by Sophia Rossi
I don’t want to be a vet or anything. I just really love dogs. Lily and I used to joke that the reason I get along so well with people is because I’m able to love unconditionally, the way dogs do. I know it’s silly, but there’s something magical about the way dogs look at the world. They’re loyal and devoted, and they don’t judge you the way that you know cats do. Dogs don’t run or fly or swim away like other animals do when people try to pet them. They are just love, manifested as bundles of fur and paws.
Of course, some dogs need a little more love than others. The rescues at PuppyTales have had hard lives. Many of them have been beaten and trained to view other dogs and animals as enemies. Not to be overly dramatic, but after my first week at Beverly High, I could kind of see their point of view. We’re only as nice as we’re allowed to be, we’re only as good as our conditioning. Some might find that worldview cynical, but there you have it. At least if I decided to bite Kendall, I wouldn’t get put down. Probably.
PuppyTales is a total labor of love for the Jacobys, who are good friends with my parents. Mr. Jacoby is a mad inventor type, but he’s never invented anything real before. He made a fortune back in the 80s after he bought a patent for some weird, super specific car part that no one had ever heard of, and that all of a sudden became standard issue in every single GM vehicle ever made. Their daughter, Beth-Lynne, used to volunteer at PuppyTales all the time and was a regular PuppyBash attendee, but eventually she got so busy with all her honors classes that she had to cut way back and I hardly ever see her anymore. Now I spent even more time volunteering for the Jacobys, picking up some of the extra duties Beth-Lynne left behind, like coordinating cage clean-up, scheduling vet appointments, and organizing awareness benefits, like PuppyBash, which I’ve done with Lily every year on the night before my birthday. Well, every year until this one, I guess. My birthday was in less than two weeks, and Lily still hadn’t brought up our plans for Friday or Saturday.
This was especially weird. Lily knew how important her birthday parties were to me. Growing up, my mom would always use our birthdays as test labs for any new product or service she was promoting on her site. On my eighth birthday, I received a gift certificate for a laser hair removal treatment, which Mom promised to keep in a security box for me until I turned sixteen. Another year, Rachel woke up to discover three men from Ambush Makeover in her room tearing everything apart: Mom’s “present” to her was an on-camera makeover and redecorating session with some second-rate Bravo-lebrity wannabes. For two years afterward, both Rachel’s bedroom and outfits were dominated by ruffles, undertones of seafoam green, and a general air of being overpriced and basic.
It wasn’t that Mom didn’t love us. It’s just that, despite all her MomTips about how to hack motherhood, she needed a lot of help planning and managing her own life. She was much less independent than Rachel or me; for instance, she always needed someone to remind her when to pack for her next conference, and then she needed another someone to tell her what to pack. Even our lame birthdays required all of Mom’s staff on deck—drivers, assistants, publicists, nutritionists, trainers, data analysts, interns, documentary film crews—just to support her supporting us. By the time I was ten, I had already figured out that not bringing up birthdays to my mother was the best way to ensure a drama-free house in which I celebrate quietly—Rachel and I learned pretty early that the more we’d talk about our upcoming birthdays, the more cameras and nonessential staffers would be involved in the “celebration.”
Of course, all that changed the moment I first walked downstairs in fifth grade to discover the giant puppy surprise party Lily had planned for me. I don’t think I ever told her how much it actually meant to me, to have a friend who made the day about me, and not about herself.
“Why, hello there, Harper!” Mrs. Jacoby waved as I slumped out of the car, lost in thought.
“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Jacoby!” I gave her a big smile as I climbed up the Center’s retractable staircase.
“Oh, don’t even think about it. You’re always so dependable, Harper.”
Secretly I felt a little bad. I hadn’t been spending as much time with PuppyTales since high school had started, telling my mom that I was too busy with work. The truth was, I hadn’t felt like leaving the house since Canyon Park and then the Walgreens incident.
Today the Mobile Center was full of noise and smells and shedding fur—all things that are as familiar to me as the cast of canine regulars inside. There was Humps, the sweet, blind pit-bull the Jacobys rescued five years ago, now so arthritic that she walked with her hind legs hunched up. Cocoa, a brown Labrador retriever mix with white patches on his chest and a bandana around his neck, making him look like he belonged on the cover of a Boxcar Children book. Dottie and Bandit were both part Maltese and part mutt, and they looked so similar that we were almost positive that they were siblings. Maxine, a yappy terror of a terrier who only calmed down when she was gnawing at a squeak toy, but was so loyal to the Jacobys that she once tried to attack a coyote prowling in their backyard to protect them. Buffy, the Great Dane with the gold eyes. Bruschetta the poopy poodle. Manny the Chihuahua. Georgie the beagle. Tonto the Welsh Corgi, who was so beautiful that he’d been adopted by at least three families, despite our warning all of them that he refused to be housebroken. Poor Tonto never lasted a week in any home before he was back at PuppyTales.
“Oh Mommy, can I hold the puppy?” A blond post-toddler waddled over in a fitted cardigan and suspenders, wearing a porkpie hat and the type of chunky, plastic rimmed glasses you usually see on aging indie rockers. Without waiting for an answer, the child put his hand near Maxine’s cage which caused his mom, who up until that point had been engrossed with her cell phone, to snatch her son’s hand in midair like a magic trick.
“Wolfgang! You don’t know what kinds of diseases these animals have!” She scolded, vacantly, still scrolling through BabyFashionastas.com with one hand while admonishing her son with the other. I’ve got a cozy space in my heart for moms who can multitask like that, since they’re the ones signing up for sessions with my mom, and thus essentially paying for my home and meals.
“Oh, don’t worry, ma’am,” I said with a bright smile. “All of our dogs have had their shots and are up to date with their medical records. It’s the people around here you have to be careful of!” It was a joke I’d been telling for so long now, I didn’t even feel that weird about throwing in a wink.
“See, Mom?” Wolfgang whined in a petulant voice. “He’s not going to hurt me! Can I play with him? Please?”
The mom, blond and coiffed, looked at me doubtfully. Obviously she hadn’t come here with the intention of adopting a dog; she probably hadn’t even realized where her son had been dragging her until it was too late. This kind of prospective foster parent was what my mom would call a “tough sell,” but I could use the distraction of a challenge.
“I was such a handful at his age,” I said, nodding my chin toward Wolfgang. “I drove my parents nuts asking for a dog all the time.”
“Yes, well, we don’t really have the time to take care of another family member,” Mama Wolfgang said, starting to move away. I could see the tears spring preemptively to Junior’s eyes. Man, sometimes these kids made it so easy.
“Of course, we’re not trying to sell you on these dogs,” I said, as sweetly as possible. I opened up Maxine’s cage and let her scramble into my arms, where she promptly began her ascension upward to frantically lick my face. “They pretty much do that themselves, anyway.” I laughed as Maxine’s wet snout snuffled at my neck. “Aw, who’s a good girl?”
Wolfgang looked up at his mom, his face as red as mine must have been, in anticipation of an oncoming tantrum. Mama Wolfgang looked beaten.
“Okay darling, if they have an area where you can play with it . . . her . . . I could use ten minutes of me-time, anyway.”
Wolfgang and I beamed. “Of course, right this way, ma�
��am,” I said, leading them to our outdoor playpen. As soon as I put Maxine down in the pen, the puppy ricocheted at the highest velocity possible into Wolfgang’s torso, thumping him down and sending his ridiculous hat sprawling across the grass. There was a stunned silence, and then the kid began to giggle.
“Again, again!” He demanded, and Maxine, whose energy never subsided, was only too happy to comply.
Later, when Wolfgang’s mom was talking to Mrs. Jacoby about Maxine’s possible reaction to a gluten-free diet, I slipped out of the Mobile Center and headed toward the park to clear my head.
Though people think of Californians as being ultra-laid-back, the truth is that Los Angeles can be just as stressful as anywhere else in the world. I think we—and by “we” I mean the people who have grown up here, not the ones who come here chasing dreams of stardom or whatever—are better at pretending to be easygoing and relaxed, because we’ve spent so much time practicing how to give off the “not sweating it” vibe. It’s as if we’re always auditioning for something, and whoever’s the most chill will win the part, but then we don’t even care if we don’t get the part. We’re just happy to be here. Sometimes we keep up the mirage of coolheadedness so well that we almost buy into it ourselves. It’s kind of tempting to present this image of yourself to the world, where you’re all like, “Oh, I love surfing and donuts and Boba tea and macrobiotics and Soul Cycle, la-la! Let’s all go to Coachella and jam out and eat fro-yo while doing yoga!”
But inside our heads—well, inside mine at least— it’s more like “Oh my god, how badly did I wreck my life before the world even had a chance to wreck it for me?”
In Beverly Gardens, there is a smaller-scale model of the Hollywood Sign. But instead of being gigantic and up in the mountains, it’s in the middle of a park, surrounded by gorgeous cypress and ficus trees. I don’t know why—it’s kind of like my Walgreens obsession—but I always felt more drawn to that smaller version of our famous beacon of hope.
I used to think it was normal to like things that everyone else in the world liked: convenience stores, the Hollywood sign, dogs. Now I was starting to think that, in this town, my attraction to normality was what made me a secret weirdo.
As I approached the walled entrance to the sign, I recognized a pair of fairy wings sitting on the lip. It couldn’t possibly be . . . was all I had time to think before I saw the wings flutter and the figure they were attached to turn around, stand up, and come running toward me. All of a sudden the be-winged creature knocked me to the ground harder than Maxine had with Wolfgang.
“HARPER!” Lily screeched, gracelessly tripping into me with a giant bear hug. “Puppyyyyyy!”
I smiled and mumbled out a greeting that got lost in our mad scramble to untangle from each other.
“Namaste, my sister!” Lily giggled and nudged my shoulder, as if she was about to start a fight with me. “How are you? I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen your face! I know I said it before, but I’m still really sorry about missing Walgreens the other day.”
I delicately brushed myself off, waiting for my best friend to explain why her text messages had been eerily cheery and placating and emoji-filled these past two weeks. A smiley here and an XO there: THAT does not a Bestie convo make. I’d really needed her after the Murphy’s Ranch disaster, and all she could do was tell me to cheer up and try to distract me with stories about how cool her new friends are.
But I couldn’t afford to be mad at Lily right now. Just seeing her again made me want to bask in the warmth of our BFF vibes and finally press Pause on the full shame spiral I’d been tragically circling since the first day of school. But I willed myself to stay steely. Something was up with Lily, and I needed to know what. And I couldn’t let her get away with being a zombie-bestie any longer.
“I know, I’ve been the worst friend lately. I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Lily always erred on the side of melodrama. Now, with a fake wail, she threw herself onto me and started tickling that spot right under my arm that drives me crazy with laughter. It was hard not to soften into a big pile of warm BFF goo, especially when I was literally collapsing into a pile of giggles, but I had to stay strong. Or at least aloof, until I got the answers I wanted.
“So what’s been going on,” I asked, disentangling myself from Lily. “I’ve been trying to talk with you—like, really talk with you—for forever. You’ve barely sent me any updates!”
“I’ve sent you updates!” I could see the tears start to tremble in her eyes.
“I mean real updates, Lily. Not just smiley faces and exclamation points.”
“That’s not all I’ve been sending you.” Lily gave a dramatic sigh and wiped away the last of her tears, which had ended as abruptly as they’d started. She pulled out her cell phone. At first I thought she was going to show me something—I had the weird hope that maybe there was something in that tiny hunk of metal that would explain her abrupt absence from my life—but she just looked at it, squinted, and then put it back in her pocket.
“Is that a Samsung Galaxy?” I asked. You can’t just change your phone and not tell your BFF. That was like coming to school and announcing that you were changing your name to “Robot Monster.”
“Oh yeah.” Lily looked sheepish. “Nicole says iPhones are made by exploited Chinese laborers.”
“Whatever. Can you please just explain where you’ve been since school started? I mean, I know where you’ve been, physically. But where have you been,” I said, pointing to her heart. “I’ve been texting you my heart and soul and I feel like all I’m getting back are auto-responses from a robot programmed to always be happy. I feel like I’m going crazy. But now I’m more concerned that maybe my bestie is going crazy. Who answers BFF emergency texts with rows and rows of flowers and sad faces and then tips on how to relieve stress through the practice of yoga? That is straight-up ILLEGAL behavior!”
“Well when you put it like that. . . .” Lily said, looking frazzled. “Things are just . . . really . . . different right now. This band is taking up so much of my time, like more than I realized it would, and Jane just named me the new creative director of her blog and we’re in the middle of a big re-launch and I know how upset you are about stuff at Beverly High and it breaks my heart that you have to deal with all those terrible people there every day, and anyway I guess it just got to this point where I’ve been feeling so bad about all that that I didn’t even know how to tell you. . . .”
“Tell me what?”
“Um, well. That I can’t go to your PuppyBash this year,” Lily said it slowly, her eyes squinting and her hands up at her chest, as if she were bracing herself for an attack. But even if I’d wanted to attack her (I kind of did), I couldn’t. Her announcement stunned me so much that I felt frozen, rock solid, in place. She went on. “It’s just that, like I said, Jane is re-launching her blog, and as creative director there’s so much that I’m responsible for. Jane and I have to work all day and night on this party she’s throwing for the re-launch, and the only free time she has for prep is on the same day as PuppyBash. I know this is awful and I tried everything I could to avoid it, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’m really, really sorry Harper. I’m sorry in a million different ways.”
I narrowed my eyes. This was so typical Lily. She’s always been in her own universe, but at least before it was a universe I have always been a part of. I was always there for Lily through her drama. Like when I rescued her from the clutches of an Emotional Vampire at her summer arts camp two years ago. Or that time that Quebecois exchange student claimed to be Lily’s third cousin and accused Lily of stealing her “look,” because one time she had worn angel wings in a school pageant. In Quebec. Or the time when Lily didn’t take my advice and dated Tim Slater, only to break up two months later. I was always there for Lily when her wings needed mending, and what does she do? Act totally emotionally vacant over texts and t
hen tell me she can’t come to our annual pre-birthday tradition. It was really hard not to be annoyed at her lack of thoughtfulness.
Lily’s phone had magically popped back into her hand. She was pretending not to look at it, but the screen was so gigantic that it was impossible for her not to see it without even trying. This was the girl who had once asked me if Twitter was a “web forum for bird calls.” Catching me glaring, she put away her phone again.
“I was just checking the time,” she said. Yeah, right. “Look, I said I was sorry. And I will make it up to you. And I’m here now. Tell me everything. Tell me about that awful girl—what’s her name? Kendra?”
“Kendall. Stephanie and Derek met her at summer camp.” I tried not to be annoyed at her late-in-the-game catch-up. “She’s actually the worst person I’ve ever met. She showed up, when we were supposed to meet at Walgreens the other day. She backed me into a corner and kicked a bunch of pee pads in my face!” I saw Lily’s confused look, but just decided to press forward. “Anyway, she is this sociopathic, domineering crazy person. It feels like it could turn into a total Black Swan scenario. I think she’s going to murder me in my sleep.”
“She sounds awful,” said Lily. “Where does this Murderer live? I’ll get rid of her before she has a chance to kill you in your sleep.”