Page 11

Chapter Eleven

My pulse beats like I’m jogging to the shelter instead of walking a leisurely quarter mile. Dylan remained elusive for the rest of the week. Unfortunately, I can’t get the size of his anatomy out of my mind. How can I look at him without turning seven shades of red?

Sam kicked Sushi Guy to the curb and went on a first date with Barista Boy last night, so I spent a quiet Friday night at home. I still can’t believe how quiet it was. I actually sat on the couch and watched a movie with no arguments breaking out. Mom wasn’t home when I got home from school, and she didn’t come home before her shift at the convenience store at 11:00 pm. Grandma stayed in the basement all night, and Joel worked. If I’d known it would be so tolerable, I would have invited Bek over. Who am I kidding? I haven’t had a friend over in years because it’s too embarrassing when Mom and Grandma start in on each other.

Standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the street to the shelter, I watch as Dylan pulls into the parking lot on his motorcycle. He coasts to the far back corner of the lot and parks his bike behind the dumpster. No wonder I hadn’t realized he was already there last weekend.

My heart flutters as I cross the street. My eyes are locked on the front door of the shelter, where Dylan disappeared, trying to figure out what I’ll say when I return his shirt. Should I make a big deal about how much I appreciated him going out of his way to help? Should I tell him I like his smell? No, I definitely shouldn’t tell him that. I should probably play it off as no big deal and just hand him his shirt with a grunt or something. That’s what he would do.

I’m so focused on the shelter door that I don’t see the curb directly in front of me. My toe jams into the concrete and sends me crashing to the sidewalk. Pain sears across my palms and my knees sting. When I climb to my feet, I’m sad to see a small tear in my jeans on the left knee. My favorite pair! I study my palms. Dirt and bits of gravel are embedded in the flesh, and little points of blood well up. I growl in frustration. I always seem to have road rash somewhere on my body.

Luckily, Dylan is already inside and didn’t see me fall. I’ll just stop in the bathroom and wash the dirt and blood off my hands before I do anything else.

But, as I approach the door, it swings open and Dylan steps out, holding it for me. “Have a nice fall?”

Of course, my cheeks warm. I avoid making eye contact as I walk into the lobby and head straight to the bathroom.

When I come out, he’s no longer in the lobby, so I walk back to the employees-only area to store my stuff. Like last weekend, Dylan stands in front of the bulletin board, reading the notices and safety rules. He always looks like he doesn’t care about anything. Somehow his stance goes beyond relaxed to appear apathetic. How does he do that? My nerves are on edge from embarrassment; I feel like I’ll jump out of my skin with the slightest provocation. I tug Dylan’s shirt from my bag and shove it at him.

After all the planning on the walk here, all I end up saying is, “Thanks.”

“You know, you should consider having a change of clothes with you at all times.” He chuckles as he stores his shirt in a locker.

“I usually do,” I mumble. I hated having to admit that to him. He probably already thinks I’m a major loser.

“Really? You mean, that was true? When you told Mrs. Jensen that?”

I clench my fists. If he laughs anymore, I might start to cry. I’ve been entertaining people with my clumsiness my whole life, but his laughter somehow hurts so much more. I want to shout at him to stop laughing. To tell him how much it hurts that he finds my pain and embarrassment funny. But the words are a ball of burning anguish in my chest. He’d probably just laugh more. But there’s also the possibility that if I yell at him, he’ll yell back. And that scares me most of all.

“You literally carry around spare clothes?” He points to the locker I just shoved my bag in. “Do you have some in there now?”

I turn away before he sees the shine in my eyes. But I turned the wrong way and must do a 180 in order to go outside to the dogs.

“Whoa, are you crying?” Dylan jogs to catch up to me.

Knowing he’s noticed makes it worse. Not only do the tears refuse to recede, my face and neck get blotchy too. Ignoring him, I push through the gate to patio A, but Dylan is on my heels.

“Ava, stop!” Dylan grabs my arm pulling me to a stop, but I refuse to look at him. My emotions are swirling out of control and now panic blooms as well. I want to flee. He tries to step in front of me, but I turn away. He tries again, but I shift more. “Come on, Ava. Stop!”

He steps in front of me, and I slam my eyes closed .

Dylan’s warm hands wrap around my shoulders, but his grip is gentle. When he speaks, it sounds like he’s hunched so that he’s level with me, but I can’t open my eyes. If I saw humor in his gaze, I would lose it completely.

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His tone is sincere. My eyes pop open in surprise. His shoulders are slumped so he can be eye-to-eye with me. He rubs my shoulders in a comforting gesture. “Oh, Ava, I’m so sorry.

The heartfelt apology surprises me so much that I pull away from him. He wilts with disappointment, and for some reason, I feel guilty. Traitorous heart.

“It’s fine,” I croak. My throat is raw with the effort of holding my tears in check. Of course, it isn’t fine, but this is the first time anyone has felt bad for upsetting me and I don’t know how to react. “Let’s get to work.”

I march to kennel A, glancing at the tag to confirm that Chip is still housed inside. I open the door and out he bursts at full speed. I walk to kennel B and open it. A new dog prances out, catching me by surprise. I glance at the tag and see that Belle has been replaced by Yakko. Apparently, the staff has chosen the Animaniacs as the next name inspirations. I would laugh if I wasn’t still so emotionally raw.

Dylan grabs the broom and starts to sweep kennel A, so I wheel the mop bucket over to the spigot to fill it up. While the water fills, I look around. Something isn’t right.

“Where are the dogs?” I ask?

Dylan steps out of the kennel, broom in hand. “What do you mean?”

That’s when I notice the gate to patio A sitting open. “Dylan! You forgot to close the gate.”

“Oh, oops.”

With a huff, I stomp over to it, to collect Chip and Yakko. But they aren’t on the other patio either, because the door to the shelter stands open as well. “Dylan!” I shout as I run into the employee breakroom. The place is a shambles. Chairs are knocked over, a table is pushed up next to the refrigerator, and magazines are torn apart, their tattered, glossy pages scattered around the room. In the center of it, Chip and Yakko are wrestling.

Dylan skids into the room. “Oh, crud.”

“Grab some collars and leashes, fast!” As Dylan bolts from the room, I grab Chip by the scruff, pulling him away from Yakko. I grasp Yakko too, but my arms aren’t long enough to keep them separated, so they start wresting again. “At least you guys get along.”

Dylan runs back in and pulls Yakko far enough away from Chip that the dogs stop playing. He slips the collar over his head and clips the leash to it fast. Handing the leash to me, he grabs Chip next and gets him collared and leashed in no time. He hands Chip’s leash to me as well. “It’s my fault. I’ll clean up here.”

I lead the dogs from the room, careful to close the door behind me. When the gate to patio A is securely closed behind us, again, I let the dogs go. Chip immediately starts running his figure eights and Yakko wanders around sniffing things. My pulse still races from the excitement. I glance at the closed door of the shelter, imagining Dylan straightening up the room. It surprises me that he so easily took responsibility for the mishap. He strikes me as someone who would make excuses. Perhaps turn it on me since he’d been chasing after me because I was upset.

Lost in contemplation, I slowly walk toward the kennels we’d been cleaning. I startle when my foot sinks into a puddle of water. Then groan. In my panic over the missing dogs, I left the water running and it has overfilled the bucket and is making an ever-widening river across patio A. Of course, the dogs have run through it, tracking water everywhere. More of a mess to clean, but luckily this is outside. I turn off the water, dump the excess out of the bucket and wheel it over to kennel A.

I’m just finishing up kennel B when Dylan comes around the corner, examining the water with a confused look on his face.

“This is on me,” I say. “But would you mind grabbing the push broom from the closet so we can push this around and get it to dry faster?”

“No problem.”

Dylan has fun sweeping the water around, making it a game to try to swish it outside the fence in three or fewer pushes. I watch with a small smile. I’m not ready to forgive him for making me feel like crap, but I can enjoy watching the bad boy of Oak Grove High dance with a broom.

When he’s swept most of the standing water off the patio, I open Popeye’s kennel. The big dog ignores me, as usual, and beelines for Dylan.

“Hey bud,” Dylan greets. He spends time scratching the dog’s huge jowls while I sweep out the kennel. As soon as I lean the broom against the wall outside the kennel, he calls out, “I’ll mop.”

“No, you can get the next one. Popeye needs as much of your time as possible.”

“You really care about these animals, don’t you?” Dylan asks.

I’m in Popeye’s kennel, so I can’t see if Dylan is smirking or actually curious. I consider if I’m walking into a joke by answering, but I don’t think so. “Don’t you?”

“I guess. I mean, I’m only here because I have to be. It seemed like the least gross place to volunteer. I couldn’t imagine sorting through people’s old stuff at one of those donation centers.” He pauses. “I’m surprised to like the animals as much as I do.”

I peek my head out of the kennel to see if he’s serious. I step all the way out when I find Popeye standing on his back legs, with his front paws on Dylan’s shoulders, licking Dylan’s face. Laughter erupts from Dylan as he tries to avoid the big tongue.

“Get off, you brute. You are so gross!”

I can’t help but laugh at the two. My stomach does some complicated dance of its own when I see the joy on Dylan’s face. “You should adopt that dog!”

Popeye drops to all fours and leans against Dylan, making the boy stumble until he’s able to fortify his stance. Dylan stares down at the dog for so long, I think he might not have heard me, but finally, Dylan shakes his head. “Wish I could.”

Is that an expression of want on Dylan’s face? Regret? It’s hard to tell. Maybe both. Something about it makes me realize that Dylan has a whole life I know nothing about. Just like he doesn’t know about my toxic home, I don’t know what his is like. Was his homelife somehow responsible for his bad-boy reputation? Does he have a bad family life that spurs him to do whatever bad things he does that gets him in the kind of trouble that leads to community service? Is that why he dates a lot of girls? Maybe so, he isn’t home a lot?

Suddenly remembering the notes in Teresa’s book, I scurry back into Popeye’s kennel, hoping to hide my embarrassment.

Apparently, I wasn’t fast enough. Suddenly, Dylan is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “What was that look for?”

“What look? There was no look.” Again, I’m never going to be an actress. I even sound guilty. “What are you even talking about? I probably had gas or something.” Dang it, rambling is as good as admitting it.

“You seemed, I don’t know, like I’d caught you with a dirty magazine or something. ”

Popeye’s kennel is going to be the cleanest kennel ever, because I cannot stop mopping or I’ll have to look at Dylan.

“Don’t be silly.” I bite my tongue to keep from spewing more useless denials.

“Admit it. You were picturing me with my shirt off.”

I am now, thank you very much. It doesn’t help that the way he has his arms crossed pulls his shirt tight across his chest, showing off muscles. Where did he get those, anyway? “No, you were fully clothed in my mind.”

“Ah-ha!” He stands up and claps in victory.

“No, that’s not what I meant. You weren’t even in my mind. Or on my mind, whatever.” His knowing look makes me turn redder. Without thinking, I sweep the mop upward and splat it against his chest. “Calm down already. I wasn’t fantasizing about you.”

He jumps back as water soaks his shirt. He looks at me incredulously. “Oh no, you didn’t.”

My jaw slackens too. I can’t believe I did that.

Faster than Chip can run, Dylan lunges to the bucket and sweeps his hand through the water, causing a tidal wave to arc down my legs. I leap back with a squeal. The cold water leaves me speechless. I plunge the mop back into the bucket and arc it through the air toward Dylan, but he’s ready for me and has the advantage of a longer reach. He plucks the mop from my grip and holds it in the air over my head. A torrent of water cascades over my head. I jump, trying to snatch the mop back, but Dylan uses his other arm to hold me in place. I push against his grip, but his arm is a steel band around my waist. Instead, I reach up on tiptoes, hoping to get the mop handle, but he’s taller and his arms are much longer than mine. The only consolation is that now the mop drips onto both of our heads. My gaze follows the series of drips to the crown of his head, and I grin as they roll down his face.

That’s when I realize that his face is only inches from mine and that our bodies are pressed together. I freeze, aware of how my soft body molds against his lean one. I gulp.

He seems to realize it at the same time, because he lets go of me and steps backward like I’ve burned him. He backs out of the kennel. Popeye watches us with his ears forward and his head cocked, looking like he wants to play too.

Seeing how much Dylan resembles a drowned rat tells me I must look like I just washed ashore during a tidal wave.

His heated gaze scans me from head to toe as he pulls his sodden shirt away from his skin. I silently wish he’d let it cling to his muscled chest longer.

With his smirk firmly in place, he says, “Good thing we have a change of clothes.”