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I started out my day by taking Mojo on a long walk around Briar Park. Or rather, bribing him. The pup had apparently decided that, instead of walking, it would be more entertaining to sit on its little rump and blink up at me with uninterested eyes.
I did not find it entertaining in the least.
I tried gently tugging on the leash, but that only succeeded in moving Mojo an inch. He blinked again and looked away, a doggy eye roll.
He’s just a scared puppy, I told myself. He’ll come around.
Tapping down my frustration at my unmoving dog, I switched tactics. Dropping the leash, I crouched down to Mojo’s level and smiled.
“What’s wrong, Mojo?” I asked, my voice honey sweet and imploring. I scratched him behind the ears. “Don’t you want to go for a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
At this point, most dogs would wag their tails and jump up and down. Maybe let out an excited woof or two. But not Mojo. My little brown pup proceeded to turn his entire body around so that his back was facing me and sat on his butt again. To add insult to injury, he let out a deep whine, as if I were frustrating him.
Me. The girl who brought him in to my home, cleaned up his runny dog poop, and now was trying to walk him. I was frustrating him.
If anyone should have been frustrated, it was me. I sat back on my haunches and snorted. Where did this dog get so much attitude?
Shaking my head, I checked the time on my phone. The train would come in a little over an hour, and I still had to get dressed. But I couldn’t leave without walking Mojo. So, I did the only thing I could do. I picked Mojo up and carried him around the neighborhood, hoping against hope that he would let me know when he found a suitable tree.
It was a typical lower middle-class neighborhood, with long blocks of uneven sidewalks, tall trees, and gated single family houses. Every other yard seemed to have an angry pit bull or giant mixed breed. The miserable things jumped at the gate the second they saw Mojo. Any other dog would cower, but not Mojo. He barked and growled right back at them.
For a little dog, he did have spirit.
Mojo sat in my arms for three, chilly blocks. When he started to squirm, I put him down, let him do his business, picked up said business plus the dog, and continued our walk. By the time we got back to my apartment, my arm was sweating and sore from holding him.
And what thanks did I get? What appreciation did I get from this dog whose poop I held? Who I just taxied around the neighborhood like he was some furry prince?
None. Nothing. Nada.
Mojo walked in to the apartment, had a bite to eat, went to sit on his doggy bed, turned toward the wall, and fell asleep.
And just like that, my own dog, the one I’d had for less than twenty-four hours, dismissed me.
Great. Just what I needed. Someone else to ignore my entire existence.
I showered, and walked back in to my bedroom to check my phone.
Jasmine had kindly texted me a picture of how she expected my hair to look, as well as suggestions for clothes. Cute tops, fitted jeans, little dresses.
Had she texted the wrong friend? I owned none of these items. I had some clothes, but it was all things an invisible would wear. Jeans that fit me in all the wrong places, tops that all seemed to have a hole in them, oversized sweaters.
I’d never really thought about my wardrobe before, but now, knowing that others would notice it, it looked drab and gross.
A vision of myself setting it all on fire rose sharply in my mind. I smiled. That would be nice. Then, Daddy would have to give me money for new clothes. Minus the two hundred bucks I spent on dog stuff, of course.
It wasn’t just the clothes that were drab, though. My room was bare except for a picture of The Avengers by my bed. There was no color, no personal touch. Just my twin bed, a desk with my laptop on it, my book shelf—and the stack of books next to it—and an end table with a lamp. The walls were beige. The carpets were beige. Even my sheets were an ugly brown color.
What happened to us?
When Mom was alive, everything was colorful. The living room walls were pained in bright pastels, the floors accented with colorful rugs. We even had red pots and pans. Then she died and everything turned, kind of, gray. There was no more color. No more life. Just Daddy and me trying to make it through each day without falling apart. Eventually, we sold our house and moved in with Daddy’s parents on their farm, and after that, we came up here to this apartment that was smaller than my grandparents’ bedroom. We’d been here over two years, and yet, there were unpacked boxes in the living room. No pictures had been hung. There were no colorful rugs, except for the blue one in the bathroom. The apartment was unloved. Barren. It wasn’t home. Just a place to sleep and eat and enjoy a laugh or two. Nothing felt like home since Mom died.
I felt the familiar lump in my throat and swallowed it down. I couldn’t break down this morning. I had to find something decent to wear and add some order to my hair before I missed my train. Today was a big day for me. Yesterday, Jake had just glanced at me. Today, he would look just a little bit longer.
I put on the radio. The chorus to Style by Taylor Swift blasted out of the speakers.
I took it as a sign, and straightened my hair.