“Do you think Mike likes pigs?”
He must, since he’s dating one. I grin to myself as I walk the dogs back toward the kennels. “Why are you so hung up on Mike, bud?”
I’m guessing it has something to do with the fact that Mike came through and got Luke a code to beta test Deadzone Five. My brother had been so excited, he could barely form a complete sentence on the phone—just lots of “oh my God”s and “this can’t be real life”s.
“I like him. He’s cool.”
“Do you know he’s also in a band?”
“No way.”
I chuckle at the awe in Luke’s voice. I can just imagine the way his chunky blue glasses slipped down on his nose when his mouth fell open. “Yeah. He’s a drummer. His band is pretty big around here.”
“Please date him,” my brother whines.
“Why, just because he’s in a band?”
“And he plays video games.”
“Chuck played video games,” I remind him of the boyfriend I had for a four-month stint five years ago. Chuck and I were friends in high school until one night when we both got tipsy at the town fair and ended up making out in front of the kissing booth. We both felt weird about it afterward, which is why we forced ourselves to give the couple thing a try over the next few months, until I eventually told him that I was too busy with school and the farm for a relationship. I left out the part about just being bored. I shouldn’t have been thinking about math homework when he kissed me, but there I was, mentally solving algebraic equations while he wiggled his tongue in my mouth.
I didn’t blame him for the lack of sparks. In all of my relationships, I’ve never felt them. I’m pretty sure it’s just me—I don’t spark.
“But he wasn’t any good at them,” Luke argues, and I laugh.
“I told you, Luke. Mike’s with Danica. And even if he wasn’t, that’s a terrible reason to date someone.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is it a bad reason? You have stuff in common.”
A line forms in my forehead as I swing open the door to the shelter and the sound of barking bounces off the walls. Since when did my twelve-year-old brother become a relationship expert? “You know what we don’t have in common? An undying love for Danica.”
My brother makes a sound. “Why is he with her, anyway? Just ’cuz she’s prettier?”
“Gee, thanks, turd.”
“I just mean, like, well,” Luke stammers. “Well, you just don’t wear as much makeup and stuff is all.”
“Digging yourself a deeper hole,” I singsong over the sound of barking, and Luke chuckles.
“You’re prettier on the inside.”
“I’m going to give you the noogie of your life next time I see you,” I threaten, and Luke surprises me with a witty quip.
“I’ll probably be taller than you by then. I’ll just hide the stepladder so you can’t reach me.”
I gasp, and at the chuckle on the other end of the line, I try not to smile. “You are so dead.”
Luke finishes laughing and asks, “Are you coming home to visit soon?”
“Probably not. But I’ll see you in two months at Uncle Rick’s for Thanksgiving.”
“Do you think he’ll pay for my college too when I go?” Luke asks, and even though I’m thrilled he plans on going to college someday, I frown.
Allowing Danica’s parents to pay for my schooling was a last resort, and it’s one I don’t take lightly. Last year, after applying to Mayfield University on a whim and getting accepted, I tried applying for scholarships and more federal aid than I was already getting, but I wasn’t eligible for enough money to afford the ridiculously expensive tuition. All of the student loans and state grants in the world weren’t going to cover Mayfield U’s veterinary science program, and without any substantial savings of my own, I asked my parents to apply for parental loans to help.
And that was how I discovered that they have debilitatingly low credit. I had no idea they’d taken out so many loans to keep the farm from going under, but they had, and apparently they’d been unable to pay any of them back. When I quietly asked if the bank was going to seize our home, my dad took another sip of his beer and solemnly shook his head.
My uncle Rick had paid the loans off. All of them. He saved our farm from going into foreclosure, and all it cost was the deed. Our home is now his home, and my family is just living in it.
I never want to be in that position. I never want to have to rely on someone else to keep me in my home, or worry that I won’t be able to help my children follow their dreams. Right now, I have to worry about myself and Luke, and that’s bad enough. It’s the only reason why I said yes when my uncle offered me his help. It’s the only reason I’m living with Danica.
“I’ll have a good-paying job as a veterinarian by then,” I assure Luke. “I’ll help you pay.”
“What if I want to be a chemical engineer?” he asks, and I groan as dollar signs flash in my eyes and the wolfhound gives my elbow one last big lick before I herd him into his kennel.
“Then I think you better get a summer job and start saving up now.” I pat the wolfhound on the head, knowing that in spite of how overexcited he gets, he’ll be adopted soon. Just like the poodle and the dachshund. I have good feelings about all of them, and I’m usually not wrong.
“I could be richer than Uncle Rick someday,” Luke dreams, and my voice turns wistful as I leave the wolfhound’s cage.
“I hope so, bud. I really do.”
I smell like dog when I leave the shelter that night. I always smell like dog when I leave the shelter, but after eight hours of cleaning kennels and leash-training new arrivals, I really, really smell like dog. The full moon lights the drive back to my apartment, and my legs are heavy as I drag them through the door. I only get two small steps inside before Danica’s voice yells from down the hallway.
“Hailey?!”
“Yeah?”
She pops out of her bedroom wearing nothing but a lacy hot pink bra and a matching pair of panties. “Oh my God. You need to help me!”
She disappears back inside her room, and I rub the corneas off my eyes as I slowly make my way back there.
“Are you coming?!”
I turn the corner into her room and take in the absolute destruction. I don’t even know how one single person can have so many clothes. And every single piece is strewn across the room. There are shoes piled on the bed, bras tossed over the lamp, skirts discarded on the dresser, a thong wrapped around my shoe.
I’m frantically kicking my foot when Danica flies out of her walk-in closet holding a red mini dress in one hand and a gold-speckled white top in the other.
“Which one?” she says. “This dress”—she lifts the dress—“or this top? I’d pair it with a black mini. Or maybe my—oh my God, where is my fuchsia skirt?!”