Abercrombie & Bitch

Friday, April 17, 2:45pm – Vice Principal’s Office

“Who died?” I asked hesitantly, taking a seat in front of two of my teachers. I’d had plenty of meetings with them in the past, but never with two at the same time.

And never a month before graduating from high school and finally getting out of this place.

Ms. Weber’s frown worsened, but Mr. Arneson smiled. He was a pretty cool teacher, as far as English teachers go. He was pretty young, maybe about thirty, with neatly cut black hair and big brown eyes. He was gigantic, even compared to the football-playing meatheads in his class.

Ms. Weber, on the other hand, is so not cool. She’s in her late twenties, with curly blonde hair and squinty brown eyes. She doesn’t even come up to my shoulder – she’s only about four-foot-seven. Possibly the least intimidating person I know, and yet…

“No one died, Miranda,” Mr. Arneson chuckled. “We just needed to talk to you about… something.”

I quirked an eyebrow and looked at Ms. Weber for some sort of explanation.

She sighed. “Miranda, you’re failing our classes. Normally we’d just let a student in that situation fail, but…”

Mr. Arneson sent her a warning glance. “Even if you pass our classes, there’s no way you have enough credits to graduate.”

My jaw fell open as I stared at them. Visions of the future whizzed around in my head. Watching all my friends graduate, and not being with them. Not going to prom with Bryce (even if I was planning on breaking up with him soon). The disappointed look on my mother’s face when I tell her I’m not going to graduate…

Our family isn’t rich. We’re not in a shelter, or anything, but as far as money goes, it’s pretty scarce. I do a whole lot of babysitting just to afford the clothes I do have (courtesy of Goodwill and, occasionally, Forever 21). Usually I get hand-me-downs from my older sister and my mom, but who really wants to wear those?

Anyway, even with my crappy grades, my mom promised to get me three tickets to see Paramore over the summer. If I graduated.

“Isn’t there some way?” I pleaded. I needed this. It was a little late, sure, but it was really important.

Ms. Weber nodded slowly. “There is one way.” She leaned back and picked a paper up from Mr. Flanagan’s desk, handing it to me. It was a flyer for the talent show.

I raised an eyebrow again. “What does this-” I waved the paper around. “-have to do with anything?”

Mr. Arneson started tapping his fingers on his knee. “If you win the talent show, you can use it as high school credit. Ms. Weber and I have talked about it, and we figure that if you manage to win the whole thing…” He shot a glance at Ms. Weber, shrugging his shoulders.

“We’ll be able to give you enough credits to graduate,” she finished, “But I can’t guarantee you’ll get into a good college.”

I stared up at them in shock. This was all happening fast… I mean, first they tell me, I can’t graduate, and now I can only graduate if I win this thingy. And if I don’t graduate, no Paramore concert. Damn.

“I’ll think about it,” I said slowly, picking up my bag. “May I go now?”

Ms. Weber looked like she wanted to say something else, but Mr. Arneson sent her a warning look before gesturing to the door and allowing me my freedom. I nodded gratefully and rushed out of the room.

Out in the hallway, Bryce was leaning against the lockers, waiting for me. I smiled sadly and rushed up to him.

“Hey, Babe,” he said, kissing me quickly on the cheek, “What was that about?”

I shrugged and adjusted my bag to my other shoulder. “I might not be able to graduate. Making me win some dumb talent show. No big.” I headed toward the school’s doors and to the parking lot, searching for my beat-up little car.

Bryce, keeping stride next to me easily with his long legs, walked with me. “Wait a second,” he laughed, placing a firm grip on my shoulder and turning my around, “You might not graduate? Why?”

I rolled my eyes and shrugged his hand off. “I don’t know, okay? Ms. Weber and Mr. Arneson cornered me today and told me that unless I win this talent show for credit, I wasn’t going to graduate.” I decided to leave the Paramore part out; he already thought I was weird enough without knowing this was all over a concert.

He raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care?”

I stared up at him. He was a typical guy, I suppose. He had curly brown hair that just barely touched his ears, and big brown eyes that made him slightly resemble a puppy. Which was cute, you know, when we first started dating, but now it just made him seem desperate. He was tanned, but insanely skinny. Sometimes I wondered how he could possibly be on the football team.

But then I remembered that he just sat on the bench the whole time.

I sighed and unlocked my car, pulling my sunglasses out of my bag. “Look, I’ll see you later. I’m already late for work.”

I get in the car and drive away before he can say anything.

The thing is, I really did used to care about Bryce. When I was a junior. We’d been dating for ten months, and honestly I was getting bored. And after going out for so long, he was getting a little… frustrated, I guess is the word. I had planned to break up with him after school that day, but because of the whole office thing I was already running late. Besides, I hadn’t exactly picked out what to say yet.

After a few minutes of navigating the all-too-familiar route to work, I pulled up into the parking lot of Second Chance. The local animal sanctuary. The whole building looked like it was completely made out of scrap metal, with the sign composed of what I think was an old Cadillac’s hood. The owner, Rob, had some obsession with welding and cars.

I never really asked.

As I walked into the building I was greeted with the smell of dog food and turpentine and five or six anxiously wagging tails. I smiled and held up my hand, and all of the dogs sat down in an almost straight line, their tails thumping of the ground. Well, except Brutus’s. He just has a little stump.

They were lined up in their order, something that had taken hours to teach them. There weren’t many dogs at Second Chance; it was mostly cats, rabbits, and even a few horses. Which I guess is a little strange. But I never really thought about it much.

“Hey, Rob!” I called to my boss. The dogs all turned to the other doorway, where he emerged a few seconds later.

Rob Craine is by far the strangest person I’ve ever met. He’s got the personality of nearly every artist – scatterbrained and barely aware of reality. (I’ve even suggested drug testing a few times, but he just laughed and said it wasn’t worth it, man). His light brown hair was longer than mine was, coming almost to the middle of his back. He hardly ever combed it or even wore it down, for that matter. Even now, it was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His olive-colored skin was splattered with paint from what was without a doubt some other dead-end project he was working on, along with the stubble of what I think was supposed to be his beard. It never fully grew in ,I suppose.

I put my hand on my hips. “Uh, Rob?” I wiped my finger over my left eyebrow. He did the same to his, and grinned when the hot pink paint smudged even more on his face.

“Ha. I’m working on a new house for Mowgli,” he explained, glancing at the Jack Russell terrier and reaching for a cloth to wipe his face.

I smirked and picked Mowgli up. He licked my face happily. “May I ask why you need the pink paint?”

“It’s a surprise” was all I got for an answer before Rob disappeared behind the multitude of beads that hung from the doorway. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to my dogs.

“Alright, boys,” I announced, clapping my hands together once. An annoyed bark came from one of them. “And Ginger,” I added, “Go to your houses!”

They all scampered off, while I stood and watched. Sometimes it amazed me how these dogs could be here and never be adopted. But who knows, really?

I stumbled upon Second Chance while I was browsing the newspaper one morning, out of sheer boredom. My sisters were running around the house, yelling at each other about who took what and who needed new deodorant and whatever else teenage sisters argue about on a Sunday morning. I was just munching on my Lucky Charms when I came across a “help wanted” ad for an animal shelter. I figured I needed a job, and working with Donelle’s Chihuahua wasn’t that bad. So I took it.

I never, ever, in a million years, thought I would love it as much as I do.

When all seven of the dogs were sitting in front of their houses, I walked around the room and greeted them. First was Mowgli, the little Jack Russell terrier. He came into Second Chance before I started here. Abandoned by his owner and kind of aggressive with small children. But you wouldn’t be able to tell now.

Next was Guinness, a big, stocky black lab who was nearly deaf in both ears. He was owned by an alcoholic, as his name suggests, but he eventually turned up at the shelter. They were about to put him down when Second Chance took him in, and trained him so well that you’d never know he couldn’t hear. Except, you know, when you call his name and he persists to lick himself.

Then was my girl, Ginger – a reddish golden retriever with an insane obsession with tennis balls. She’s the only girl Rob’s ever taken in – something about already having enough bitches around the place, which I think was a stab at me – but she fits in like the rest of them.

After Ginger were Scotch and Max. Scotch was a khaki-colored mix of a pit bull and what I think was American Bulldog, but I wasn’t positive. He was the dumbest animal I’ve ever met, but we loved him just the same. Max was an enormous rottweiler that was missing his right hind leg. But that didn’t stop him from running faster than the dogs with all their limbs. The two of them were our dynamic duo; one wouldn’t even leave the building to pee without the other one tagging along.

Brutus was after Scotch and Max. He was a bulldog, bulky and slow and not really that interested in anything. He wasn’t a cool, skateboarding bulldog, though, admittedly, that would have been really cool. I guess he was never adopted because he drools.

A lot.

Last, but not the least, of course, was Frankie. He was a little black pug that I swear to God had doggie ADHD. I could run him for miles and he’d never get tired. And I’ve tried nearly everything to get his attention. The only thing that works is a piece of cheese wrapped in bacon.

Once I made sure they were all there, I stood up and put my hands on my hips again. “Alright, my little misfits. Time for the park!”