by Ellie Wade
“I said, take Georgia!” she yells.
He doesn’t respond this time or slow his pace.
“If I didn’t love him so much, I’d beat him,” Ethel grumbles. “Come on.” She grabs my hand and leads me in the direction in which Wyatt just disappeared to.
“Uh…I don’t think this is a good idea. Let me just stay here and work with the dogs. Please,” I plead.
“He needs help. You’re available to help. That’s all there is to it. We’re all here to do a job, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let his stubbornness get in the way of that. Not on my watch.”
“I’ll go outside and relieve Dan,” I offer quietly as the two of us are now standing outside, next to Wyatt’s truck.
“Get in,” Ethel instructs.
I do as she said. Opening the passenger door, I grab on to the handle above the seat and pull myself up. Wyatt’s truck is tall, and the engine grumbles loudly—a fact that I’m grateful for, as it masks the argument between Wyatt and Ethel that’s going on outside right now.
I look around. The truck seems on the newer side, and it’s clean. I don’t know why that annoys me. I suppose I pictured Wyatt as a slob—anything to hate him more.
There are no personal items lying around. The cupholders in the middle console are filled with a large metal water bottle and his wallet. Pretty boring stuff. I don’t know what I was expecting. Long-lost letters of regret for the words he said to me? A diary or scrapbook?
After a minute, the arguing stops. The vehicle jostles as Wyatt throws some things into the bed of the truck. Then, he’s opening the driver’s door and getting in.
I fasten my seat belt.
“I have no idea why you came back,” he growls as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Just do what you’re told and don’t talk. Are we clear?”
I opt to look out the window instead of answering him. He told me not to talk after all.
5
“If I didn’t detest Georgia as much as I do, I might laugh at how adorable she is.”—Wyatt Gates
I’m not particularly thrilled to be heading to my old stomping grounds. I try to avoid this area at all costs. Too many bad memories exist there. I’m even less enthused that I have to take Georgia with me.
Ethel.
I’m trying to remember what it is that I love about that woman. I’m finding it hard to recall at the moment. She’s the sweetest person in the world, but she’s also the most stubborn.
The inside of the cab is mostly quiet, except for the rumble of the engine. If Georgia’s mere presence didn’t bother me so much, I could almost forget she was even here. Almost.
Even when she’s silent, I can’t ignore her. My body knows she’s close. It warms at the thought of her. How is it possible to despise someone so much and be insanely attracted to them all at once? It makes no sense, and it’s driving me crazy. I just want her gone.
I haven’t figured out her motives for being here, and it really doesn’t matter. There’s no reason valid enough for me to want her to stay on working at the shelter.
We drive through Ann Arbor and into Ypsilanti. Home sweet home. This place stopped being my home the second I moved out the summer after senior year—also known as the summer my mom overdosed.
There are some nice parts of Ypsilanti, just not where I lived. I’m from across the tracks. The housing projects I called home were located literally on the other side of the train tracks. It’s ironic how the tracks separated the two parts of the city. On one side was the not-too-shabby area, complete with hospitals, a college, restaurants, and nice subdivisions. Then, there was my side, full of Section 8 housing, drugs, gangs, and dog fighting.
I hated being here then, and I hate being here now. But if there’s a dog that needs saving, I need to suck it up and get over it.
The truck bounces over the tracks, and I see the dingy brown apartment buildings where I spent my childhood. I pull into Building C’s parking lot, turn the truck off, and get out.
“Wyatt?” Mr. Meaner stands before me with a brown bag in hand.
“Hi, Mr. Meaner.”
I can’t believe this old man is still alive. He must have a liver of steel. He’s Building C’s resident alcoholic—or at least, one of them. And contrary to his name, he’s the happy drunk. I always liked him. I learned early on that most drunks aren’t so happy.
“I got a call about some dogs stuck under a building.”
“I’m not sure about any dogs, but there is something going on over there by the corner of Willie’s old place that’s making a lot of racket.” He swings his arm toward the apartment that he’s speaking of, as if I could ever forget it.
Four hours on a smelly bus isn’t good for much besides sleeping and homework, and I do both daily. I hate taking this bus to Ann Arbor every day for school. It’s an epic waste of time. I can think of plenty that I’d rather be doing than wasting two hours every morning and night. I could be working more, for one.
Even with my two jobs and Mom’s government check, we’re barely making ends meet. I’m fucking sick of ramen noodles—like, really sick of them. I also don’t know how many more too-old-to-serve burgers I can stomach. I’m not one to turn down food, but these fast-food places aren’t serving quality as it is. That quality depletes rapidly when a sandwich has been sitting so long that it’s deemed unsuitable for consumption and has to be thrown away or put in my pocket for dinner later.
But Mom got me a scholarship to that snobby high school, promising me it would help my future. I don’t understand how she can feign concern over my future when she has no desire to be present in it. Even if she’s alive when I graduate, she won’t be there. She’ll be off in some drug-induced stupor.
The bus finally reaches my stop, and I get off and make my way across the tracks toward our apartment building. This is the earliest I’ve been home from school in weeks, as I normally work in the evenings. In place of the happiness I should be feeling at finally having an evening off, I can only feel dread. If I’m being honest, I’m always leery, entering my apartment.
I reach out to open the handle of the door, but it opens before I can. In the entryway stands Willie, my mom’s dealer. He zips up his pants with a sick smirk in my direction. I step aside, allowing him to pass, which he does without a word.
I walk inside and close the door, dead-bolting it shut. I drop my backpack on the floor.
“Mom?” I call into the apartment that smells like rotten cheese for some reason. Guess I’ll be cleaning tonight. “Mom, I’m home.”
With each hesitant step I take toward her bedroom, I pray that she’s okay.
“Mom?” I crack the door to find her lying naked on her bare mattress.
There’s a needle next to her outstretched hand.
“Shit!” I race over to her and press my two fingers against her neck.
She grumbles and rolls over.
She’s just sleeping.
I dispose of the drug paraphernalia and cover her up with a blanket. I place a pillow at her back, keeping her on her side in case she vomits while she’s passed out.
I spend the next two hours scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom. I locate the smell, which is in fact cheese. Well, there’s cheese on the trap next to the mouse that appears to have been dead for quite some time.
I shower and decide I’ll go get a few groceries to make Mom a nice meal for when she wakes. Pulling the coffee can labeled Groceries out of the cupboard, I open it to find it empty.
My chin falls to my chest with a sigh.
I open the refrigerator and it’s barren, too, save for the carton of rotten milk, which I throw out. I grab my jacket and head for the door.
Hopefully, work will have some burgers to throw in the trash tonight.
“Stay here,” I say to Georgia without looking in her direction.
I decide to go assess the situation without her first. In fact, I plan on doing most of the rescue without her. Ethel made me bring her, but I’m only working
with her if I absolutely have to.
I second-guess leaving Georgia with Mr. Meaner but decide he’s too drunk to say anything too coherent anyway.
When I stick my head down to look through the hole underneath the building, I immediately see the pups. There are four sets of eyes staring back at me.
Upon further assessment, I notice these pups look like an older litter, maybe four or five months old. Not sure what happened to the mother, but I’m glad someone called in for these guys. They are bait dogs in waiting in this neighborhood.
“I’m going to help you, okay? Sit tight.” I back away from the hole and return to the truck for supplies.
After grabbing what I need, I walk back toward the puppies.
“I don’t need your help. You can go back,” I address the keeper of the annoying footsteps behind me.
“I’m supposed to help you,” she says pointedly.
“Okay, go help by sitting in the truck.”
She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t halt her pursuit either.
“Why did you live here in high school if you went to school in Ann Arbor?” she inquires.
Evidently, Mr. Meaner isn’t too drunk to gossip.
I ignore her question.
I take out the rope and begin opening the cans of dog food. I situate the dog crate with the door open toward the gap beneath the brick.
“Are you going to lure them out with food? How many are there? What’s the rope for?” she rattles off questions.
“Why won’t you go away?” I hiss.
“Because I want to learn,” she snaps back. “Stop being a dick and teach me.”
I hold my palms up. “Why on earth do you want to learn this? Why my rescue?”
“I don’t know for sure,” she huffs. “But I do. Mark told me about it.”
“Mark?”
“Mark and Stan? He said you help him.”
“You know Mark and Stan?” I ask her, running my fingers through my hair in frustration.
“Sort of. We’ve met.”
“And he told you to come work for me?”
Nothing she’s saying is making sense. Why would Mark have suggested to Georgia that she should work at my shelter?
“Sort of.”
I groan.
This could go on all day. For as much as I hate her, I have to admire the way she stands up to me. Besides Georgia, the only other person in my life to argue with me is Ethel. It’s refreshing and annoying, all at once.
“Whatever,” I concede. “So, we’re dealing with older puppies. Chances are, they haven’t had much contact with people, so they’ll still be pretty skittish. But puppies usually aren’t aggressive. However, you must always be careful because a scared dog can bite. They’re bound to be hungry, hence the cans of food.”
I show her the leash. “If I can get this loop around a neck, I can pull it to tighten it and lead the puppy to this crate.”
“And if you can’t?” she asks.
“Then, I’m going to have to crawl in there and scare them out while you stand in front of the hole with the open crate. So, they’ll run in.”
“Like a trap.” She nods.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Her blue eyes shine brighter than usual as she smiles wide. “Okay, I got it. Let’s do this.” Her voice is excited as she claps her gloved hands together.
If I didn’t detest Georgia as much as I do, I might laugh at how adorable she is.
But I do. So, I don’t.
6
“There was a brief moment when I thought that true love was possible, but Wyatt was there to show me that it wasn’t.” —Georgia Wright
“Any exciting Friday night plans?” Ethel asks, handing me a bowl of food.
I bend down and place the bowl into Squirrely’s cage, making sure that his gate is double-latched before stepping to the next kennel. Squirrely didn’t get his name for nothing. That boy can get out of almost anything.
“Actually, my sister, London, is flying in for the weekend to visit. So, I’ll probably go out with the girls,” I tell Ethel as she hands me the next bowl of food.
She and I have a pretty good system going. She pulls around a wagon with the food and bowls, and I do the bending.
“How about you?” I ask.
She chuckles. “I’m too old to have Friday night plans.”
“No, you are not.” I chastise, “You need to stop saying that. You’re only as old as you feel.”
“Huh,” she lets out a grunt. “I feel damn old. You just wait until you’re my age. You’ll understand. Plus, I work here on the weekends. The dogs still need to be cared for.”
I take another bowl from her hand and look her in the eyes. “You need to take care of yourself, Ethel. Hire some weekend help. You need at least a day to rest, a day for you.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh and place the bowl of food into the next dog’s cage. I’ve successfully lasted two weeks here, and truthfully, I’m really proud of that. Wyatt hasn’t made it easy.
I haven’t gone on another rescue with him since we got Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Princess from under Wyatt’s old apartment building. Ethel let me name them. Naming the rescues is one of my favorite parts of the job. Hope, the pregnant girl from my first day, should be having her puppies any minute. It would be cool if I could name them as well.
I’m not sure how long I’ll stay on here, but I’m not ready to go yet. I truly feel that I’m meant to be here right now for some reason.
Despite the stress of dealing with Wyatt, I love it here. I love Ethel. She’s quickly become one of my favorite people in the world. I adore the dogs, each and every one. My family never really had pets when I was growing up, which was probably smart, considering how much we moved. I never knew how wonderful, loving, and smart dogs could be.
For all the stress that Wyatt causes, the dogs take it away tenfold. They have this ability to make me feel loved and important. Their faces light up every day when I get here. Their entire bodies shake with happiness at my presence. It’s a cool feeling.
Most of them have been tortured, starved, and abused at the hands of humans, and yet they don’t hold that against me. They just want to love me. They just want to be loved. They’re so sweet and forgiving in a way that I could never be. Some days, I cry all the way back to Paige’s because it’s so overwhelming. I wish I could take each and every one of them home with me.
“You said your sister’s name is London?”
I blink, my mind returning from my thoughts. It takes me a second to register her question. “Um, yeah. London.”
“Do you have any other siblings?”
“Nope. Just the two of us. We’re close. She’s just two years older than me. She lives in the Tennessee mountains with her husband.”
Ethel pulls the wagon behind her as we walk to the other side of the kennel. “Both of your names are of places. That’s neat.”
I laugh. “Yeah, until you know why.”
“Uh-oh. Do I want to know?”
“It’s where we were conceived. My parents actually made me in Atlanta, but they liked Georgia better. I mean, obviously, my parents had to do it in order to make me. It’s just weird to think about.”
“Yeah, no one wants to think about their parents bumping uglies, but that’s life.”
“Ethel!” I say with a laugh, tapping her arm.
“What? Do people not say bumping uglies anymore?”
I shake my head. “Oh, Ethel,” is all I can say.
“Cheers to us!” Paige says, holding up her glass.
London and I clink ours together with hers, saying, “Cheers!”
“These are good!” I tell Paige.
“Right? I’ve always wanted to learn how to make a good mojito. I think I’ve achieved it.”
“You have. These are perfect,” London agrees. “And seeing that I’m not pregnant, I can drink as many as I want!”
She says it with a sm
ile, but I know she’s bummed that she and Loïc still haven’t conceived. I know this past year has been stressful for them. But even with the challenges they’ve faced, I’ve never seen my sister so happy. Loïc and London are the only couple I know who just might be truly in love, shattering my theory that soul mates don’t exist.
“Before we leave for the club, we need to address the rhinoceros in the room,” Paige says with a serious expression.
“You mean, the elephant?” I question.
Paige’s eyes go wide. “Uh, no, the rhino.”
“The expression is the elephant in the room,” London backs me up, her lips turning up.
Paige waves her hands. “Whatever the animal, this is serious, and we need to talk about it.”
London’s eyes dart to mine, and we both look at Paige, wondering what is going to come out of her mouth. One never can tell with her.
“What is up with your shirt, London?” Paige raises her eyebrows and puckers her lips, causing us to laugh.
“What?” London says through giggles.
“Um, it’s a turtleneck.”
“Paired with a short skirt,” London protests. “It’s cute. Plus, I’m married. I don’t need to look like a hooker. I’m not trying to attract anyone.”
“You’re married, not a nun. You’re not wearing a turtleneck, out clubbing. No way. I stomp my foot down on this.” Paige makes a show of hitting her foot against the wood floor.
“The expression is put your foot down, and my outfit’s fine. Right, George?” She expectantly looks to me.
“I mean, you look gorgeous. But you are wearing a turtleneck. If anything, you’re going to get hot.”
“See! It’s a no-go! Two against one.” Paige grabs London’s arm. “I have just the shirt for you. Come on.” She pulls her out of the room.
London emerges from Paige’s bedroom a minute later, wearing a tight silver tank top with a very low V-neck.
“Nice!” I tell her. “Makes your cleavage look amazing.”
London chuckles. “Because all anyone will be focusing on are my boobs in this shirt.”