Free Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature by Robin Brande

with books. Bushy trees growing from pots. Wooden tables and stools, a wood-frame couch, and these low, big-armed chairs with cushions that didn't match but went perfectly together.
    I just stood inside the doorway, staring. “Wow. This is really—”
    “Yeah, my mom did all of it.”
    “What, the decorating?”
    “Yeah, and she made all the furniture. All of it. Even the lamps and that bowl over there.”
    “Wow, is that like her job?”
    “Nah, just a hobby. She's really an architect.”
    It didn't seem cool to say, but the most I've ever made for our house is a macramé plant hanger. Oh, and a pot holder. I can't imagine putting together a whole couch from scratch.
    “Come meet your test subjects.” Casey led me through the kitchen. It had dark wood cabinets, a pale wood floor, a big rag rug, fruit and bread and spices and a coffeepot on the counter—a kitchen that looked like people actually ate there, as opposed to ours, which is all white and glass and stainless steel and perfectly clean and perfectly cold.
    “Out here.” Casey opened a door at the side of the kitchen, and we stepped into the darkened garage. He flicked on the light, and there they were.
    Let me just say, I understand my mother's position. She likes a clean house. She likes order. I gave up long ago trying to talk her into having a pet. “Muddy footprints,” she'd say, or “Mena, think of the hair everywhere!”
    But looking at those twelve sweet little black faces, and the twenty-four paws propped on the edge of the playpen, and the tails wagging like crazy, and the little barks calling, “Pick me! Pick me!” it was hard to justify not bringing every single one of them home.
    “Oh my gosh, Casey.”
    “I know.”
    “How old are they?”
    “Six weeks. Don't you love them?”
    And he was exactly right.
    I don't think I realized until that moment what it was really like to be in love. I actually had to press my hand against my heart to keep it from leaping right out of my chest. “Can I hold one?”
    “Sure.”
    I picked up the puppy right at the center of the bunch.
    “That one's Christmas,” Casey said. “She's a sweetheart.”
    “Christmas?”
    “Yeah, see how they all have different-colored ribbons around their necks? That's to tell them apart. We call them by their colors until someone buys them and givesthem a real name. We ran out of regular, so we had to use leftover Christmas ribbon for her.”
    “Christmas.” I snuggled her against my chest. She yawned and licked my chin. I almost started crying. That was it—completely, madly in love.
    “How many have you sold?” I asked.
    “Four. One of the girls—Lily over there—and three of the boys. You want one?”
    Sure, break my heart, why don't you? “I can't. My parents won't let me.”
    “Too bad. They're going to be great dogs. Abbey's last litter turned out two search-and-rescue dogs and three handicap companions. You can already tell these ones'll be just as smart. Which is why I propose them as our science project. Come on—want to take them out?”
    Two by two—one in each arm—we carried a dozen black Lab puppies out of the garage into Casey's grassy backyard, where the puppies immediately began to roll around and run and tumble over each other and experiment with their sharp little puppy teeth on each other's tails and floppy ears.
    I was so mesmerized, I didn't see Casey's mom come out.
    “Honey, did you offer your friend a snack?” she asked.
    “Not yet.” And he introduced us.
    She was a taller, prettier version of Casey, with that same ivory skin and dark curly hair piled in a scrunchy on top of her head. She had dark blue eyes just like Casey's, too.
    And looked about a million years younger than my mom. She wore jeans with black slides and an oversizeddenim workshirt. And no makeup. My mother would die before she let anyone see her like that.
    Mrs. Connor extended her hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Mena. C's told us a lot about