The Dog Who Knew Too Much

The first day of sophomore year, I swore I'd be invisible. No drama. No attention. Just slide through like water under a bridge. Then my dad bought Buster—a sixty-pound Golden Retriever with zero boundaries and a talent for chaos.

"He's perfect!" Dad insisted, while Buster systematically destroyed his favorite sneakers. "Man's best friend!"

Buster was definitely not my friend. He was a four-legged wrecking ball with zero chill.

Enter Marcus, who'd transferred from some fancy private school and decided to make the new padel court his kingdom. Padel was supposed to be the sport of the moment, and Marcus owned it with his perfect backhand and his annoyingly perfect hair.

"Wanna play?" Marcus asked me after third period, like he was doing me a favor. "I need a partner for the tournament."

The tournament. The biggest social event of the fall. Say yes, and I'd be part of the popular crowd. Say no, and I'd stay invisible—the plan.

"Maybe," I said, because I was apparently incapable of making decisions.

That afternoon, Buster escaped the backyard. I spent twenty minutes chasing him through the neighborhood, sweating through my hoodie, calling his name while he treated it like a game of tag. I finally found him at the park—sitting calmly next to Marcus, who was feeding him treats from his backpack.

"Your dog?" Marcus asked, grinning. "He's awesome."

"He's a disaster," I corrected, but Buster was already rolling over for belly rubs. Traitor.

"Your dog's a better spy than you think," Marcus said mysteriously. "He led me right to your house earlier."

I stared at him. "You followed my dog?"

"I call it gathering intel." Marcus winked. "Like how I know you're actually pretty decent at padel. I've seen you practicing alone at the court."

My face burned. I'd thought nobody noticed.

"Look," Marcus said, suddenly serious. "I know you're trying to fly under the radar. But last year? I got bullied hard at my old school. Changed everything. So I get it."

I looked at Buster, thumping his tail like he'd orchestrated this whole thing.

"Fine," I said. "But if I embarrass myself at this tournament, you're buying the post-game pizza."

"Deal." Marcus smirked. "Just don't let the bulldogs at the gate steal your snacks again."

"Those were actual bulldogs!" I protested. "They're scary!"

"Whatever you say, partner." He handed me a padel racquet. "Time to make your move—literally."

That night, I wrote in my journal: *Well played, Buster. You manipulative genius.*