Girl's Best Friend

by Leslie Margolis

  Ours was the first. My parents moved in as soon as they found out they were having me and Finn. Before that they lived in Manhattan, which is just over the bridge but is too expensive for twins. That’s why Brooklyn is my middle name, and Finn’s as well. It’s a running joke between my parents. Had twins, had to move to Brooklyn. I guess it’s funny to them.

  “I used to get lost in this house,” Isabel said, like she could read my mind. “And now I’m crammed into the first floor.”

  “It’s a nice place,” I said as I opened the door. “See you later.”

  “Ciao, bella.” Isabel knows about ten words in Italian and uses them whenever possible.

  Once outside, I blinked in the afternoon sun. Our brownstone is on Garfield Place, just half a block away from Prospect Park, and that’s where I took Preston. It was a bright and crisp apple-crunching sort of day, perfect for strolling through the park with a really cool dog.

  And if you’re my brother, it was the perfect day for kicking around a soccer ball, which is what he was doing with his best friends, Otto and Red. It’s kind of funny that I ran into them since the park stretches on for miles and it’s got rolling hills, winding paths, a wooded nature trail, and plenty of places to get lost. Then again, they were playing on the Long Meadow pretty close to the nearest park entrance, so it wasn’t that crazy.

  Anyway, I waved, and once Finn noticed me he called a time-out and jogged over. Otto and Red ignored me, but that was okay. Otto is way into comic books and looks it. Red has black hair and ironic parents. They’ve all been friends since kindergarten and they hang around our apartment so much, they don’t seem like real boys to me. Or at least not the kind I find myself thinking about late at night.

  And in the morning.

  Afternoon, too.

  “Hey,” said Finn. He kept his hands in the pockets of his faded green cords so he wouldn’t be tempted to pet Preston. Poor guy breaks out in hives every time he touches animal fur, which is a shame since he loves dogs so much.

  Finn and I aren’t identical twins, obviously. But we do have a lot in common—wavy brown hair, eyes that are green or hazel depending on the light, and a complexion that people call olive, like our dad’s, who’s Greek. We’re both fairly tall for our age, although Finn is tall and skinny and I’m a little curvy. And we’re both kind of quiet, but with Finn it comes across as intriguing. Girls always wonder what he’s thinking about. My kind of quiet makes me invisible sometimes.

  Except not when it really matters.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “He has a meeting in the city. Said he’d be back by six.”

  I checked my watch. It was only three thirty. “Cool, thanks.”

  “He wants us to make a salad for dinner, but will you do it?” Finn’s question sounded more like an order.

  “The whole thing?” I asked. “Isn’t that blackmail?”

  “No, I’m just saying—you’ve gotta be nice to your lookout.” Finn headed back to his friends. Then he turned around to yell, “We can’t just have grape tomatoes. That’s cheating. You’ve gotta cut stuff up.”

  “I wasn’t going to just do tomatoes!”

  Finn didn’t bother to reply. Not that he needed to. We both knew I couldn’t be a dog walker without his help.

  My mom isn’t the problem. She’s a lawyer in Manhattan and usually doesn’t get home until after six. It’s my dad I have to look out for. He makes documentaries, which are movies about things that are true, and they’re usually too boring to see in a movie theater so people watch them at home on TV for free. It also means that sometimes—like now—he’s unemployed. Or as he calls it, “in between jobs.” So he hangs around the neighborhood a lot, and if he saw me walking some strange dog, well, it wouldn’t be good.

  My parents don’t know I’m a dog walker. Sure, they know I walk Isabel’s dog, but that was their idea and I do it as a favor. Meaning I don’t get paid.

  Mom and Dad don’t know that I walk other dogs, like, in a professional capacity. And if they knew, they wouldn’t like it because they’re convinced that Finn and I are too young for jobs. They want us to focus on school and a few extracurricular activities of their choosing: kung fu on Saturdays, oil painting at the art museum on Sundays, and Italian-immersion class (including food, language, and art) in the summer.

  It’s not like I set out to lie to them exactly. I didn’t even mean to start this business. The whole thing just kind of happened accidentally.

  A few weeks ago, while I was out walking Preston, I ran into my old third grade teacher, Ms. Patel.

  “Cute dog,” she’d said as she bent down to scratch him behind his ears. “He must be a big eater.”

  “Don’t know. I just walk him,” I replied.

  “So you’re a dog walker?” she asked, and I told her yeah.

  And before I could explain that I actually walk only Preston, Ms. Patel told me to call her Parminder and asked if I could fit her puggle into my schedule. She practically shoved her spare keys into my hands and I couldn’t say no. Not because she was my favorite elementary school teacher, super generous with smiles and gold star stickers when that kind of thing actually mattered. And not just because she offered to pay me so well. I couldn’t say no because her dog’s name was Milo.

  Aargh!

  I tried not to think about the Pizza Den disaster as Preston and I continued on through the park. We walked past the picnic grounds and along the edge of the baseball fields, stopping at the dog beach, which is actually just a slab of concrete leading into an artificial pond. A few lost-looking ducks floated on the murky surface.

  Not being much of a water dog, Preston didn’t seem to notice. He sniffed a nearby tree instead. Then he stalked a pigeon. I pulled him away and we kept walking. And walking.

  “Let’s go, Preston. I’ve still got two more dogs today.”

  Preston ignored me. Every time he paused to squat, he changed his mind. I was starting to lose patience when he found the perfect place. As he did his thing, I placed the plastic poop bag over my hand and got ready to scoop it up, hoping that Ivy—or worse, Milo—didn’t walk by.

  Luckily, the path was deserted except for two tired-looking moms, each pushing gigantic strollers up the hill. One of the strollers had twins in it. Girls, I assumed from their pink fleece jackets and purple booties. They were too young to protest over the matching outfits, but they’d do so eventually. This is a fact. And here’s another one: Park Slope is crawling with twins. Sometimes literally.

  When Preston finished, I bent down to scoop up his mess and noticed something strange. It glittered in the afternoon sun. I don’t normally study poop. Who would? But something about it struck me as odd. Odd as in blue and green and sparkly.

  Sighing, I picked it up and put it in the bag. Mystery solved.

  When we got back to Isabel’s apartment I called, “How badly do you want that ring?”

  But no one answered.

  “Isabel?” I looked around but couldn’t find her.

  Weird, but I didn’t give it much thought as I took off Preston’s leash and placed it on the coatrack by the door.

  Then I took out one of my note cards and a pen:

  Preston and I had fun in Prospect Park and I think we found your ring, too. Please see bag! (You also might want to put on some gloves and hold your nose.)

  See you tomorrow,

  Maggie

  While my parents would be upset about my new business, they’d be happy that I finally found a use for the personalized stationery my aunt Sally gave me for my eighth birthday.

  Yes, stationery for an eight-year-old. Obviously she doesn’t have any children.

  I capped my pen and headed for the door, glancing over my shoulder for one last look. Isabel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but her crutches? They were still lying on the couch, untouched.

  Chapter 3

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Milo did his business. And by business, I mean he pooped and peed. I fed him a
cup of kibble, as instructed, and gave him two treats.

  See you tomorrow,

  Maggie

  Unlike boy-Milo, dog-Milo is extremely easy to deal with. He’s always happy to see me and he’s very well behaved.

  Bean is a different story. I picked her up as a client two weeks ago. Parminder referred me. She and Bean’s owner, Cassie, live in the same building, except I can’t walk her and Milo together because Bean tries to fight with every dog she sees. I guess no one told her she’s a six-pound Maltese.

  Another annoying thing about Bean—she wears a sweater. Not in the house; that would be too easy. Bean’s owner has me dress her in a sweater before I take her outside. Although I’ve been told that this is strictly a cold weather–month policy. Once summer hits, I’ll get to dress her in a T-shirt. Something to look forward to.

  So after dropping off Milo, I walked up one flight of steps so I could fetch—and dress—Bean.

  Her red-and-blue-striped cashmere hoodie sat folded on the kitchen table, still in its dry-cleaning bag. The dog has a nicer wardrobe than I do.

  Since walking Bean is all about avoiding other animals, we headed away from the park. Everything went okay for a while. As soon as I spotted the flat-faced Boston terrier up ahead, I crossed the street. Bean didn’t even notice him. Then I heard a kid on a scooter rolling up from behind. I picked up the pace and turned the corner because Bean also snarls at anything on wheels.

  A minute later she sniffed at a half-eaten granola bar. “Let’s go, Bean.” I gave her leash a slight tug but Bean wouldn’t budge. She’s surprisingly strong for a six-pound animal. Stubborn, too.

  After she finally did her thing, we turned around and headed back to her place. Before we even got close I spotted trouble up ahead: five humongous dogs pulling along one small woman. Like sled dogs racing, but without the sled.

  Bean saw them, too, and she went crazy. Teeth bared and growling the most ferocious growl her half-pint-size body could muster, she strained to get at them.

  And once the other dogs noticed her acting aggressive, they went crazy, too—barking, snarling, the works.

  Their annoyed-looking walker had straight dark hair and short bangs. She wore hiking boots, faded jeans, and a gray sweatshirt with a big picture of a Dalmatian and the words DIAL-A-WALKER embroidered above it in red stitching.

  “Can you move, please?” She barked even louder than her dogs. Also? Her “please” sounded more sarcastic than polite, like she owned the sidewalk and I should’ve known better than to trespass.

  I scooped up Bean fast and turned to cross the street, but there was a truck coming. So the best thing I could do was step between two parked cars.

  When she passed, the dark-haired woman squinted at me like she needed glasses, although she already wore a pair—rectangular ones with thin wire rims.

  Bean growled and two of the woman’s dogs snarled right back.

  Suddenly one of them—a chubby chocolate Lab—broke free from his leash and darted straight at us.

  I held Bean up high over my head, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best.

  Luckily the dog ran right past. Turns out he was chasing a squirrel.

  “Stop him!” the woman yelled, like a drill sergeant giving orders.

  But it was all I could do to hang on to Bean, now flailing around like crazy.

  The Labrador moved fast, darting across Garfield and up toward Prospect Park West—one of the busiest streets in the neighborhood.

  I heard shouts.

  Squealing brakes.

  Skidding tires.

  Then a horrific crash that seemed to reverberate for miles.

  Next, silence. The scariest kind.

  My heart ping-ponged in my chest.

  The air reeked of burned rubber and it made me dizzy.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tight and buried my face in Bean’s neck, not minding the tickle of fur against my cheeks or the sharp perfume of her shampoo.

  Doors slammed and people yelled.

  I held my breath and did not move.

  I was afraid to look—and once I finally did, I cried.

  Chapter 4

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They were tears of relief, because the dog had made it.

  The silver SUV was a different story. It was half on the sidewalk, a crushed garbage can under one tire, smoke billowing from its hood.

  The owner was steaming worse than the car, because in swerving to avoid the dog, he’d run over the garbage can, then hit a lamppost.

  “What’s wrong with you, lady?” he screamed at the dark-haired woman.

  “It’s not my fault,” she cried as she pulled a spare leash from her backpack and clipped it to the Lab’s collar. (A jogger in green spandex had finally caught and returned the dog.) “The leash broke because he was pulling, and he was pulling because of her.”

  I thought it was kind of strange, blaming an innocent dog. That’s before I noticed the woman’s finger pointing at me, not Bean.

  I took a step back. This so wasn’t my fault, but before I could tell her, the guy said, “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re gonna blame a kid?”

  As he pulled out his cell phone and punched in some numbers, the dark-haired woman turned to me. “You need to be more careful with your dog. She could really get hurt. When you picked her up like that, my dogs thought she was a toy. That’s why they got so crazy.”

  “They were acting crazy anyway,” I said as I lowered Bean to the sidewalk. With her pink tongue thrust out, she marched back and forth like a hairy little soldier.

  The chocolate Lab yawned and stretched out on the sidewalk. The other five dogs had calmed down, too. All sober like they knew how awful the accident could’ve been.

  Meanwhile, I was still shaking. I took a deep, steady breath and willed my heart to slow down. “Anyway, she’s not my dog. I just walk her.”

  The other walker did a double take and asked, “Wait. Is that Bean?”

  I nodded. “You know her?”

  “I didn’t recognize her in the new sweater.”

  “It’s cashmere.”

  “Of course it is,” she snapped. “Where are you from?”

  “Um, a few blocks away.” I pointed in the general direction, not about to give up my address to a surly stranger.

  The woman closed her eyes for a moment and huffed, impatient. “I mean who do you work for? Matilde’s Mutts? Parker’s Pooches? Tail Waggers Express?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Which dog-walking company are you with?”

  “There are companies?”

  “Of course there are companies.”

  She said it like I was stupid, but who ever heard of a dog-walking company? Not me. “I didn’t know. I only walk a few dogs.” This seemed to upset her even more.

  “Great. You’re not even a professional.” She bent down to pet the Labrador. Then she spoke to him in a loud whisper. “I can’t believe I got replaced by a child.”

  Okay, now she’d gone too far. “You know, I’m standing right here. I can hear you.”

  The woman groaned. “Don’t take it so personally. It’s just an expression. But how old are you, anyway?”

  “I’m none of your business,” I replied. “And a half.”

  She let out a short, angry breath, clearly not appreciating my sense of humor. “This is probably some fun little hobby for you, but I take my job seriously and I need these clients.”

  “I had no idea that you walked Bean. Cassie called me out of the blue. I’ve never even met her in person. And Bean is just one dog.”

  “One dog today. Tomorrow it’s gonna be five.” She said it like she’d figured me out. Like I had some diabolical plan to systematically crush all the other dog-walking competition in town. But she couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  “No way can I walk five dogs. There’d be no time for my homework.”

  “Homework?” she spit out, furious now. “How did Cassie find you any
way? Craigslist? A flyer? Do you Tweet? All the dog walkers are on Twitter these days. It’s so annoying.”

  “My old teacher Parminder recommended me. She lives in the same building as—”

  “Parminder Patel?” she asked, interrupting.

  I gulped and nodded.

  “Milo’s owner.” She glared at me, incredulous. “So that means you stole him, too?”

  Whoops. “I didn’t steal him. She just asked me if I could walk him and—”

  “Likely story,” the woman huffed.

  This seemed like the perfect time to disappear. “Um, gotta run,” I said, backing away and pulling Bean along with me. Luckily, for once the little dog complied. We turned the corner and walked the three blocks to her building.

  But before we made it inside, we ran into more trouble—this time in the form of a sticky blond toddler. He had strawberry ice cream in his hair, all over his face, and running down one arm. “Cookie!” he yelled as he ran over, blue-gray eyes as wide as nickels. Arms stretched out in front of him like a pint-size Frankenstein.

  Bean bared her teeth. I tightened my grip on her leash and whispered, “Relax,” but to no avail.

  “Cookie!” he screamed again, even though by now he was right next to us.

  I patted my empty pockets. “I don’t have any on me.”

  The kid glanced at me, seemingly unimpressed.

  It was one thing for the angry dog walker to make me feel dumb, but a three-year-old? “What?” I asked.

  He pointed at Bean. “Dat’s Cookie!”

  “Oh! You mean she looks like your dog, Cookie?” I asked. “That’s funny. Her name is Bean, actually.”

  “Beckett!” yelled the kid’s mom as she hurried over. She had curly blond hair just like her son’s, only longer and cleaner. “You can’t run away like that!”

  The kid took a step closer.

  Bean growled and I understood why. From her point of view, Beckett was a clumsy giant. And only two steps away from crushing her.