Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  “Yeah, how exactly are you going to get through the school play, Marvel?” Jamie emphasizes my name, making it clear that I’m the only person there with a problem.

  I glare at him because he’s right.

  He starts to hum “Frosty the Snowman,” and my face flames.

  “Jamie. Safe space,” Mr. J says.

  Yeah, Jamie. SAFE SPACE!

  The bell rings.

  Mr. J pats his knees. “Oh, boy! That went quick—”

  Kylie and Kiera jump up and walk out the door. They whip their phones out and scroll as they walk. Most likely looking at Apple’s social media accounts.

  Jamie heaves himself out of the beanbag and follows them out the door.

  “Great conversation, everyone,” Mr. J says to their backs.

  I wait for them to get out of earshot. I need to talk to Mr. J.

  As much as I dislike Jamie, he’s right about one thing—I need to figure out how to survive the next twenty-five days of school plus the play or I’m going to fail. And if the only help grown-ups have to offer is a torturous friendship group, I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Mr. J goes back to his chair. “Thanks for showing up today and getting the conversation going. We needed that jump start.”

  “You’re welcome. I was wondering …” I begin nervously and then pause. Ever since I met Sonny on Saturday, I’ve been daydreaming about a way to make my school day more bearable, but I’m afraid to voice it.

  “Do you want to ask me something?” Mr. J encourages.

  I gather my resolve and continue. “Could you tell me more about emotional support animals? I might want one.”

  “That’s an interesting thought.” Mr. J considers me.

  “Do you need to do something special to get one?” I ask.

  “Not really. Any pet can be an ESA if they bring their owner comfort, but some people get a note from a therapist to register their pet if that’s something they’d like to do.”

  I definitely want that. Registration sounds official. “Can you write those notes?” I ask.

  “I suppose I can.”

  “Would you write a note like that for me?” I ask tentatively.

  Mr. J regards me. “A comfort pet is a big decision. You need to find the right candidate and make a commitment to the animal.”

  I already have the perfect candidate—Butter. Everything about my life is better with Butter. When she’s with me, I’m happier and more confident. Less stressed and more relaxed. If she could only come to school with me, I’d feel that way at school too, and it would solve all my problems.

  I need that note.

  My heart starts pounding a million miles a minute, nervous to ask for the note. “Would you write a note like that for me … now?”

  Mr. J suppresses a smile. “That’s putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”

  My throat tightens, embarrassed he doesn’t agree instantly. I clear it. “Maybe …”

  “A support animal is something you need to talk over with your family first.”

  With that note and an official registration, Principal Huxx will have to allow Butter to come to school with me, so I take a deep breath and make myself try again. I cannot make it through one more day without her. “Yes, but it would be nice to have the note now. That way, I’m ready the moment the perfect candidate becomes available.”

  Mr. J smiles. “I do believe you’re advocating for yourself and proactively seeking a creative way to manage your anxiety. I’m not sure what’s prompted this change, but I’m glad to see it.”

  “Really? So, you think the note is a good idea?”

  “Well …” He seems like he’s debating with himself. Finally, he says, “I guess it can’t do any harm. I’m proud of you for taking a risk. If your parents don’t want you to get a pet, they’ll let you know.”

  I bubble with happiness. “They absolutely will. You know my mom.”

  Mr. J smiles. “Yes, I do.” He scribbles a note on his letterhead and puts a sticky on top asking Mom to call him.

  I leave Mr. J’s office smiling and dump the sticky into the first trash can I pass.

  As soon as I get home, I make a beeline for Butter. I don’t even stop inside the house to drop off my backpack. I go straight to the garden gate and push it open.

  Dad’s back there with Butter, and when I see the two of them, my eyes practically bulge out of my head and I stop in my tracks.

  I can’t help it. They’re so … funny.

  Dad hunches over a woodworking project that looks like a sandbox, but I know it is a vegetable planter for Mom because I heard them discussing it. It’s almost done, and he moves quickly between tasks, sanding the sides and occasionally checking it with a level, which would be normal enough if it wasn’t for Butter.

  She stands on Dad’s back, peering over his shoulder like she’s trying to learn the art of carpentry. Despite Dad’s constant movement, she balances on her precarious perch as gracefully as a surfer while he ignores her, working intently, as if piggybacking a goat is something he does every day.

  I burst out laughing.

  Butter hears me giggle and looks in my direction. She leaps off Dad’s back and bounces toward me like I’ve just returned home from a long deployment, which I feel like I have.

  I dump my backpack onto the ground. With it, I let go of everything it represents—the teasing, the anxiety, the insecurity—and scoop Butter up in my arms, reuniting with her.

  She presses her muzzle into my cheek, giving me goat kisses.

  Dad stands. “How did school go today, kiddo?” The warmth of his greeting wraps around me and tempts me to open up to him. Confess everything. Tell him about my momentary victory with Mr. J and how things went rapidly downhill afterward. Admit that Jamie thinks I’m such a loser that he started a campaign to make his nickname for me stick by humming “Frosty the Snowman” every time I passed by him. Own up to the fact that the other kids must feel the same way because by the time last period rolled around, several of Jamie’s buddies had started to do it too. Or that I know tomorrow will be way worse because that’s how these things go, which is why I need to take Butter to school with me to survive. But I don’t share any of it.

  Instead, I shrug noncommittally and keep the trials of my day from him because I can’t bear him seeing me through Jamie’s eyes. Nor can I fess up to my plan for Butter. He might put a stop to it before I even get a chance to try it out, so I avoid it all by changing the subject. “Thanks for hanging out with Butter,” I say, and carry her over to Dad.

  He pets her, and she leans her face into his hand, loving the affection. “She seemed like she needed some company. She’s a nuisance, though,” he says with a fondness that contradicts his words.

  I grin at him, letting him know I’m in on his secret. “Right … a total nuisance.”

  Dad winks. “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Especially if your mom’s listening.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t rat you out. I can’t believe Butter managed to stay on your back while you were working. She’s got amazing balance.”

  “That she does,” Dad says, smiling proudly at Butter with an approval I take personally. “Have a few minutes to help me out?”

  “Sure.” I loosen my grip on Butter, and she leaps to the ground with impressive agility. “Is that Mom’s vegetable box?”

  “Yep.” Dad hands me one end of a measuring tape and walks backward. He writes his measurements on a slip of paper and does some quick calculations. “But … one box will never be big enough. Apparently, your mom’s attempting to grow enough food to feed the entire neighborhood or start a farmers market. Honestly, I’m not sure which. All I know is I need to build a second one.” He stuffs the slip of paper and pencil in his shirt pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

  Dad goes into his toolshed and comes out carrying an armload of wood. He sets it dow
n next to the first box. “Want to help me build it? It won’t take long.”

  “Sure,” I say, pleased with the unexpected invitation. I check my watch. If I’m going to take Butter to school with me, I need to prepare, but there are a few hours before dinner. I should have time to do both, and I want to spend this time with Dad.

  He gets the project set up, and we get started.

  It’s nice working alongside him with Butter bouncing between us.

  She seems completely at home and confident. She doesn’t even flinch when Dad or I pound a nail. “Butter’s doing great with the hammering. I guess she’s okay once she gets used to something,” I say, once again impressed by her adaptability.

  Dad nods. “I noticed that too. She’s quite the little trouper.”

  Butter glances between us and then bleats as if she knows she’s being complimented.

  Dad and I chuckle.

  He hands me the final nail for the vegetable box and the hammer. “Want to do the honors?”

  “Sure.” I take the tools from him, weirdly flattered. It’s only a dumb nail for a simple box, but it feels like we’re building something more important than a planter.

  Dad bends over to hold the boards in place for me. The paper he calculated the dimensions on falls out of his shirt pocket and drifts to the ground.

  Butter pounces and snatches it up. Before either one of us can stop her, she chews and swallows. “Oh, Butter,” I say.

  Dad laughs. “That goat has a craving for paper. This morning she tried to eat my to-do list.”

  I shake my head like an indulgent parent. “I know.” I give the nail the final taps and step back to admire our work.

  Dad drapes an arm over my shoulder. “That’s a job well done. You’re a better helper than that rascal.”

  “Glad I’m more helpful than a goat,” I joke. “I’m going to take Butter for a walk, but I need to get something from inside the house. Can you watch her for a bit longer?”

  “You got it.”

  I dash inside and go into my room. I grab Butter’s leash and my birthday money, then run back to the garden.

  “Okay. Ready.” I put Butter’s leash on and begin to lead her out of the garden gate.

  “Marvel?”

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “The pet store.”

  “Alone?”

  I reach down and scratch Butter’s ears, stealing a bit of her confidence. “Nope, with Butter.”

  A pleased smile lights up Dad’s face. “Sounds good. Be back in time for dinner.”

  “I will.” I don’t plan to be at the pet store long at all. I actually never imagined I’d be heading back there after my run-in with Jamie, but they have something that I need desperately enough to brave it—a red vest. If Butter is going to go to school with me, she needs a medical vest. Something to show her ESA status, and I remember seeing something like that when I was there with Addie.

  As we walk to the pet store, Butter bounces along beside me. She’s only been leash-walking a few days, but she’s already gotten the hang of it. Every few feet, I reward her with a Cheerio, but I don’t have to lay down a trail of them anymore to encourage her to walk.

  When we get to the pet store door, I pick Butter up and push the door open a smidge so I can peek inside to scan for dangers like vicious dogs, suspicious people, loose cats, or something else that might be problematic. But only Goth Girl is inside, so I squeeze Butter to my chest to keep her from fainting in case Goth Girl forgets to keep her voice down.

  As soon as Goth Girl sees us, her eyes light up with excitement, but she doesn’t yell. She waves instead.

  I wave back and put Butter down.

  Goth Girl comes over to us and whispers, “Glad to see you two again. I think you might be my favorite customers.”

  “Thanks,” I say, genuinely touched. I like her too. She’s a bit quirky with her voice volume stuck on loud, but I’m not a typical kid either. My eccentricities are just a little more hidden.

  She scratches Butter’s ears. “Can I help you find something?”

  “I need an ESA vest for my goat.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of different ESA pets in my time at the store, but I must confess, she’s the first goat. I guess this means her old owner never showed up?”

  I don’t like the reminder that Butter used to belong to someone else or the squirmy feeling I get in my stomach at the thought of Butter having another owner who might swoop in and try to take her away. Butter belongs to me, not someone else. “Nope. She’s all mine.”

  “I’m glad you get to keep her. I can tell she’s special to you. We have some ESA harnesses that might work over here.” Goth Girl leads me to a display and starts shifting through the vests. “Hmm … it looks like we only have larges and extra large. I think she needs a small. Let me check our inventory.”

  Disappointed, I follow Goth Girl over to the checkout desk, where she gets on a computer and types quickly. “We don’t have anything in this store, but our other location has one. It’s not too far. You can catch a bus at the stop across the street and be over there pretty fast. I do it all the time. Want me to call and ask them to put it on hold for you?”

  I bite my bottom lip, thinking. I really want that vest, but the bus is out of the question. For starters, I have Butter with me. I doubt the bus diver will let her on. Then there’s also a billion other concerns—making sure I get on the right bus going in the right direction, having exact change, pressing the stop button at the perfect moment (not too soon, not too late), finding a bus back home.

  “It’s pretty simple,” Goth Girl says, noticing my hesitation.

  For her maybe.

  I really want that vest, but I can’t get on a bus. I’ll have to figure something else out. “I’m not allowed to ride the bus,” I tell her to cover up the real reason I can’t go over to the other store.

  “We do have these.” Goth Girl shows me a selection of name tags. One has a red medical-looking symbol in the middle with the letters ESA and the words emotional support animal protected under federal law printed around the outer edge. “I can engrave this with your goat’s name and your information.”

  It looks very official, and I really like the words protected under federal law. It’s something that might impress Principal Huxx. “That would be great!”

  She takes the tag over to a special machine and engraves Butter’s name, then mine, onto the back of the tag. She hands it to me. “It’s perfect!”

  I slip it into my pocket and head home with Butter.

  After tucking Butter into bed, I go to my room and google how to register an emotional support animal. A gazillion sites pop up. I scroll down until I find the one I want.

  I only need the letter from Mr. J to qualify Butter as an ESA and I have the tag for her collar, but I want us to be super-duper official by joining an ESA registry. Once I do, I’ll be able to print a certificate.

  I fill out the online form, and it’s going swimmingly until I get to the payment section. I have the money. I just don’t have a credit card.

  I groan. If I ask Mom or Dad for a credit card, they’ll wonder what I’m up to, and I don’t want to alert them.

  I tap my fingers on my desk while I think about options. I finally land on a solution. Only it’s not a sure thing because it hinges on the goodwill of my teenage brother.

  I go to his bedroom door and knock.

  “Go away.”

  I want to say something snarky, but I can’t chance making him mad. “How do you know it’s not Dad or Mom?”

  “Osmosis,” he shouts through the door.

  I throw up my hands. That doesn’t even make sense.

  “Please. I have a two-second question.” I try not to sound too desperate. Big brothers and wolves can smell weakness.

  “No,” Reef says.

  I stick my tongue out at the door and then say, “There’s money in it for you.” I’m a saver. Reef is a spender. I’m
sure I’ll end up supporting him one day.

  “Ugh. Fine, but make it quick.”

  I open his door a crack and stick my head in. “I need to borrow your credit card.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Why?”

  “No biggie. I just need to buy something for Butter. I have the cash right here.” I show him my twenties.

  “Ask Mom.” Reef puts his headphones on.

  “Mom and Dad are busy.” He doesn’t hear me. “REEF!”

  He rips his headphones off. “WHAT!”

  I deep breathe to center myself. I’m more responsible than him, yet he gets a credit card, a cell phone, and a driver’s license. Life is so unfair. “Mom and Dad are busy. If you give me your credit card, I’ll pay you ten dollars over what I spend.” I set crisp birthday twenties on his desk.

  “Fine.” He pulls his credit card out of his wallet and flings it at me.

  Rude, but since he’s the only person I can borrow a credit card from, I keep my opinions to myself. “Thank you,” I say sweetly, and close the door.

  I go back to my computer and pay for the registry. Click, click, click and it’s all done.

  I run into Mom’s office and pull the certificate off the printer. It has Butter’s name, her goat breed, and my name as her owner. I stare at it, transfixed and a bit giddy. I’m almost ready.

  I only have one more thing to do—make a vest.

  I hunt around the house looking for something red that I can fashion into an ESA vest for Butter. I plow through all my drawers, but red’s not my color. I mostly wear muted tones because I prefer to blend into the crowd, not stand out.

  I scan our entryway cubbies and check the hall closet, but I’m not having any luck there either until I spy Reef’s soccer bag.

  I dig around inside it and find the perfect thing—Reef’s scrimmage pinnie.

  I shake it out and hold it up. The color is the right shade of medical red. It’s made out of nylon, so from a distance, the fabric looks like the vests at the store, and it has Velcro tabs to tighten the sides. It’s a little too long for Butter, but I think I can fix that.

  I sneak it into my room. I use scissors and duct tape to alter it to fit Butter. Then I add the final touch by stenciling ESA in clear block letters on two strips of reflective duct tape and attach them to Butter’s vest.