” says Papa, squeezing me to his side. As far as he’s concerned, the less skin showing, the better.
When Sam pulls up in his black SUV—exactly on time—I’m relieved to see him step out in dark jeans and a gray T-shirt. Being underdressed would have been equally as embarrassing as showing up in a sparkly prom dress. I’m still jittery with nerves, but they’re not necessarily the bad kind.
He stands on the porch with a small bouquet of peach and white flowers, and Maman grins like she’s the one going on the date.
“Nice to see you, Sam,” says Papa.
“Likewise, Mr. Beaumont.” He reaches out to shake his hand. Papa’s grin widens to match Maman’s. “Mare won’t be out too late. I’ll have her home by ten.”