“Her name”—Moncherie pauses, beaming—“is Olivia.”
A laugh escapes me. “Are you serious?”
“Well, yes, I’m serious. You’re the whole reason I adopted her—all your cute dog stories got me wanting one. You know she came from a hoarder? She was one of one hundred and twenty-six dogs. But you wouldn’t know it—she just seems so wonderful.”
Before I can say anything, Moncherie takes a deep breath and her smile wears away a little. “Look, I’ve got some other news.” She sighs and shifts her weight in her Minnie Mouse–style pumps. “Remember that day I had to cancel our appointment?”
I nod, reddening, remembering how I accused her of dog-training a man when it’s clear now that it really was a dog she was interested in.
“Well, I was actually on a job interview. And, guess what? I got the job!” She pulls her shoulders back and straightens up her posture. “You’re looking at the next Harold and Harold representative. I’m going to be a real estate agent!”
“Like, sell houses?” My forehead stiffens. I’m not sure why I feel sad, but I do, just a little.
“Exactly!” she says, then studies me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I laugh nervously.
“Olivia, what’s up?” She looks concerned.
“I think I want to tell you something.” I swallow. “Can I still do that?”
“Sure,” she says, her forehead crinkling. “Is this about—”
I nod. “My mom.”
She takes my hand and we sit down on the steps of the porch, and I tell her about something I’ve done. How I read one of my mother’s letters. And how she told me she missed me. And so I read the next one. And she said she was feeling better. And then I read the last one. And she said she was sorry. And then I did something I hadn’t done in an even longer time. I tell Moncherie how I wrote back.
And how I told my mom that I forgave her, now that I know what that really means.
She squeezes my hand. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, Olivia! Doesn’t it feel great?”
“Like rainbows and unicorns,” I joke. But it does feel good.
She laughs and wraps her arms around me. I can’t help but laugh and hug her back.
“Now, look,” she says. “I want you to promise me one thing.”
“Okay. What?”
“That you’ll never use dog training on a person again.”
“I already told you I wouldn’t.”
“No, I mean really promise me. Say it with me,” she starts. “Moncherie,” she leads me, with that horrible faux French accent. I just keep smiling. “Come on, Olivia, you have to say it. Moncherie…”
I take a deep breath. “Moncherie…” I butcher her name.
“No,” she says, “Open your throat. Moncherie…”
So I do it. I open my throat and say her name like I’m going to hock a lugie. I am burning with embarrassment, but she looks almost proud.
“I will never use dog training on a person again,” she coaches me.
“I will never use dog training on a person again,” I repeat.
She looks pleased. I recover and ask, “So—is that it? Am I ever going to see you again?”
“Well, I’m hoping maybe Olivia and I could stop by sometime and take you for ice cream or something. What do you think? I mean, you’d have to ask Corny. Or your dad. He’s still moving up here, right?” She looks a little too hopeful.
“In the spring,” I say. It’s the latest bit of news I’ve gotten. He says it’s for sure.
“Spring, huh? Well, just give me a call.” She takes my hand, turns it over, and writes a number on my palm. “That’s my cell. Just call me, okay?”
I tell her I will. And I mean it.
She turns to leave, and I follow her off the porch. “What’s that in Olivia’s mouth?”
“Oh, yeah!” Moncherie’s face lights up. “Can you believe it? She came with her own Lindsay Lohan doll! Isn’t that cute?”
I step toward the car. Olivia the Dog eyes me suspiciously. In her mouth she holds the naked doll by the torso. One of the doll’s arms is raised overhead, as if trying to flag down help. The other arm is missing—just gone. Short red-brown stubs of hair sprout from most of the head. On its face is a pink-lipsticked smirk.
Oomlot follows us down from the porch. He jumps his front paws up on the car and sniffs the doll. Olivia the Dog starts to growl. Uh-oh.
“Oh, Olivia,” Moncherie says to her. “You just stop that. That’s rude!” She turns to me and smiles, almost proudly. “She just loves Lindsay.”
I haven’t had much experience with dogs obsessed with Lindsay Lohan. At least not yet. I smile—I may be hearing from Moncherie sooner than she thinks.
She reaches in to give me a hug. “I really enjoyed working with you, you know that?” She sighs, releasing me from the hug, but holding on to my shoulder. “I hope you got something out of our little talks.”
“Oh, I did,” I tell her, and watch as she brightens a little. And I’m sure I did get something out of our talks. Maybe it wasn’t exactly therapy the way those weird old bearded guys like Freud would have wanted it, but whatever it was, it definitely opened my eyes.
Which are, I remind myself, totally Caribbean green.
“SMELT IS NOT a word,” Phoebe yells out.
“It is too! Look it up,” Joey tells her. “He who smelt it dealt it.”
“It’s a type of fish,” Peyton Randall says from across the room, where she and Erin Monroe are playing Trivial Pursuit.
“Yeah, that too,” Joey says, and laughs.
“Joey,” Phoebe whines. “Sometimes I wonder about you.” But then she laughs—yes, it’s almost becoming a normal thing for her—and looks at him from the corner of her eye. It’s a little uncomfortable to watch.
In the month since the election, Phoebe and Joey have been getting along rather well. Too well. Delia nudges me, and we laugh to ourselves, even though it’s a little creepy.
“What’s funny?” Phoebe asks. Her eyes flash at us. Then she turns bright pink and quickly tries to change the subject. “Who’s next? Where’s Mandy, anyway?”
“With Mister Presidente,” I say. After Caleb was elected, he chose Mandy as his vice president. In my rich and growing fantasy life, he’s done this to get closer to me.
“She’s really been spending a lot of time with him,” Phoebe says, her voice all syrupy with suspicion.
“They’re going over the results of their poll with Vander-Pecker,” I say quickly. “It’s just business.”
“Hmmm,” Phoebe says.
She may be getting on my nerves a little now, but I take a deep breath and remind myself of what life was like without her. Without them. And I’m glad all of that’s getting further and further behind us.
“It’s not like they’re going out or anything,” I say.
She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “No one said they were.” Now she looks amused, and I’m turning red.
Just as she says that, Mandy and Caleb walk into the room. “That was productive,” Mandy says, and smirks, settling into the seat next to me that I had been secretly saving for Caleb.
He turns a different chair around and sits behind both of us. Mandy continues. “I think just about everyone we asked for ideas for improvement said they wanted better-looking teachers. And I had to go report that to Vander-Pecker.”
Ms. Greenwood stirs. We all gasp. I wish it wasn’t so easy to forget that she’s in the room.
It’s my turn to read out the list of words I found in our Boggle round. One of them is “done,” but I’m nervous because I can practically feel Caleb’s sweet peppermint breath on the back of my neck. I can’t focus, and I end up saying it with a long O, like “Doan.”
“Doan?” Delia says. “What’s a doan?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, puzzled by my own find.
Then Mandy peeks over my shoulder. “That’s done, genius. Like finished.”
Everyone laughs. Now I wish I had
n’t worn my glossy hair in a ponytail, because despite the joyous breeze of Caleb’s mint-breath, I’m sure my neck is flame red.
The door opens again. We all look up to see Brynne. My breath becomes stuck in my lungs.
“Hey,” she says. She looks right at me and gives me a sideways smile. “Can I—? I mean, I brought Clue.”
My friends and I had discussed this, after our reunion. We knew all her friendships had dissolved, and her campaign speech didn’t win her any votes. We knew that one day she’d be here, wanting to move on, wanting to have some friends.
Mandy thought it might be good karma to let her in the club. Delia thought it might be the right thing to do. Joey thought it might be good for games that require partners. And after some persuasion, Phoebe, being Phoebe, decided it could be a good investment. “I suppose in a year or so,” she said, “everyone will have forgotten about eighth grade, and she’ll probably be even prettier. Which could rub off on the rest of us.”
And me, well, I learned that underneath the bark and the bite is just a girl. One who wants to be accepted, just like me—just like any one of us. One who wants to play board games and eat M&M’s and cuddle puppies. And, oh yeah, go out with Ryan Stoles. But I’m keeping that to myself. I owe at least that to her.
“Hey,” Mandy says to her. “Come on in.”
Brynne walks in and sits down in the space next to Phoebe, who wiggles her chair aside—in the direction of Joey—to make room for her.
This might not exactly be pack-leader mentality, but maybe there are times when everyone just needs to be a part of the pack.
MANY THANKS TO:
Casper, for being my (irresistibly cute) muse. And to Friends of Homeless Animals, for letting us adopt him.
Kylie and Stew, for making my life richer, funnier, and more meaningful. And for giving me time, space, love, and lots of karate moves.
Michele Nesmith, for helping me survive middle school and all things beyond. This is “our” book.
Lois Nason and Uschi Schueller, for your boundless friendship and constant support.
Mom and Dad, for taking away the TV when I was six (I know, right?) and surrounding me with books. You did say one day I’d thank you. You were right.
My agent, Holly Root, for picking me out of the slush, polishing me up, and making my dream come true.
My editor, Abby Ranger, for limitless (though well-tested) supplies of patience, kindness, encouragement, and talent. I could quote from a song involving wind and wings and heroes and such things, and while it would all be applicable, it might get awkward. Many thanks also to Laura Schreiber for her keen eye and great editorial insight, and to Marci Senders for her creative genius. If you really can judge a book by its cover, I hope to live up to it.
Also thanks to Hailey Slaton, Debra Ginsberg, Erika Robuck, and Michael Neff for various and sundry great things that went toward helping me complete this book.
And if you’re reading this? I especially thank you. You’ll always be Best in Show in my eyes. Because there wouldn’t be a show without you.
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