Oops.
I’m bending down to pop Butter’s leash back on when Mom’s voice booms across the garden. “Marvel Madison McKenna!”
The yell startles Butter mid-chew and she topples over.
I’m not sure who to attend to first, Mom or Butter. I look between them and decide that since I’m closest to Butter, the best thing I can do is get her leash back on.
Mom makes her way across the garden to us. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Teaching Butter the command leave it,” I say.
“It doesn’t look like it’s working,” Mom observes with unnecessary snark.
“We just started. She can’t be expected to know how to do it yet.”
Mom inspects the gnawed stem and shakes her head. “My garden isn’t the place to teach her that. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. Put Butter in her enclosure, and come inside for dinner.”
I take Butter to her enclosure and then go inside.
It’s not a pleasant family dinner. Mom made pasta, which is tasty, but impossible to enjoy because Mom aggressively spears ravioli with her fork like she’s still mad at me.
Halfway through our awkward meal, Mom’s phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, and she stands to get it.
“Don’t we have a rule about media at the table?” Reef asks, seizing the opportunity to pull his cell phone out of his pocket and start scrolling.
“This family has no discipline,” Dad says, clearly resigned to our slovenly ways. We are the polar opposite of military order.
“Reef, put your phone away. NOW,” Mom growls. “I’m expecting a call about a new landscaping job. Being available when you are the sole member of your own company is not the same as scrolling through social media.”
“Yeah, Reef,” I say, backing Mom. She rarely misses an opportunity to school Reef on any number of life lessons, and I find these moments very entertaining. Plus, I’m trying to get back on her good side.
Reef glares at me and slides his phone into his pocket.
Mom reaches for hers and looks at the screen. “Huh,” she says, sounding confused.
“Who is it?” Dad asks.
“Not sure. The number’s unfamiliar. I better answer it just in case.” Mom slides her thumb across the screen. “Hello?”
Mom stops talking while she listens to the caller on the other end of the line. Then she says, “You’re calling from the zoo?” Mom pauses and then says, “I think there must be a misunderstanding. We haven’t found a capybara. Although, I must confess, I’m not even sure what that is.”
Dad, Reef, and I look at one another, perplexed.
“Oh my,” Mom says. “We definitely do not have a hundred-pound water rodent in our backyard … Yes, I’m very sure. Okay, bye.” Mom drops her phone on the dining table next to her place setting and shivers, creeped out. “I didn’t know such a thing existed.”
“What was that all about?” Dad asks.
Mom glowers at me. “I’m not sure. Maybe your daughter can explain why someone at the zoo saw her posting on Nextdoor and thinks she found a gigantic rodent and brought it home?” Her voice rises in intensity as she talks.
I grimace, thinking about the fuzzy picture I posted. Based on the doctored photo and the vague description that made Butter sound more like a monster than a missing goat, I suppose someone could have mistaken Butter for a capybara. I shrug. “No idea. People on Nextdoor are weird.” I grab my plate and try to stand up from the table.
Mom puts her hand on top of mine. “Not so fast. When was the last time you checked Nextdoor to see if anyone has responded to your posting about Butter? She has an owner, and I want you to be prepared if she shows up. You’ve gotten really attached.” She gives Dad a pointed look when she says this like he let it happen.
“Um … recently?” I stand up, more than ready to skedaddle.
“Hold it. Pull up the posting.” Mom hands me her phone.
My mouth goes completely dry. My plan for Nextdoor depended on Mom not checking it. “Okay.”
I hand the phone back to Mom.
Mom’s face goes from white to red, back to white again. She’s furious. She thrusts the phone at Dad. “Look at what your daughter wrote.”
I can tell he wants to be mad, but when he sees the picture, he has to work hard not to laugh.
Mom scowls at Dad and then swivels around to lecture me. “There’s not a single piece of useful information in this listing. If you don’t even try to find her owner, it’s like stealing. You can’t take someone’s pet.”
“But they’re not a good owner and they don’t deserve to have a goat as amazing as Butter. Butter needs me. Look how good she’s doing and look how good I’m doing. I’m WALKING to school. I’m making actual friends.”
“Honey, I know. We’re so proud of all the progress you’ve made. We know Butter is a big part of that. But sometimes, I wonder if you’re really dealing with your anxiety. It’s great that Butter helps you feel braver and calmer, but do you really have control over it? Are you practicing any of the skills Mr. J taught you?”
I stand up from the table. This time Mom doesn’t stop me. I scrape my plate into the compost. Mom is adamant about composting. It’s her gardener’s obsession. I shove my plate in the dishwasher. “I don’t need any of that stuff anymore. I’m doing great.”
Mom gives me a look that says a gazillion things. I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re as okay as you think? Be more realistic. She might as well add, Do your homework, her look says so much.
I shrug her off. She doesn’t understand. Everything is all better now. Butter fixed it. There’s nothing to worry about anymore.
Mom starts typing on her phone. “I’m changing the Nextdoor posting. If Butter was meant to be yours, then she will be. Honestly.”
Butter is already mine. That’s what Mom doesn’t understand.
By the end of our first week of going to school together, Butter and I fall into an easy, happy routine.
Each morning, I wake up eager to start the day and rush to get ready. Then I race outside to see Butter. No matter how early I get to her enclosure, she’s always thrilled to see me and greets me with cheerful bleats. I make sure to take care of her needs before mine and give her fresh water and hay before going back into the kitchen to grab my own breakfast, which I bring outside to eat with her.
When it’s time to leave for school, we walk across the soccer field together. I’ve become so accustomed to the field that I almost can’t remember why I used to be afraid of it. I suppose humans have the same ability to acclimate to their environments as goats.
Butter loves our walks. She runs, jumps, and plays the whole way like nothing in the world matters except making me laugh at her antics and the joys directly in front of her.
This morning, Butter decides to explore a new part of the field and darts to the edge, where she pauses at a patch of thistles growing alongside it. Mom would be appalled if she saw the weeds growing unchecked and I’d be terrified that one of the prickly barbs might get stuck in my skin, but Butter has none of those concerns. She sticks her nose right into the cluster of flowers and sniffs curiously.
One of the thorns jabs her sensitive pink nose, and she hastily jumps back in alarm, vaulting herself into the air. She does a half-body twist like a surprised cat and lands on all four hooves. Then she shakes her head, frantically trying to remove the spike.
I laugh, my love and adoration for her welling up in my heart and overflowing like a waterfall. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so perfectly happy before.
“Silly goat,” I say, and rescue her by removing the thorn before releasing her to play some more. She trots off to continue exploring her surroundings in a seize-the-day-type way.
Watching her makes me wish I could be exactly like her and take each moment as it comes instead of constantly agonizing over what might happen next.
As the school gets closer, so do my worries. Mom meddling with the Nextdoor posting me
ans there’s a greater risk that Butter’s old (horrendous and terrible) owner might actually see it and show up to claim her, but I shove that thought far away. The idea of losing Butter is so unbearable, I can’t think about it for a single second.
A more immediate concern is Butter’s upcoming test with Principal Huxx. We’re almost at the end of our trial period. Butter’s made some progress with the leave it command, but not enough that her response to it is dependable. If she fails the test, our days of going to school together are over.
Then there’s Mercedes. She hasn’t shared the casting list with anyone yet, even Addie. It’s possible that she won’t honor Addie’s pinkie promise to give me a small part in the play instead of assigning me Peter. Ms. Day assured me a small, nonspeaking part would meet Principal Huxx’s requirements as long as I had multiple appearances onstage, but she doesn’t cast the play—Mercedes does. So I’m at her mercy and every time I try to bring it up with her, she changes the subject. Mercedes has big plans for the play that include Butter, which by default involves me.
Butter and I make our way to language arts, where we’ll learn our fates for the play. When I get to my table, I take a seat and lean toward Addie to whisper in her ear, “Did you convince Mercedes to agree to our deal?”
She gives me a noncommittal shrug that doesn’t instill a lot of confidence. “I talked to her. She wasn’t happy about it.”
I grimace, feeling unease grip my stomach and twist it like a hand wringing out a sponge. I contemplate appealing to Ms. Day if Mercedes insists on casting me as Peter, but I doubt it will do any good. The whole goal of the play is to empower the students to produce a totally kid-run production. Ms. Day acts as our adviser only, and she doesn’t interfere.
Ms. Day turns the class over to Mercedes so she can unveil the cast list. Mercedes is like a demigod holding my fate in her hands. I really hope she’s a benevolent one.
Turns out she’s a long-winded one. Mercedes goes on and on about her vision for the play, the practice schedule (every day after school for the next four weeks), call times the day of the play, and blah, blah, blah. She talks so long, even Butter gets lulled into dozing off.
About five minutes before the end of class, Ms. Day gently prods Mercedes to hurry up. “Mercedes, I don’t mean to interrupt. Your attention to detail is commendable. You’re definitely the right person for this job, but if you don’t get to the cast list, you’re going to run out of time.”
Mercedes looks up at the clock. “Right!” She hastily pulls out a notebook and grandly gives out roles. “Addie will play Heidi.”
Jamie interrupts her. “Aw, man, this whole thing is rigged. That’s total nepotism.”
“It’s only nepotism if we’re related, you …” I think Mercedes is going to call Jamie a name, but she checks herself at the last minute. “Addie has the most experience and gave the best audition.”
Ms. Day doesn’t comment but goes to Jamie’s desk and casually stands by it in a total teacher move to restore order.
Theo gives Addie a high five.
I whisper congratulations to her, but I have no idea why she’s excited. It sounds like a death sentence to me.
Mercedes glares at Jamie and says, “Grandfather will be played by Jamie.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Jamie shouts.
I roll my eyes as my confidence in Mercedes’s decision-making falters.
“Aunt Dete will be played by Kylie,” Mercedes says with a note of apology in her voice.
Kylie’s typically placid demeanor sags with unhappiness. “She’s the villain.”
“I know it wasn’t your dream role, but I had to do it because of casting restraints.” Mercedes gives me a pointed, disappointed look and quickly adds, “Peter will be played by Theo.”
Theo looks down at his hands, upset, and I wonder why. It’s a huge role, and he’ll get to work with Butter.
Addie rubs his back and whispers something in his ear as I bite my bottom lip, wondering what’s going on. I want to ask them, but don’t have time because the bell rings.
As people get up to rush out the door, Mercedes says, “The rest of you will be townspeople and crew.”
Theo bolts out of the classroom before I can talk to him, so I grab Addie by the arm. “Is Theo okay?”
“He’ll be fine. He had his heart set on playing Aunt Dete, that’s all.”
“Oh,” I say as guilt squirms around my stomach like a worm. “Why?”
Addie shrugs. “He says she’s the villain and has all the best lines.”
It never occurred to me that Theo might not want to be Peter. “Will you tell him I said thanks?”
“Of course, but don’t worry about it. We all want Butter in the play, and this is the way that’s going to happen. He’ll be fine.” Addie’s kind voice absolves me, but that makes me feel worse.
Addie smiles at me. “I’m going to try and catch up to Theo. See you later in social studies?”
I nod and watch her go before gathering my things.
Ms. Day spots me and says, “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” Butter’s nap infused her with energy, so I let go of her leash to let her wander and she’s bouncing around the room. I wonder if I’m in trouble for letting her roam freely.
Instead of chastising me, Ms. Day says, “I have a proposition for you and Butter.”
I’m immediately relieved but grab Butter’s leash anyway and pull her close to me. “Really? What?”
She smiles at me and Butter. “Some of the teachers were talking and wondered if you and Butter might be willing to visit the lower school next week?” At our school, the lower school means a couple of different things. It’s physically lower. It is on the same campus but down a flight of steps. It also means the younger grades. My school is K–8, so we’re all in one big jumble, but they like to keep us separated by levels.
“Sure. Why?”
“We thought it might be nice if you two spent time down there. Some of the younger kids struggle with separation anxiety, and a comfort animal might be just the thing to take their minds off it. If you also write a personal narrative about your experience, it would give you an opportunity to earn some of the extra credit you need for me. I thought doing something you enjoyed would take a bit of the sting out of the extra work.” She hands me a thick packet. “This is the makeup work from your other teachers. If you could return it on the Friday before the play, you’ll be all caught up.”
I appraise the bulging packet and sigh. By the weight, it feels like a ton of work. I stuff it in my backpack and focus on the more pleasant part of our conversation. “Butter and I would love to visit the kindergartners.”
“I thought you would.” Ms. Day pets Butter on the head. Butter responds to the affection by butting her on the leg in an attempt to get her to play. Ms. Day rubs her shin but smiles. “How are the two of you doing on the list Mr. J gave you?”
“Great,” I say, trying not to think about Butter’s inconsistency with the leave it command.
Ms. Day smiles. “That’s excellent because the other reason for your visit to the lower school is Butter’s obedience test. Principal Huxx plans to observe Butter there. Mr. J and I thought it might be a more relaxed, natural environment for both you and Butter.”
I gulp. That sounds completely alarming. She might have led with it.
Ms. Day gazes at me with kind concern. “Butter’s been doing well in class, I’m sure she’ll continue to impress.”
I nod and turn to leave.
Wanting to prove Ms. Day’s word true, I encourage Butter to prance along beside me by holding her leash taut and rewarding her with Cheerios when she falls into step next to me. After we walk a few feet, I glance up to see if Ms. Day is watching us.
She gives me two thumbs-ups.
When we reach the door, Ms. Day says, “Oh! One more thing. You should ask a friend to join you for your visit to the lower school. You might need help with crowd control.�
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“Crowd control?”
Ms. Day laughs. “You’re visiting the kindergartners after all. You’re likely to get mobbed.”
Fantastic, a test and a mob.
I stare at Ms. Day, hoping she might have some more advice, but she’s turned her focus to something on her desk, leaving me to stew over the upcoming visit without any additional guidance or words of comfort.
I pull Ms. Day’s door closed behind me and try to shut out my rising anxiety. Butter and I have to pass that test. If we don’t, my days at school will return to the way they used to be—stressful, sad, and lonely, and I can’t let that happen. Ever again.
All weekend, the lower school visit and Butter’s test loom over me. Butter and I spend Saturday and Sunday practicing. By the end of the weekend, she understands all the skills perfectly, except for leave it. That one trips her up, especially when I tempt her with paper.
On Monday morning, I get Butter ready for school with a deep pit in my stomach and trembling hands. Even the sweet smell of her hay and the reassurance of her fur as I stroke her can’t quite soothe my jagged nerves. There’s too much at stake.
Butter has only come to school with me for one blissful week, but my life has changed drastically for the better. I have three friends instead of none, a plan for surviving the cursed play, and a companion who helps me cope with my anxiety when it tears at my insides like a piranha.
If Principal Huxx bans Butter from school because we fail the obedience test, my world will revert to the way things were before Butter, and I can’t go back. Not now. I’ve gotten a glimpse of what life can be like without anxiety clouding every emotion, every decision, every thought, and it is so much better—freer, lighter, happier. I want to keep moving forward, out of the fog. Not turn around and lose myself in it again.
We have to pass that test.
Butter and I walk across the field quickly without making our usual stops for her to play and frolic, which might be a mistake since a tired goat is a well-behaved one, but I don’t want to be late.
We make it to school in record time and head straight to the playground, where I arranged to meet Addie. Ms. Day told me to bring a friend, and Addie, with her easygoing personality, was a natural choice. Though, I would have been happy to have Mercedes or Theo with me too.
Better With Butter Page 14