Free Spirit Level by Sarah N. Harvey

minute it is out of my mouth, I realize that it sounds pretty, well, dirty. Alex snorts and says, “As the actress said to the bishop.” We both start to laugh, and we can’t stop. Tears stream down our faces, and Churchill barrels over to investigate. He obligingly jumps up and licks the tears and snot from my face. Talk about a memorable first date. If that’s what this is.
    Alex and I circle the park, keeping an eye on Churchill, who is romping around with a fluffy white dog the size of his head. Every now and again he bounds over to us, like a canine chaperone, begs for a treat and bounds off again. My hand brushes Alex’s as we walk, and I have to remind myself that this is only the second time we have met. It’s too soon for hand-holding, isn’t it? Byron and I knew each other for years before we held hands. But this is different. Really different.
    “What happens if Churchill doesn’t get adopted?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer: he’ll be put down. The thought brings tears to my eyes as I watch Churchill tear around the park with his tiny friend in pursuit.
    “He’s a great dog,” Alex says firmly. “Someone will take him. And he’s only been at the shelter a week.”
    “How do you deal with it?”
    “Deal with what?”
    “You know—if a dog has to be put down.”
    “It’s only happened to me once so far. And it was brutal. That’s not going to happen to Churchill. Not if I can help it.”
    He calls Churchill over before I can ask what he means, attaches his leash and says we need to get back to the shelter. We walk in silence for a while, and I wonder if somehow I’ve completely blown it. But then he says, “I’ll be walking Churchill again soon. Probably Thursday. You in?”
    “Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll even teach you to whistle.”
    “Meredith might come too, if she’s not working.”
    “Cool.” No way am I going to tell him that I’m not a big fan of his best friend, even if she is my half-sister. Maybe it will be good for me to spend more time with her. Maybe I’ve misjudged her. If he likes her, there might be something I’m missing.
    When we get back to the shelter, he says, “I have to stay and do some more work here—cleaning out the kennels, filling water bowls, that kind of thing. The dog walking is the fun part. So—same time on Thursday?” He smiles and I smile back. We stand there like two grinning idiots as Churchill winds his leash around our ankles. I extricate myself without falling over, give Churchill a final belly rub and head toward the bus stop.
    Suddenly Thursday seems a very long way off.

    On the bus back home I get a text from Lucy: Can u come over?
    Over where? I reply.
    My house. I need to talk to u.
    I pause a minute before I reply, and another message comes in from her: My moms aren’t home .
    K. What’s your address? What bus should I take?
    She gives me directions, and I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. She doesn’t tell me what’s wrong, but if I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with Meredith.
    Lucy’s house is the kind my mom has always wanted but can’t afford—a moss-green Craftsman bungalow, with a large porch, stone-covered pillars and shingle siding. The wide front stairs lead up to a deep-burgundy door with a silver knocker in the shape of a giant bee. The door opens before I have a chance to knock, and Lucy grabs my hand and pulls me inside. Her outfit of the day includes a straw fedora, which is cute but odd. Who wears a hat in their own house?
    The front hallway is cool and dim. As I follow Lucy through to the kitchen at the back of the house, I notice many of the features my mom has been obsessing about for years: wooden wall panels, exposed rafters, stained-glass windows, hardwood floors, a brick fireplace. The kitchen has obviously been renovated—there’s a bright-red gas stove, a huge island with a sink in it, windows everywhere.
    “Let’s go out on the deck,” Lucy says. She