“Therapy dog?” the man asked, nodding at Sparkle.

“Yes, we’re here to spend some time with the patients; they really love it. You should see their eyes—”

“Light up? Yep, I know. Joe here’s a therapy dog too, aren’t you, boy?” he said, looking down at the pit bull. Joe looked up at Lou and his mouth split into a wide grin, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

“He’s a therapy dog?” I asked, surprise evident in my voice. Flushing a little, I bit back the obvious “but he’s a pit bull” comment, although it was implied.

Lou let out a huff. “You know much about pit bulls, princess?”

“Just what I see on the news,” I admitted, resisting the urge to straighten my crown.

“Mm-hmm. So nothing, really?” he asked.

“No?” I offered, and he grinned.

“Take Joe here. When I got him he was eight months old, and had never lived a day off a chain in the backyard. Starved half to death. Mixed it up with some other dogs, that’s how I assume he lost the ear. But within three months of coming to stay with me? He was like the poster dog for Our Gang, weren’t you, big guy?”

Tail wagged enthusiastically.

“Our Gang?” I asked, kneeling down to pet Joe. With one look at that big grin, I was in love. And as Lou told me more and more about his organization, I became more and more sure that it was something I wanted to become involved in. He operated a shelter in Long Beach for rescued and abandoned pit bulls. Think Cesar Millan, with less sssssht. Some of the dogs were rescued from fighting rings, and the more he told me, the more my heart broke. He used the name Our Gang to remind people that the dog from The Little Rascals was a pit bull. The breed’s more recent history is all anyone ever remembered, either forgetting or never knowing that they were even used as baby-sitters a hundred years ago—something that I admit blew my mind.

I spent the next hour asking Lou everything I could think of about Our Gang, while Sparkle and Joe napped peacefully at our ankles. And I went straight home that night to tell my mother all about the new charity I wanted to support.

My mother had other ideas. She always has lots of ideas, as you can imagine. Is she a snob? If you consider a snob to be a blue-haired old woman who eats crustless cucumber sandwiches and complains about how hard it is to find good help, then no, she isn’t a snob. But she does have very particular ideas about everything and everyone, and into that preordained, predestined, predetermined box we all must go. And for her daughter, who she expected to ride her tiara straight into a wealthy marriage, how things appeared was key. Appearances are everything, didn’t you know?

So her daughter, she of the crown and sash, going to work with rescued pit bulls? Not. Going. To fly.

I’d tried to explain to Lou as best as I could why I couldn’t work with his organization, and he told me he understood. All too well. But we bumped into each other occasionally when I was out with a therapy dog, and we emailed, and I followed his organization on Facebook. And whenever I clicked on one of those gorgeous faces, usually with that telltale pit bull grin, I’d think about what a wonderful opportunity it would be to work with dogs like that.

So when I saw Lou’s name in my in-box now, it made me smile. And when the subject line read “Want to work for Our Gang North?” it made me sit up straight and forget all about calling Charles.

So the first important phone call I made was to Lou Fiorello. And after hanging up, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had options.

Scratch that. Options that I’d found on my own.

Emboldened, I decided to call my mother next. I sat back in the chair, drumming a pencil nervously on the legal pad I’d made notes all over during my call with Lou. After several rings, she answered. Had she deliberately let the phone ring? I’d seen her do that to other people. “Always keep people wanting a little more, Chloe. Don’t be rude, but don’t be too eager either.” It had never had occurred to me to think she’d employed this technique on her own daughter.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom,” I said, and she waited a beat.

“Oh, hello, Chloe dear,” she replied, managing to sound unconcerned and somewhat surprised I’d called. She knew it was me; she had caller ID right there on the phone—but no matter. I’d be cool as well.

“I’d like to come by the house to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Will it be soon? I’ll put on some tea.”

“I can come now. I’ll just get changed and be right over.”

“Still in your pajamas?”

Only four words, and yet oh so much judgment. I sidestepped the obvious trap. “I’ll be there in twenty,” I replied, clenching my hands.

“I’ll be here,” she said.

“Oh, and Mother?”

“Hmm?”

“If I see his car in the driveway, I’m turning around.”

Silence. Sigh. And then finally, “I’ll see you in twenty.”

I’d won nothing in actuality. But I unclenched my hands, and that was good. I then texted Charles:

Hi.

He responded right away:

Hi.

I wasn’t a robot. I could feel a bit of remorse beginning to poke through.

I’d like to call you later, talk about some things?

He didn’t respond right away, so I went to get changed. I was, in fact, still in my pajamas. But as I pushed my head through a San Diego State sweatshirt of my dad’s, I heard my phone beep.