Lying on my bed, I click my way from one furry face to the next. The animal shelter website offers so many choices, all eager for forever homes.
A pit bull named Micky (3 years).
A shepherd named Jazzy (2 months).
A dachshund named Sweet Potato (4 years, 7 months).
I hear Mama come in. “Sophie, I’m back!”
Normally, she’d be at rehearsal right now, playing guitar with her punk band, the Screaming Head Colds. That’s why we moved to Austin, Texas—the live music capital of the world. But Mama worked late today at her other job. She’s a driver and helper to Miz Wilson, our landlady. In exchange, we pay very little for rent. Our apartment is above Miz Wilson’s garage, across the driveway from her house. It’s super small, but we love it. We can walk to my school, which is one of the best in town.
I peer through the window at what we call “the fancy house.” Mama just finished planting marigolds in the garden. It could’ve waited until tomorrow, but Miz Wilson wanted it done today—period.
She’s also the one who says, “No pets allowed—period.”
Mama peeks into my tiny bedroom. “Sophie! Are you fantasy shopping for dogs again?”
I show the image of Sweet Potato on my phone. “I know what our lease says, but look how cute she is . . . Could I just ask Miz Wilson? Please?”
Mama shakes her dark curls. “Oh, honey, I don’t think you should push it. We’ve got a sweet deal on rent.”
I put on my pleading expression. She laughs. “Talk about puppy-dog eyes! OK, but don’t get your hopes up. She’s not what you’d call a flexible personality.”