Free Love and Other Four-Letter Words by Carolyn Mackler Page A

typically rise at the crack of dawn during summer vacation, but I've taken pity on the old girl, having to adjust from a house with a yard to two cramped rooms and millions of strange snouts sniffing every imaginable inch of her. Also, when Mom was still in her “doing NYC” phase, if I skipped out in the morning, she'd often depart without insisting I join her. Whichwould then grant me a few peaceful hours around the ranch, reading, playing guitar, surfing the Web. Even though Mom has now scaled back on the programming front, walking Moxie has evolved into a routine for me.
    The next thing I knew, Moxie, with her
oh-so-stinky
dog breath, was panting in my face. I pushed her away. She slobbered back. We went on like that for about five minutes
(pant-pant-push-push-slobber-slobber
) until I finally lugged my tired legs onto the floor and maneuvered a bra under the T-shirt I've been sleeping in for the past several nights.
    So that's how, five minutes later, I found myself trapped in the elevator with J.D., a Yankees cap on his head, baseball bat and glove in hand, grinning and asking me, “Hey, what's up?”
    I began shaking like an earthquake. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not after I've spent weeks rummaging through the apartment for any and every article of clothing with a thread of lace! And I was so busy holding my breath because I hadn't brushed my teeth that all I could do was mutely nod. I was petrified that if I cracked my lips, J.D. would:
Clamp his mitt over his mouth, like an oxygen mask.
Clobber me with his bat on grounds of stench pollution.
    As soon as the door reopened, we piled out of the elevator. Me to exhale before I fainted. Moxie to gobble a biscuit from the super, who had just finished spraying down the sidewalk. J.D. to saunter toward Central Park, probably for an early game. I remained in front of the building, mesmerized by the way his butt fit into his shorts, not too snug, not too baggy, swaying as he walked.
    “¿Te gusta?”
the super asked me.
Do you like it?
in Spanish.
    I forced my eyes away from the object of my carnal desire. The super was gesturing to the air, warm but not humid, promising a beautiful day.
    “Sí.”
I nodded.
“Me gusta.”
“Perfect for Fourth of July.”
    I'd forgotten it was July fourth! The day that Eli Rosenthal and his friends were blading in Central Park. The day I told him I'd be out of town. I'm not so paranoid as to think they'd hit the park this early. But if you lie to someone about going away, you'd better make a damn good effort not to cross their path.
    “Is there another place to bring dogs besides the park?”
    As the super told me how to get to a dog run aboutfifteen minutes away, I made a mental note to add Scope to my roster of Elevator Duty preparations.

     
    The dog run turned out to be right behind the Museum of Natural History, which is in this enormous castlelike structure that stretches along a few blocks of Central Park West. I've only been there once, when I was eight and Dad took me to see the dinosaur skeletons while Mom attended the gallery opening of a friend from art school.
    As I unlatched the metal gate and started across the dog run, Moxie hung close by my side, even though I'd already taken off her leash. There were three dogs frolicking in the dirt, nipping at each other's scruff. Moxie gets intimidated in canine social situations, and I have to say, who am I to blame her? I sat down on one of the benches lining the perimeter. Moxie crouched under it, resting her head on my foot.
    “Scaredy-dog?” A middle-aged man with bloodshot, droopy eyes and several chins guffawed as he pointed to Moxie, pleased as Punch about his play on words.
    He was a few benches away, so I pretended I hadn't heard him as I scratched Moxie's ears.
    “Dogs these days are so antisocial,” Scaredy-Dogmurmured to the woman next to him, who was intently reading
The New York Times.
    Without glancing up, the woman nodded as she sipped from her