One Small Thing(52)
“And saying you’re on probation makes you sound like a...a...” I search for the right word.
“Criminal?” he offers.
“...delinquent. And you’re not,” I add.
“But I am.”
“I thought we were starting over.”
“I’m not going to mislead anyone.”
Impatiently, I toss my end of the branch into the woodpile. Talking to Chase is like making a speech to the pile of logs. It’s worthless and the words get swallowed by the denseness.
“Look, I’m not trying to be stupid here,” he says, appearing over my right shoulder. “It just doesn’t feel right not to let people know I’m on probation. Like I’m operating under false pretenses.”
“It’s not false pretenses to let people get to know you before you tell them something like that. It’s called putting your best foot forward. In an interview, you don’t tell them that you have a hard time getting up in the morning. You tell them you’re eager to start work at any time.” I cross my arms. “Let’s try again—why’d you get a job here and not somewhere else?”
“The shelter has a deal with the state’s juvie rehab program.”
I throw up my hands in disgust. “Forget it. You should just get Chase Donnelly, Felon tattooed on your forehead.”
“My forehead? Nah, I was thinking my neck.”
“What?” I spin around to see Chase grinning at me. He was joking, thank God.
“Okay, how about this?” He strides forward, grabs my right hand and says, “I’m Chase Donnelly. I go to Darling High. I think we have some classes together.”
The electric shocks happen again, but I pretend that his mere closeness isn’t making my insides go crazy. “I’m Beth Jones. I’ve seen you in AP Calc and Music History. Do you play an instrument?”
“No, I can’t play an instrument to save my life. I can’t sing and I can’t even draw stick figures, but I had to fulfill that Fine Arts requirement so I picked Music History.”
“Same.” I smile sympathetically. “Plus, I heard that Dvo?ák lets us listen to pop music during class and I unironically enjoy pop music.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t make fun of me for that. Instead, he says, “The One Direction guys are lit now.”
“Harry Styles all the way.”
“I’m more of a hip-hop head. Gucci Mane, Post Malone.”
“I like that, too.”
We stare at each other, hands clasped, smiles on our faces. It feels like I’m being baked in the sun. Finally, we both realize we’ve held hands for way too long to constitute a normal handshake. I let go first. It seems like he’s reluctant to release me. Or it might be my imagination.
“You like animals, huh?” he asks as we walk back to the trash pile.
“I always wanted a pet, but we can’t have one because Ra—because my mom’s super allergic to them,” I lie. “Do you like them?”
“Yeah. They’re pretty nonjudgmental. That’s a big plus.”
“I don’t know about that. There’s a new pit bull inside who glares at everyone.”
“Rocco? No way. He’s a sweetheart. The worst he’ll do is slobber all over you. Someone brought him in a few days ago and I sneak him treats every chance I get.”
“Who else is new?” I ask curiously. “I’ve been gone, so I’m behind on intakes. And has Opie been taking his meds?”
“Not without a fight,” Chase answers with a wry smile. “It takes like three people to get him to swallow those pills.”
“Not when I’m here,” I say smugly, remembering how easily the grumpy rottie responds to me.
“Well, good thing you’re back, then.”
Chase adds in a few more tidbits about some of the new arrivals I’ve yet to meet. Mittens, an unoriginal name for a cat if I ever heard one, looks haughty but if you give her a little milk, she’ll be your friend forever. Sylvester is a parrot that speaks in French. No one knows why, but the assumption is that she had a French-speaking owner despite Darling never having had a French family for as long as anyone can remember.
“My favorite is Boots, though,” Chase tells me. “He’s a tough old dog. His owner died last week and the family didn’t want Boots. I don’t think anyone’s going to adopt him, so I’m hoping I can get permission to take him home.”
“That’s good.” I think of Chase’s empty bedroom in the basement, and my heart clenches. He could use a friend.
“Yeah, but he’s got some kind of stomach problem and he’s always puking. Mom would kill—” He halts and clears his throat. “Mom wouldn’t be happy if I brought home a dog that would ruin the mayor’s thousand-dollar rugs.”
“It’s okay. You can say things like kill or murder and I’m not going to hold it against you.” I hate that he has to watch what he says around me.
His blue eyes meet mine. “Nah, I really can’t say those things,” he admits. “Because even if you don’t hold it against me, I would still feel guilty. I’ve lost a lot of sleep feeling guilty over you.” It’s not an accusation; it’s a sad, sorrowful admission.