Dog Walking Fox Summer

The first time I saw Fox, she was walking three dogs at once—a golden retriever, a pug that kept tripping over its own feet, and this massive husky that looked like it could pull a sled through concrete. I was sitting on my front porch, chugging this gross orange vitamin C drink my mom swore would fix my perpetual "summer cold," and basically being the lamest fifteen-year-old in existence.

Fox wore these beat-up Converse, cutoffs that were somehow both grungy and perfect, and her hair was this messy copper shade that made her nickname make way too much sense. She caught me staring and didn't even look annoyed—just grinned like she knew something I didn't.

"You gonna finish that?" she nodded at my vitamin drink. I literally almost choked on it.

We started talking because dogs are apparently the universal conversation starter. By week two, I was helping her walk the dogs she pet-sat for cash. By week three, she'd taught me that husky's name was Luna, the pug was Sir Pancake, and that she'd gotten her nickname because she was "sly as hell" at getting out of PE class.

"You're not sick, you know," she said one day, watching me force down another vitamin supplement. "You're just nervous. Around... people." She didn't say around me, but she didn't have to.

My face burned. "I'm not—"

"You are. But it's kinda cute." Fox shrugged, like she hadn't just sent my entire nervous system into overload. "Like Sir Pancake here. All awkward and stumbling over himself, but people love him anyway."

I couldn't tell if that was a compliment or not. But when she handed me the leash and our fingers brushed, I stopped caring.

Summer ended. Fox moved away with her mom like three weeks later. But sometimes, when I'm at the store and pass the vitamin aisle, I grab orange drink. Not because I like it, but because it reminds me of being fifteen, sitting on a porch, and learning that the weirdest, most unexpected people can make you feel brave enough to stop hiding inside.