Spinach Teeth and Other Disasters

I had everything planned. Okay, maybe not EVERYTHING, but I'd practiced my smile in the mirror like forty times. No spinach stuck in my braces this time. I checked. Triple-checked.

"You good?" Marcus asked, kicking his orange Vans against my locker door. "You look like you're about to puke."

"I'm fine," I lied. My stomach was doing actual backflips. Today was the day—the day I'd finally talk to Maya at lunch. The day I'd stop being the quiet kid in the back of English class who everyone forgets exists.

But before I could execute my master plan, my phone buzzed. MOM.

"Can you pick up Einstein on your way home? He escaped again."

Einstein is my dog. He's a golden retriever with zero survival instincts and a talent for humiliation. Last month, he stole Mrs. Henderson's garden gnome right off her porch. She still gives me the death glare every time I walk past.

"I can't right now," I texted back. "Important stuff."

"He's probably headed toward the school," Mom replied. "He loves those kids."

I should've panicked. Instead, I sat through AP Bio watching Maya laugh across the room, her orange backpack slung over her chair, thinking today might actually be different. Maybe I'd sit with her at lunch. Maybe I'd say something cool for once.

Then the classroom door burst open.

Not Einstein. No, that would've been too easy. It was Einstein with something dangling from his mouth. Something green. Something leafy.

The entire class went silent.

"Is that... spinach?" someone whispered.

Einstein trotted right to my desk, dropped the soggy spinach leaf at my feet, and wagged his tail like he'd just won Best in Show at Westminster.

Mr. Harrison sighed. "Jake, you want to explain why your dog brought you a salad?"

Everyone laughed. Maya laughed. I wanted to evaporate.

But then Einstein did something worse. He sniffed Maya's orange backpack, decided it was his new best friend, and planted his muddy paws right on her math homework.

She didn't get mad. She didn't even look annoyed. She just scratched behind his ears and whispered, "He's perfect."

We spent lunch in the courtyard, me and Maya and Einstein the salad-stealing genius. I didn't say anything cool. I didn't need to.

"Your dog's chaotic," she said, feeding him a piece of her orange. "I like that."

Sometimes the worst disasters turn out to be exactly what you needed. Even if they involve spinach-covered dogs and completely ruined plans.