Page 29 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

That’s when I notice the gate to patio A sitting open. “Dylan! You forgot to close the gate.”

“Oh, oops.”

With a huff, I stomp over to it, to collect Chip and Yakko. But they aren’t on the other patio either, because the door to the shelter stands open as well. “Dylan!” I shout as I run into the employee breakroom. The place is a shambles. Chairs are knocked over, a table is pushed up next to the refrigerator, and magazines are torn apart, their tattered, glossy pages scattered around the room. In the center of it, Chip and Yakko are wrestling.

Dylan skids into the room. “Oh, crud.”

“Grab some collars and leashes, fast!” As Dylan bolts from the room, I grab Chip by the scruff, pulling him away from Yakko. I grasp Yakko too, but my arms aren’t long enough to keep them separated, so they start wresting again. “At least you guys get along.”

Dylan runs back in and pulls Yakko far enough away from Chip that the dogs stop playing. He slips the collar over his head and clips the leash to it fast. Handing the leash to me, he grabs Chip next and gets him collared and leashed in no time. He hands Chip’s leash to me as well. “It’s my fault. I’ll clean up here.”

I lead the dogs from the room, careful to close the door behind me. When the gate to patio A is securely closed behind us, again, I let the dogs go. Chip immediately starts running his figure eights and Yakko wanders around sniffing things. My pulse still races from the excitement. I glance at the closed door of the shelter, imagining Dylan straightening up the room. It surprises me that he so easily took responsibility for the mishap. He strikes me as someone who would make excuses. Perhaps turn it on me since he’d been chasing after me because I was upset.

Lost in contemplation, I slowly walk toward the kennels we’d been cleaning. I startle when my foot sinks into a puddle of water. Then groan. In my panic over the missing dogs, I left the water running and it has overfilled the bucket and is making an ever-widening river across patio A. Of course, the dogs have run through it, tracking water everywhere. More of a mess to clean, but luckily this is outside. I turn off the water, dump the excess out of the bucket and wheel it over to kennel A.

I’m just finishing up kennel B when Dylan comes around the corner, examining the water with a confused look on his face.

“This is on me,” I say. “But would you mind grabbing the push broom from the closet so we can push this around and get it to dry faster?”

“No problem.”

Dylan has fun sweeping the water around, making it a game to try to swish it outside the fence in three or fewer pushes. I watch with a small smile. I’m not ready to forgive him for making me feel like crap, but I can enjoy watching the bad boy of Oak Grove High dance with a broom.

When he’s swept most of the standing water off the patio, I open Popeye’s kennel. The big dog ignores me, as usual, and beelines for Dylan.

“Hey bud,” Dylan greets. He spends time scratching the dog’s huge jowls while I sweep out the kennel. As soon as I lean the broom against the wall outside the kennel, he calls out, “I’ll mop.”

“No, you can get the next one. Popeye needs as much of your time as possible.”

“You really care about these animals, don’t you?” Dylan asks.

I’m in Popeye’s kennel, so I can’t see if Dylan is smirking or actually curious. I consider if I’m walking into a joke by answering, but I don’t think so. “Don’t you?”

“I guess. I mean, I’m only here because I have to be. It seemed like the least gross place to volunteer. I couldn’t imagine sorting through people’s old stuff at one of those donation centers.” He pauses. “I’m surprised to like the animals as much as I do.”

I peek my head out of the kennel to see if he’s serious. I step all the way out when I find Popeye standing on his back legs, with his front paws on Dylan’s shoulders, licking Dylan’s face. Laughter erupts from Dylan as he tries to avoid the big tongue.

“Get off, you brute. You are so gross!”

I can’t help but laugh at the two. My stomach does some complicated dance of its own when I see the joy on Dylan’s face. “You should adopt that dog!”

Popeye drops to all fours and leans against Dylan, making the boy stumble until he’s able to fortify his stance. Dylan stares down at the dog for so long, I think he might not have heard me, but finally, Dylan shakes his head. “Wish I could.”

Is that an expression of want on Dylan’s face? Regret? It’s hard to tell. Maybe both. Something about it makes me realize that Dylan has a whole life I know nothing about. Just like he doesn’t know about my toxic home, I don’t know what his is like. Was his homelife somehow responsible for his bad-boy reputation? Does he have a bad family life that spurs him to do whatever bad things he does that gets him in the kind of trouble that leads to community service? Is that why he dates a lot of girls? Maybe so, he isn’t home a lot?

Suddenly remembering the notes in Teresa’s book, I scurry back into Popeye’s kennel, hoping to hide my embarrassment.

Apparently, I wasn’t fast enough. Suddenly, Dylan is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “What was that look for?”

“What look? There was no look.” Again, I’m never going to be an actress. I even sound guilty. “What are you even talking about? I probably had gas or something.” Dang it, rambling is as good as admitting it.

“You seemed, I don’t know, like I’d caught you with a dirty magazine or something.”

Popeye’s kennel is going to be the cleanest kennel ever, because I cannot stop mopping or I’ll have to look at Dylan.

“Don’t be silly.” I bite my tongue to keep from spewing more useless denials.

“Admit it. You were picturing me with my shirt off.”

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