The Dog Who Walked Me

I was already drowning. Not literally—that came later—but socially, absolutely. The first week of sophomore year and I'd already managed to become the girl who spilled cafeteria **water** all over the popular table's fake Birkin bags.

"Smooth move, Ex-Lax," someone whispered.

I spent that weekend hiding in my room, my ancient **cat** Barnaby judging me from his perch on the windowsill. Even he knew I was hopeless. My mom decided I needed "social confidence" and signed me up to dogsit for my aunt's golden retriever, Buster. Great. Now I'd be humiliated in public with an audience.

Monday morning, Buster dragged me toward the park like I was the attachment and he was the human. I expected disaster. Instead, he sat down next to a bench where Skylar—the **bull**-riding queen of our grade's social hierarchy—sat crying.

"Whatever," I thought, attempting to steer Buster away. But the traitor flopped at her feet, chin on her sneakers.

"He likes you," I said, because my brain had clearly malfunctioned.

Skylar looked up, mascara tracks down her face. "Your **dog** is the only thing that's been nice to me all week."

We sat there for twenty minutes while Buster soaked up attention like the golden boy he was. Skylar confessed she was failing algebra and her parents were divorcing. I admitted I was terrified I'd be a nobody forever.

"You're not a nobody," she said, wiping her eyes. "You're the girl with the awesome dog."

Next day, Skylar sat with me at lunch. The Birkin-bag crew stared, scandalized. I didn't care. Buster had taught me something: sometimes you don't find your people by trying to be cool. You find them by being exactly who you are—awkward, messy, and occasionally accompanied by a dog who has better social skills than you do.

I was still figuring out this high school thing. But at least I wasn't drowning anymore.