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WELL.

The good news, I guess, is that Brynne
does
get in trouble. Not as much as she would have if her mom hadn't made a case about her “going through some adjustments,” but still, trouble. She gets sentenced to in-school suspension, where she has to spend three days with the kid who broke his ankle when he hijacked the clinic's wheelchair and rode it headfirst down the stairs in a botched attempt to simulate a thrill ride, and the kid who fractured his nose when an encyclopedia he threw at a library window bounced right back at him.

And then there's some weird news. Some really weird news.

It happens a week after the election fiasco. I'm on my way to seventh period when I hear, gushed over the loudspeaker by an overly cheerful voice, “Ol
iv
ia
Al
bert and Brynne
Shawn
son.
Please
report to the guidance office! Olivia.
Al
bert. Brynne.
Shawn
son.
Thank
you!”

I stop in my tracks, and Little Kid bounces off my backside. I shuffle to the side and ready myself to head back down the hall toward guidance. And then I see her—Brynne—coming from the opposite end of the hall. We make eye contact and hold the stare. It's like we're heading toward a duel.

She makes it to the office first and quickly goes in, not bothering to hold the door for me.

“Good after
noon
, ladies!” It's Ms. Underwood, the guidance counselor, behind the musical voice. She smiles, displaying a friendly little gap between her two front teeth. “Just have a seat, please!” She motions to the only two chairs in the room, which, despite the vast space around them, are attached together just below the seat.

Brynne avoids my eyes and sits down, no questions asked.

“Um,” I say, inching closer to Ms. Underwood's desk. I keep my voice low. “I was just wondering—why are we here?”

“Oh!” she sings out, surprised. “I thought you already knew. Peer mediation. The two of you are going to have a little chat with Carolyn. She should be here any moment.”

Carolyn Quim.

Brynne looks up with a panicked expression.

“Oh, but, I didn't know—” Brynne starts stammering. “Is Carolyn really qualified? I mean, she gossips.”

“Oh, sweetie, don't worry,” Mrs. Underwood says. “She took an oath.
Con-fi-den-ti-al-ity
,” she says, her voice working its way up an octave.

Dear God. This could be awful.

Or.

Maybe not. Maybe I will exercise my mad forgiving skills. Maybe I will take the high road. Maybe I can harness the power of Carolyn's gossip and right this horrible wrong.

“Oh, looky-look!” Ms. Underwood says. “Here she is now!”

Carolyn walks in. Brynne's jaw clenches again.

Mrs. Underwood shoos us all off to the conference room.

I try to soften the tension by complimenting Carolyn on her clogs. Yes,
clogs
. But it doesn't work.

“So,” Carolyn says. “What are we here to talk about?” She looks at Brynne, but Brynne stares down at the table.

I'm pretty sure the school just wants us to make peace so there are no more crimes like ketchup harassments or slide-show assaults. So I say, “I'll start. I'm sorry, Brynne.”

Carolyn holds up her hand. “Wait,
wait
! Jeez, let me get my handbook out.” She pulls the book out of her backpack, scans a page, and says, “Okay, Brynne, your turn.”

Brynne still says nothing.

“Oh my God.
Seriously
?” Carolyn says to her.

“It's okay,” I say, very maturely. “She's probably still mad at me. I wasn't exactly a good friend to her.”

“Your turn,” Carolyn says to Brynne. “Again.”

“Well, she's right about that,” Brynne says, quietly. “She
wasn't
a good friend. She was just using me.”

“But I—”

Carolyn whips her head around. “Wow, really? It's not your turn yet, Olivia. You've already gone
twice
!”

“I
was
done talking,” Brynne says.

Carolyn leans her head back and sighs. “Okay, maybe you should say ‘over' or something, just so I know.”

Brynne still won't look at me. “Okay. Over.”

Carolyn turns to me. “Olivia? What do you have to say to that?”

“I was just going to say that I did really like her. Over.”

Carolyn looks confused but turns to Brynne. “She says she really liked you.” Then I hear her clear her throat with a little grunt. Her cue. “To each her own, I guess.”

“I heard.”

Carolyn says, “So, over?”

“No, not
over
!” Brynne raises her voice. “I still have a question. If you liked me so much, why did you ruin my life? OVER!”

“I didn't mean to ruin your life, but you know what? I liked you a whole lot better after I did. I'm sorry! And I'm not even mad about what you did up onstage anymore—”

“Really?” Carolyn interrupts. “'Cause seriously? I'd be pissed.”

I continue. “I just know that I hurt you pretty bad, and I wish you would just forgive me. Over.”

Brynne finally looks at me. “You act like that's so easy to do,” she says through a stiff jaw and with little slits of eyes.

I find that it's not always easy to have patience with someone who talks to you with a stiff jaw and slitty little eyes, and I start to stumble off the high road. “Brynne, you know what? You used to be pretty awful to me, if you remember!”

Carolyn interjects. “She didn't say ‘over.' Neither one of you are saying ‘over' anymore. Do you want to get mediated or not?!”

Despite the fact that I'm getting annoyed, I know I need to do this. “Look, the truth is that we haven't always liked each other, but I wish we had. You're nice and smart and funny when you want to be. And I screwed up. And I'm sorry. Over.” There. Now let
that
get around the school. I hope Carolyn's not taking her peer mediator confidentiality oath too seriously—this is one of those times when I'm actually hoping the gossip will fly.

Brynne turns her stare back to the table.

Carolyn consults her handbook. “So, okay. Brynne, do you accept this apology?”

Brynne shrugs. “Fine. But it doesn't mean we have to be friends.”

“Excellent!” Carolyn says. “Okay, so you're supposed to apologize, too.”

Brynne leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Sorry,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

Carolyn looks back down at her handbook. “So I guess we have a resolution, right?”

“Yes,” Brynne says. “Yes, we do.” And then she glares at me and says, maybe a little too pointedly. “
Over.
”

Okay
, then.

“Oh my God, really?” Carolyn jumps back in. “You're going to be like that? I don't get you, Brynne. Why the heck did you even re—”

She stops talking. We both see it happen. Brynne's face starts to melt.

Well, not actually melt, but that's what it looks like. Her eyebrows, her eyes, her mouth—everything starts to slide downhill in slow motion. Her forehead moves like high tide, taking up more than its fair share of face space. Her mouth forms a downward oval. It takes me a minute to realize it, but she's crying.

Crying.

Not the angry, splattery type of cry that she had on the day of my confession, but a deep, mournful one. You know those whale sounds you hear on those shows on Animal Planet? Well, if you were anywhere near water, that's exactly what you'd think you were hearing.

Carolyn softens, her eyes round and worried. Over the sobs, she whispers to me, “You think I should touch her?”

“Um, maybe?” Brynne's sadness is pulling me in, but I, too, feel completely helpless.

Carolyn clears her throat. “There, there,” she says loudly, patting Brynne's shoulder.

Brynne shakes Carolyn's hand off, puts her forearms on the table and places her wet face on them.

“You know,” Carolyn says, slowly scooting her chair back. “I'm—I'm thinking you guys need a minute. I'm just…” She sticks her thumb out and motions it over her shoulder. “Gonna go, then.” She gathers her handbook and papers and speed-walks out of the room.

I get up and go around to Brynne's side of the table. I sit down next to her. “I'm so sorry, Brynne. I really did, you know, like you.”

She sits up. She takes a deep breath. Her arms lift. My hands instinctively fly to protect my neck. Her arms wrap around me. Her face burrows into my shoulder. “I—I—I liked—” Snort. Sniffle. Hiccup. “I liked—” Gasp. Snort. “You. Too. A. Lot.” It takes her about twenty minutes to get it out, and by the time she does, the shoulder of my shirt is soaked. Which is kind of
ew
, but still, a small price to pay for a truce.

Finally, her cries subside and she sits up straight. She doesn't look at me as she dabs at her face and blows her nose. “Okay, so there's that,” she says with a little laugh. “We probably should go before they kick us out of here. Two more minutes and we'll officially be loitering.”

I surprise myself with a nose-laugh. Now who's
ew
?

“You should probably go before that happens,” she says. She gives me a half smile.

“What about you?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“I'll be fine,” she says, still sniffling a little. “Look, I just need a minute alone, okay?”

“You sure?” I ask. I don't know how I feel. I mean, I
did
like her. And despite all that's happened between us, maybe I still kind of do.

“Yeah.”

I get up to leave. I'm almost to the door when she calls my name. I turn around.

“I really
am
sorry,” she says, without meeting my eyes. “For the mean things I've done. Sometimes I just don't know how else to act. And for my campaign speech. I was just, you know, in a really bad place. I mean, I thought we
had
something, and then—” Her voice starts to warp a little. “Anyway, that's really all I wanted to say. That's why I requested peer mediation.”

Wait. My mouth drops open.

“
You
requested this meeting?” I'm honestly baffled. And sort of touched by it all, too.

“I know. Dorky thing to do and all, but—” She shrugs, still avoiding my eyes. “I didn't know how to do this. You know, I've never apologized to anyone before. Without being forced to, I mean.”

I open my mouth to say something—maybe to thank her. She holds up her hand. “No, you know what, Olivia? Don't say anything else, okay? It was just supposed to be an apology—not a conversation.”

It's Brynne, all right. And despite the edge in her words, I'm kind of relieved. Nobody can say I killed her spirit. It suffered a little damage, but it's far from dead.

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON,
I'm in the kitchen washing dishes when there's a knock on the door. Oomlot breaks out with a bark that makes him sound mean, and races to the foyer. Queso follows, yapping. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and walk down the hall toward the front door. Through the screen, I see Moncherie crouched on the porch, rubbing the belly of Ferrill, our hopeless guard dog.

“Mon—” I start to say her name and remember I can't pronounce it without sounding like I'm practically choking on phlegm. “Hi?” I ask, rather than say. “You want to come in?”

“Actually, I think you should come out here,” she says, smiling.

“Uh. Okay?” I toss the dish towel over the banister and step out onto the porch. Oomlot squeezes past me, eager to get outside. And then I see why.

“Isn't she beautiful?” Moncherie gushes.

I think my gasp is loud enough for her to hear. The strangest-looking dog I've ever seen—and I'm being polite here—is sitting in the backseat of Moncherie's car. The dog's eyes are so droopy and wide-set that it looks almost fishlike; its coat looks like a used Brillo pad; its ears are ragged and crooked. An unidentified object dangles from its mouth.

“Her name”—Moncherie pauses, beaming—“is
Olivia
.”

A laugh escapes me. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yes, I'm serious. You're the whole reason I adopted her—all your cute dog stories got me wanting one. You know she came from a hoarder? She was one of one hundred and twenty-six dogs. But you wouldn't know it—she just seems so
wonderful
.”

Before I can say anything, Moncherie takes a deep breath and her smile wears away a little. “Look, I've got some other news.” She sighs and shifts her weight in her Minnie Mouse–style pumps. “Remember that day I had to cancel our appointment?”

I nod, reddening, remembering how I accused her of dog-training a man when it's clear now that it really
was
a dog she was interested in.

“Well, I was actually on a job interview. And, guess what? I got the job!” She pulls her shoulders back and straightens up her posture. “You're looking at the next Harold and Harold representative. I'm going to be a
real estate agent
!”

“Like, sell houses?” My forehead stiffens. I'm not sure why I feel sad, but I do, just a little.

“Exactly!” she says, then studies me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I laugh nervously.

“Olivia, what's up?” She looks concerned.

“I think I want to tell you something.” I swallow. “Can I still do that?”

“Sure,” she says, her forehead crinkling. “Is this about—”

I nod. “My mom.”

She takes my hand and we sit down on the steps of the porch, and I tell her about something I've done. How I read one of my mother's letters. And how she told me she missed me. And so I read the next one. And she said she was feeling better. And then I read the last one. And she said she was sorry. And then I did something I hadn't done in an even longer time. I tell Moncherie how I wrote back.

And how I told my mom that I forgave her, now that I know what that really means.

She squeezes my hand. “Oh, I'm so proud of you, Olivia! Doesn't it feel great?”

“Like rainbows and unicorns,” I joke. But it does feel good.

She laughs and wraps her arms around me. I can't help but laugh and hug her back.

“Now, look,” she says. “I want you to promise me one thing.”

“Okay. What?”

“That you'll never use dog training on a person again.”

“I already told you I wouldn't.”

“No, I mean really promise me. Say it with me,” she starts. “
Moncherie
,” she leads me, with that horrible faux French accent. I just keep smiling. “Come on, Olivia, you have to say it.
Moncherie
…”

I take a deep breath. “
Moncherie
…” I butcher her name.

“No,” she says, “Open your throat.
Moncherie
…”

So I do it. I open my throat and say her name like I'm going to hock a lugie. I am burning with embarrassment, but she looks almost proud.

“I will never use dog training on a person again,” she coaches me.

“I will never use dog training on a person again,” I repeat.

She looks pleased. I recover and ask, “So—is that it? Am I ever going to see you again?”

“Well, I'm hoping maybe Olivia and I could stop by sometime and take you for ice cream or something. What do you think? I mean, you'd have to ask Corny. Or your dad. He's still moving up here, right?” She looks a little too hopeful.

“In the spring,” I say. It's the latest bit of news I've gotten. He says it's for sure.

“Spring, huh? Well, just give me a call.” She takes my hand, turns it over, and writes a number on my palm. “That's my cell. Just call me, okay?”

I tell her I will. And I mean it.

She turns to leave, and I follow her off the porch. “What's that in Olivia's mouth?”

“Oh, yeah!” Moncherie's face lights up. “Can you believe it? She came with her own Lindsay Lohan doll! Isn't that cute?”

I step toward the car. Olivia the Dog eyes me suspiciously. In her mouth she holds the naked doll by the torso. One of the doll's arms is raised overhead, as if trying to flag down help. The other arm is missing—just gone. Short red-brown stubs of hair sprout from most of the head. On its face is a pink-lipsticked smirk.

Oomlot follows us down from the porch. He jumps his front paws up on the car and sniffs the doll. Olivia the Dog starts to growl.
Uh-oh.

“Oh, Olivia,” Moncherie says to her. “You just stop that. That's rude!” She turns to me and smiles, almost proudly. “She just loves Lindsay.”

I haven't had much experience with dogs obsessed with Lindsay Lohan. At least not yet. I smile—I may be hearing from Moncherie sooner than she thinks.

She reaches in to give me a hug. “I really enjoyed working with you, you know that?” She sighs, releasing me from the hug, but holding on to my shoulder. “I hope you got something out of our little talks.”

“Oh, I did,” I tell her, and watch as she brightens a little. And I'm sure I
did
get something out of our talks. Maybe it wasn't exactly therapy the way those weird old bearded guys like Freud would have wanted it, but whatever it was, it definitely opened my eyes.

Which are, I remind myself, totally Caribbean green.