by J. J. Howard
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1. Missing Meatball
2. Welcome to the Burgundy, Declan Ward
3. Remote Control
4. Paws for Effect
5. Rule Number Two
6. Not It
7. Ding!
8. Rocket Girl
9. Sharing Sparky
10. Trying
11. Like Always
12. What Even Is My Life Right Now?!
13. Way Too Many Paws
14. Celebrity Sighting
15. Slytherpuff
16. Gryffindor Moment
17. Three Terrible Words
18. Just as Much
19. Emergency Meeting
20. Borrowing
21. Supposed to Be
22. Every, Every Minute
23. Too Wonderful for Anybody to Realize
24. Seven Paws and Counting
Sneak peek at The Love Pug
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J.J. Howard
Copyright
Early Friday morning, I was in my apartment, getting ready for school, when I heard my neighbor’s voice in the hallway.
“Meatballllllll!” she was calling.
My neighbors Sarah and Dan Thompson had the cutest dog in our entire building: a small—and very round—black pug named Meatball. And Sarah’s calling for him loudly could only mean one thing: Meatball had gotten out and was on the loose.
After I finished lacing up my sneakers, I opened the door to peek out into the hall. “Sarah? What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, Kat!” Sarah said when she saw me. “Maybe you could help? I was getting the twins dressed and Dan Jr. must have opened the door … Anyway, Meatball ran out and now I can’t find him!”
I had to remind myself not to roll my eyes at the mention of Dan Jr. Sarah and Dan were very nice people, but if you asked me, their oldest child was an absolute terror. I even caught him pulling poor little Meatball’s tail once. Sarah and her husband always seemed frazzled, and I sometimes helped them out by walking Meatball. I never minded; Meatball was the best.
“I’m worried he ran to the stairs,” Sarah said. She pointed down the hall to the door that led to the stairwell; our maintenance person had left the door propped open. “What if he goes down to the lobby and runs outside?”
“I’m sure he won’t do that,” I told her. “After all, it’s four floors down. And Marcel wouldn’t let him out,” I added, thinking of our kindhearted doorman. “I’ll help you look,” I offered. “You go down and I’ll go up. Okay?”
“Great! But … I don’t want to make you late for school …”
“It’s still really early,” I said, stepping outside the apartment. “Besides, I want to find Meatball, too.”
I liked to wake up early so I didn’t have to rush getting ready for school. Meanwhile, my little sister, Micki, was probably still sleeping in her room. I was always antsy waiting for her in the mornings. Our mom had already left for work (she’s an early bird, too), and our dad was, as usual, away on a business trip.
“Okay, do you have your phone?” Sarah asked. I nodded, patting my jeans pocket. “I can text you if I find him—and vice versa.”
“Got it,” I said, and headed for the stairwell.
I climbed up to the sixth floor and called for Meatball. But there was no sign of him anywhere. I pulled out my phone. No text from Sarah.
It seemed unlikely to me that Meatball would go too far up or down. He wasn’t that fond of stairs, or any sort of exercise, really. He must have gotten himself turned around and now he was probably scared and hiding in a corner somewhere. Our building, the Burgundy, was big and old, with lots of little nooks and crannies.
Then an idea hit me: What Meatball did love was food. Whenever I walked him, he always perked up if I had a treat with me. And I knew that his absolute favorite food was hot dogs. If Meatball was hiding and he smelled hot dogs, he would definitely come running.
I ran back downstairs and into my apartment. I found some hot dogs in the freezer, quickly microwaved two of them, and then cut them up and shoved them in a ziplock baggie.
As soon as I stepped back into the hallway with the hot dogs, I heard the telltale snuffling sound of a hungry Meatball. The little pug emerged from the nook he’d been hiding in at the west end of the hall and came barreling toward me on his short little legs.
“Hey, boy,” I told him, petting his back and giving him small bites of hot dog.
I wiped my hands on my pants—whoops, forgot to grab a paper towel or a napkin—and texted Sarah.
I gave Meatball a few more bites of his unearned treat and then sat down on the floor beside him. He curled against my legs, looking up at me adoringly. Well, he knew I had another whole hot dog in a baggie, so maybe that explained some of his adoration. But his fur was so soft, and his little face was so darn cute—I couldn’t help but give him a thorough petting while we waited.
When Sarah reached us, she was crying a little in relief. “Kat, thank you. I just don’t know what I would have done without your quick thinking.”
I felt a warm glow knowing I’d been able to help. “Anything for Meatball,” I said, giving the pug one last pat before Sarah scooped him up and brought him back into her apartment.
I went into my apartment and put the leftover hot dog bites in the fridge. I was washing my hands when Micki appeared in the kitchen, fully dressed, thankfully. Micki and I look almost exactly alike: We both have medium-brown, shoulder-length, straight hair; pale skin; and hazel eyes. We’re only three years apart, but I’d always felt much more grown-up.
“What were you doing?” Micki asked, yawning. “I heard you coming in and out the door.”
“I had to help Sarah find Meatball,” I explained. “He got loose.”
“Did he drool on you?” Micki asked, pulling a Pop-Tart out of the cabinet. Micki didn’t like dogs as much as I did.
“No, he did not!” I said. “Anyway, can you grab me a Pop-Tart, too, please? And not one of the blueberry ones.”
Micki made a sheepish face and put back the one she’d grabbed before handing me one of her favorites, a Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon. I love my little sister, but she will fully hoard the best snacks if she thinks she can get away with it.
As I went to toast my Pop-Tart, I noticed the folded note Mom had left propped up against the toaster for me. I sighed as I scooped up the note and put it in my backpack. I had a feeling I knew what it said.
“What’s that?” Micki asked as she wolfed down her Pop-Tart (she likes hers untoasted).
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. I pulled my freshly toasted breakfast out of the toaster and took a big bite. “We should get going.”
We grabbed our backpacks and headed out into the hallway. I texted my best friends, Lucy and Taz, who also live in our building, to ask if they wanted to walk to school with us. Lucy wrote back that she’d gone in early for something with Drama Club. Taz didn’t text back, but that was pretty typical Taz. She’d see the text sometime later, after it didn’t matter anymore.
Micki and I walked downstairs, since waiting for the elevator in the Burgundy usually takes longer. We said good morning to Marcel in the lobby, and then stepped out into the broiling heat of the September day in New York City. School had started last week, but it still felt like summer. Our school was only a few blocks away, but when it was super hot, the walk seemed longer. I couldn’t wait for the crisp fall weather—my favorite—to finally get here. The brick buildings and stone town houses of my Upper West Side neighborhood always looked especially pretty with orange and red leaves tumbling to the sidewalk.
The note in my backpack was bothering me. By the time Micki and I got to school and went to our separate homerooms, I had decided to just read it and get it over with.
I took my usual seat in Mrs. Jackson’s room and flipped open the note from Mom:
Dear Kat,
I talked to your father yesterday and we are both concerned about the fact that you have not signed up for an extracurricular activity again this year. We are proud of your grades, but as we’ve discussed, grades aren’t enough. It’s time to get started now building that resumé, for high school and eventually college! I got a list from your homeroom teacher of all the activities you can sign up for this year. So be thinking which one—or more!—you want to pick before we talk to Dad on Skype tonight.
Love,
Mom
I groaned. My parents were so predictable; they brought this same issue up with me at the start of every school year. And Mom always wrote me a note, instead of sending a text or bringing it up in person, because she thought it seemed more “serious” that way.
As Mrs. Jackson began to read the weekly lunch menu in a monotone voice, I thought about what I could sign up for as a school activity. Lucy was in drama, but I knew that wasn’t for me. I’d practically had a heart attack that time I had to read a poem in front of the whole school last year. And Taz was in the Art Club and the Fashion Club. But I was pretty much hopeless at both art and fashion. I looked down at my plain blue T-shirt and jeans. Yep, boring.
What did I like? Well, I liked being organized, for one. I liked being prepared and getting good grades. But that was all curricular—not extra. I felt defeated. Since when wasn’t it enough to be neat, organized, prepared, and always on time?
I drummed my fingers on my desk, and then remembered something else I liked—no, loved. Dogs! I’d even written up a sales pitch to present to my parents about why I should have my own dog. But I knew I had to be strategic and wait to discuss that topic with them when they were both in good moods.
The bell rang to signal the end of homeroom, and I went out to my locker, where Lucy was waiting for me.
“Hey, Kat!” She took one look at me and her face fell. “Oh … hey—what’s the matter?”
Lucy’s been my best friend since fourth grade, so she knows me really well.
“It’s just this,” I said, handing her the note from my mom.
She read it, nodding. “You knew your parents were going to bug you about this again.”
“Yeah, but it still … I don’t know, stings?” I pulled out my books for the morning and slammed my locker shut. “I can’t exactly help that I’m not good at sports, or theater, or art.”
“There are lots of other extracurriculars. You’re being too hard on yourself,” Lucy said.
“Again?” Taz asked, coming up to her locker, which was one down from mine.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” I asked with an indignant sniff.
“I mean ‘again’ as in another time. You’re always being too hard on yourself, Cabot.”
“According to my parents, I’m not being hard enough on myself,” I grumbled, leaning back against the lockers and showing Taz the note from Mom.
“Luce is right,” Taz said. “There are tons of activities. Just pick one.”
“Easy for you to say. I want to pick something I’m halfway interested in. Also hopefully, you know, sort of good at.”
It was Taz’s turn to shove her locker door shut. “Or preferably the best at.”
“Hey!” I frowned. But I also knew Taz was kind of right. Maybe that was why I’d been putting off picking an activity for so long. I didn’t want to fail. It was why I’d never join the drama or art or fashion clubs, as much as I loved hanging with my two BFFs.
“Taz!” Lucy said.
“Kat knows I’ve got her number,” Taz said with her usual Taz-level confidence.
Taz and Lucy are both really confident, actually. Taz has long, shiny, dark-brown hair; brown skin; and big brown eyes. She always finds the most interesting clothes and jewelry in vintage stores. Once I went with her to some thrift stores and decided to get something interesting, too. That led to the Vest Incident of 2018, which is something I don’t like to talk or even think about, so that was pretty much the end of my fashion bravery. Lucy is really tall, and she has blond hair and blue eyes and looks sort of like an old-fashioned doll who came to life. Beside both of them, I think I look pretty boring.
The bell rang for first period. I headed down the hall with my friends, feeling jealous that they both had that certain something extra they were good at. I had no idea what that was for me. But I would have a super-fun Skype meeting about it tonight.
I noticed the dog first.
I was heading home from school alone. Mom had picked up Micki early to take her to the dentist, and my two busy friends were staying after school to create art and theater.
Then, across the street, I spotted the second-cutest pug I’d ever seen, after Meatball: a tiny white puppy with a super-wrinkly forehead. The pug was being walked by a boy who looked to be about my age. Both the boy and the dog turned onto 86th Street. My street. Wait. They were headed right for the Burgundy!
I picked up my pace and managed to reach the entrance of the Burgundy just as Marcel was opening up the door for the boy and the adorable puppy.
The boy thanked Marcel, and I did, too, as I hurried into the building.
“I like your dog,” I said to the boy, a little out of breath.
The boy turned around and said, “Thanks!” Up close, I could see that he was ridiculously cute, with dark wavy hair, pale skin, and bright green eyes. I’d never seen a person, maybe not even on TV, with eyes that green.
“Good afternoon, Kat,” Marcel said, giving me a smile and leaning over to pat the pug’s head. “Kat loves dogs,” Marcel explained to the boy.
“That’s true,” I said.
“So do I,” said the boy, grinning at me. “Hi, Kat. I’m Declan Ward.”
“Um, hi, Declan,” I said, trying not to blush. “Do you live in the building?”
Declan nodded as we walked farther into the lobby. The puppy hurried forward, pulling on the leash. “My dad and I just moved in this morning.”
“Oh, well, welcome to the Burgundy!”
“Thank you, young lady,” a voice said. I whirled around and saw that an older version of Declan had stepped out of the mail room.
“This is my dad,” Declan said. “He likes to interrupt people.”
“Just being friendly, lad.” Declan’s dad had an Irish accent, I noticed, but his son didn’t. I decided it was probably a good thing, because being that cute plus having an accent would be completely and utterly ridiculous. I also filed away the fact that his dad was also one of those “young lady” dads, which seemed less annoying with the accent for some reason.
“Your dog is sooo cute,” I told Declan as the three of us—plus the puppy—headed toward the elevator. “How old is he—or she?”
“She’s ten weeks old,” Declan said. “We just adopted her. She’s my guilt puppy. Dad said we could get her when he told me we were moving.”
“Indeed I did,” Declan’s dad said. We stopped in front of the elevator, and he pressed the button to call it down to the lobby. “We moved here from Dublin, Ireland,” Mr. Ward added. “But we were in Los Angeles before that. That’s where Declan grew up.”
That explained Declan’s lack of an accent.
“I’m sure moving is hard, but it’s almost worth it to have a puppy of your own,” I said. “My parents say we’re not allowed to have a dog. Can I pet her?”
“Sure. She’s quite friendly,” Declan’s dad said.
I knelt down and petted two of the softest ears in all of puppydom. “What’s her name?” I asked Declan.
“We call her Sparky. Her actual name is Spark Pug. It’s, like, a play on words …”
“I get it! Instead of Spark Plug. Clever.” I leaned in closer and Sparky started licking m
y face. I giggled.
“I’m sorry your parents say you can’t have a dog,” Declan said. The elevator arrived and we all went inside, Sparky leading the way. “You’re obviously good with them.”
Again, I tried my best not to blush. “Thanks,” I said, pressing the button for the fifth floor. Declan pressed the button for the fourth. “Are you going to school in the neighborhood?” I asked Declan as the elevator slowly rose up. “I go to M.S. 243.”
“Is that the one on 84th Street? If so, I’m enrolling on Monday.”
“Yes, sure is,” I said with a nod. I tried not to smile too widely after learning that the cute new boy would be going to my school. “What grade are you in?”
“I’m in eighth,” he said.
“Me too!” I replied.
“You know, we’re going to have to figure out a plan for who will take Sparky on her walks if you ever have to stay late after school,” Mr. Ward said to Declan. “I sometimes have to travel for work,” he explained to me.
“So does my dad,” I replied. I was about to say that I’d be happy to walk Sparky sometimes, but then the elevator dinged and the door opened onto the fourth floor.
“This is us,” Declan said. “See you around the building—or at school!” he said, and he, Sparky, and Mr. Ward stepped off the elevator.
I waved, feeling my heart give a little flutter as the elevator door closed. I thought about the possibility of walking Sparky. That would be so fun. The elevator got to my floor, and I walked toward my apartment, rummaging in my backpack for my key. I started thinking about the Skype call and my parents bugging me to find an activity and BOOM—I had an idea.
I could start a dog-walking business!
I’d been trying so hard to think of one thing I liked. But this idea combined two things I liked: dogs and being organized. I’d never run any type of business before, but you definitely had to be organized to be successful. I knew that from my dad, who worked in business. I also knew that to start a business, you had to have customers. Which was perfect, because there were loads of dogs right here in the Burgundy, with busy owners who worked full-time, or older owners who could use the extra help, especially on days when the elevator was out. Carrying a dog up and down the stairs wasn’t so easy for an older person.
