I wasn’t going to just jog up to Mom and demand we get a dog. I’d made the mistake of blindly nagging her for things before, like the ill-fated trampoline grovel from last summer. No, I needed to be ready. I needed to have my case down pat and my facts on straight. Like Lexi would. So I practiced responses for all the objections Mom might raise. She wanted a dog that didn’t shed? Some dogs barely shed at all, like Yorkshire terriers or poodles. Mom wanted a quiet dog? A bunch of dogs are mostly quiet, like bulldogs. Mom wanted protection against burglars? I could name a million great guard dogs.

So when Mom got home from work and started making dinner, I was ready to strike. The time was right. She was alone. She didn’t seem to be in a bad mood since she was humming a song I didn’t know. I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath, and laid out my perfectly practiced plea.

“Mom? Got a second?” She stopped humming, and I went through my list of reasons we needed a dog, the joy of owning one, the fun we would have, how they’re great friends and she would love playing with a dog as much as me. “And that is why we should get a dog,” I concluded, a big grin spread over my face. There was no way Mom could turn me down after that speech.

“Absolutely not,” said Mom.

Mom still wore her nurse’s uniform from work. She was probably tired from a long day standing on her feet. I should have waited. I should have brought flowers. I should have offered to set the table, complimented her hair, and generally buttered her up. I hadn’t thought of all the angles.

But I needed to talk to her before Lexi came home. I still didn’t trust my sister’s smirk from the day before.

It was too late to rewind, so I pressed forward. “Why not? You won’t have to do anything. I’ll feed him twice a day. I’ll let him out. I’ll clean up after him. I’m responsible.”

After dumping spaghetti into the pot of boiling water, Mom shook her head. Head shaking is never a good response when you ask for something. “Did you hang your jacket up like you’re supposed to?”

I leaned back and peeked into the hallway. My spring coat lay in a heap next to the front door, which is where I usually threw it.

“No,” I admitted.

“Did you put your shoes away?” asked Mom.

My shoes were under my jacket.

“No,” I repeated.

“Then how can I trust you to take care of a dog?”

“Because a dog isn’t a jacket or shoes. He’s your best friend. And I wouldn’t leave my best friend in the hallway. And if I did, dogs have feet. He’d just run over to the kitchen.” I could be responsible. I could! I trotted to the front hall and picked up my shoes and jacket. “See? I’m putting these away right now.”

I marched my stuff — very responsibly — into the mudroom. Mom watched closely as I tossed them inside. I wiped my hands and shouted, “Ta-da!”

“The coat goes on a hook. The shoes go in the shoe bin.” She sighed.

“I know that,” I muttered. “I was doing that next.” Not really. But I hung up the coat and put my shoes in the shoe bin, nice and neat. “Now can I have a dog?”

“Absolutely not.”

Which means I cleaned up for no reason at all. But I couldn’t give up. This was too important. I didn’t just want a dog. I needed a dog.

The front door swung open and Lexi strolled in. Without a word, she glided into the mudroom, where she hung up her coat and placed her shoes in the bin. Then she said in her most annoyingly fake-sweet voice, “Mom, can we get a cat?” She threw me one of her smirks. I cringed.

“Absolutely not.”

Now it was my turn to smirk.

“Please! I’ll take care of the cat all by myself,” she pleaded. “I’m responsible.”

Mom arched her eyebrow. Her left eyebrow, to be exact, which is pretty impressive. I’ve tried to arch one of my eyebrows, but I can’t. You’d think something like eyebrow arching would be hereditary. Apparently it’s a talent that wasn’t passed on to me. I blame Dad.

“I know you are responsible,” Mom said as she stirred the spaghetti in the pot. “How’s cheerleading going?”

“Cheerleading?” asked Lexi. “Mom, you know I quit cheerleading.”

“And how’s choir at school?”

“Mom, you know I quit choir.”

“And how is ice-skating? And softball?”

“Mom, you know I quit …” Lexi quieted and scrunched up her lips. She furrowed her brow. “Okay. Fine. I get the point. But I’m not going to quit a cat.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because it’s an adorable, furry kitten that will depend on me. That is way different than ice-skating lessons.”

“Ice-skating lessons that cost a lot of money,” said Mom as she lifted the pot of spaghetti and drained it in the colander. A big cloud of steam filled the sink.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Lexi protested. “The teacher was a tyrant. But imagine how cute and fuzzy little kittens are!”

“A cute kitten that will turn into a not-as-cute cat. And then who’s going to be stuck caring for it while you’re on to the next thing?” asked Mom as she plopped the pasta into a serving bowl.

“But a cat is different.”

“How?”

Lexi smiled with her Little-Miss-Perfect smile, the smile that had everyone in the world fooled, except me. The smile was worse than the smirk, because the smile meant she knew something I didn’t. It meant she had a plan. “I have charts.”

More evil words have never been spoken.

“After dinner,” said Mom. “Let’s eat!” She hoisted the pasta bowl and carried it over to the kitchen table. But my appetite was disappearing as quickly as the steam rising from the bowl of spaghetti.