Windy’s sister, Cherish, picks us up after school—as promised. Windy sits in the front of the car. Levi and I get in the back. Cherish watches through her rearview mirror as I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit. She raises her perfect eyebrows.
“You’ve got 1 hour,” Cherish says to Windy as we pull out of the school parking lot.
“2,” Windy insists.
“No, 1,” Cherish says. “Mom said I had to drop you off and pick you up in an hour.”
“We will call you when we’re done,” Windy says. She seems to argue with everyone but me.
It only takes 11 minutes to drive to the Pet Hut. We pass 4 traffic lights, 147 telephone poles (out the right-hand window), and 17 fire hydrants. When we get out of the car, Cherish shouts to us, “1 hour!”
We stand in the empty parking lot and stare at the single-story red building with windows across the front.
“This used to be a Pizza Hut,” Levi says, pulling a camera from his bag. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not like it was an animal shelter and pizza place at the same time,” Windy says. “Come on.”
We follow her to the side door, where the old logo still shows on the glass.
I let Windy hold the door open for me. My plan is to touch nothing. But in case that doesn’t work, I have a new pack of Clorox wipes and some extra hand sanitizer in my bag.
I tap my toe 3 times.
The place smells of wet newspaper, and the entrance is crowded with bags of dog and cat food, old blankets folded and stacked, and empty animal crates of different sizes. Muffled barking echoes through the walls.
“Can I help you?” a guy behind the counter asks. A menu over his head still has pictures of sodas and pizza, but the written information (all 11 words, 10 digits, and 3 dollar signs) is about pet pricing.
ADOPTION FEES
PUPPIES $200
DOGS $175
CATS $90
APPLICATION REQUIRED. MUST BE AT LEAST 18.
“Do you work here?” Windy sounds like she’s testing him.
“I volunteer here.” His long dark hair looks knotted, and he has huge holes in his earlobes. His skin is white, and his nose is crooked and has a diamond stud. He’s older than we are—in high school at least.
“Is Claire Barrington here?” Windy asks.
“Yeah. Hang on.” He hops off his stool and opens the heavy metal door at the end of the counter.
The barking grows louder. I step back. I’ve never been around dogs or any animals. Dogs aren’t clean and don’t respect personal space—from what I’ve seen on TV. Some people claim that dogs’ mouths are cleaner than humans’ mouths. That’s not true. Both are hot, wet, dark pools of bacteria. Dogs have as much bacteria, just different kinds.
I suddenly feel like gargling.
“Claire, you have visitors,” the guy yells over the barking.
“Send them in.”
“I’ll wait here,” I say.
“No, you won’t.” Levi grabs my elbow. “You’re not leaving me alone with Windy.” We follow her through the doorway.
A woman waves to us from the far end of the room. She’s leaning over a sink filled with bubbles and what seems to be a giant rat. She’s wearing scrubs like a nurse. The pants are a pretty sky blue (similar to the number 4), and the top is purple (like the number 3) with kittens. Her red hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Her skin’s pale, but her cheeks are pink—I assume from fighting the giant rat in the sink.
We walk past 8 large kennels on the right. Each has a wild-looking dog inside. On top of the big kennels are 10 smaller cages with smaller dogs. The size of the dog doesn’t matter. They all seem to be trying to break free. Like they want to chew my throat. I touch my lightning-bolt charm and keep my eyes forward.
“Hi, gang,” she says. “I’m Claire. Owner, operator, CEO, and head shampooer of the Pet Hut. How can I help you?”
I tap my toe 3 times and try to hold my breath. Wet dog—or rat—has to be 1 of the worst smells in the world.
“We’re doing a service project for school,” Windy starts.
“Let me guess,” Claire says. “East Hamlin Middle.”
“How did you know?”
“I had a group of kids in here earlier this week.”
“So not only is our idea boring, it’s been done before,” Levi says.
I roll my eyes. Like he doesn’t mind copying off of other people.
“We will take all the help we can get,” Claire says. “Why don’t you tell me your names and what you have in mind?” She turns on the water and starts rinsing the small dog in the sink. Droplets land on my arm. My brain lets me see these perfect circles filled with triangles defined by the ratio pi. More beautiful math that surrounds me everywhere. Still, I’ll need to shower when I get home. Who knows what germs lurk in those circles?
Windy takes care of the introductions. “That’s Levi. He doesn’t like anything. She’s Lucy, the quiet and thoughtful 1. I’m Windy. I’m the leader of the group. I mean, not officially, but unofficially.”
“I’d vote for that dog as group leader before I’d vote for you.” Levi motions with his head toward a ceramic beagle that’s holding open a door.
“See! He never says anything positive.”
Claire forces a laugh. “Do you want to go to the office and I can answer your questions? Or we could start with a little tour, and I’ll tell you about our needs.”
“I’ve got questions,” I say. It’s easier not to touch anything if we stand in 1 spot.
“Tour,” Levi votes. And for once Windy agrees with him.
“You can ask me questions while we walk,” Claire says.
We wait for Claire to towel off the dog.
“What kind of dog is that?” Windy asks.
“He’s a mutt, but our vet thinks he’s part Chihuahua.”
“And part shih tzu,” Levi adds.
Claire nods. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”
“Look at the face and the longer fur. That’s shih tzu,” Levi says. “I guess the skinny legs and tail make the vet think Chihuahua.”
I stare at Levi.
“What?” he says. “I like dogs.”
“Do you have any pets?” Claire asks him.
“2 dogs. Cocker spaniels that my moms rescued. Chase and Buttons.”
Claire gives the wet dog a kiss on the nose and then puts him in an empty kennel. “Be good, Rex.”
Gross.
“So, this is the dog room. Obviously.” Claire holds out her arms. “The big boys and girls get those luxury apartments, and our smaller friends get the penthouses.”
“How many dogs can you have in here at once?” I ask.
“Depends,” she answers. “If everyone got their own space, 18. Sometimes we make them double-bunk. We also have a special room for puppies. Puppies don’t stay with us long. They’re usually adopted pretty quickly.”
“How quick?” I ask.
“As quick as our volunteers can finish reviewing the paperwork.” She smiles.
“We don’t just want to volunteer,” Windy says. “We want to improve your shelter.”
“Oh, really?” Claire puts a finger to her bottom lip.
“Do you realize that everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like an insult?” Levi says to Windy.
“Does not.”
“Yes, it does.” He nods. “You’re really talented.”
“Let’s continue the tour, gang,” Claire suggests. “I’ll show you the cat area.”
The cat room is smaller than the dog room, but it has more occupants, and it smells worse. Even worse than wet Chihuahua–shih tzu. I count 22 cats and no kittens.
“We don’t usually take in kittens,” Claire says, reading my mind. “There’s another shelter, Whiskers. They’re better equipped to handle them.”
“How many animals get adopted every week?” I ask.
“Depends. Can be anywhere from 1 to 20,” she says.
“What’s the average?” I ask.
Claire shrugs. “I’m not certain, sweetheart. 3 or 4?”
“Is that the mean, median, or mode?” Most people use mean for average, but I want to be sure.
“It’s a guess.” She laughs. “I can show you our records. And you can mean, media, and mole the data yourself.”
“It’s mean, median, and mode,” I correct.
Levi elbows me in the side and whispers, “She was joking with you.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want to look at the records,” Windy says.
“You can help me with the dogs,” Claire offers. “I still need to walk kennels 5 through 8.”
Claire asks Noah, the guy with the holes in his ears, to show me to her office. It’s more of a closet with 3 huge filing cabinets, a desk, and an ancient computer.
“Is all the adoption information on the computer?” I ask him.
“Most of it. Well, some of it.” He scratches his knotted hair. “I’ve been volunteering here for 6 months. People fill out an adoption form. If I have time, I put it in the computer. But all the paperwork is filed by date in here.” He pulls open a drawer in the filing cabinet. The 1st folder is 4 months old.
“All of it?”
He points at a stack on the desk. “Except for that pile. They need to be filed.”
The data is all here. Our problem and the solution for our project are buried in these papers. But none of it is usable yet.
The front door chimes.
“Have fun,” Noah says, and he leaves me alone with plenty to calculate. Which actually is fun to me.