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“Yeah? What’s your policy when people get threatening?”
Heat sat on her cheeks. She’d meant that as a joke. She ducked to start picking up the cans on the floor, setting them haphazardly on the shelves.
The dog was sniffing at her hair. She reached up a hand and rubbed him behind his ear, and he started doing that rawr-rawr-rawr the big dogs always did when you found their good spot.
Sure enough, in a moment he was on the floor, on his back, begging to have his belly rubbed.
“You’re ruining his tough guy image,” said New Kid.
It made her smile. She obliged the dog, giving his chest a good scratch. “Seriously, you should keep him on a leash. They’re tough on dog laws around here.”
“He is on a leash.”
She gave him a wry look. “Then someone should be holding it.”
He smiled, but it was brief, and his gaze was a little too intent. “Did they hurt you?”
Becca looked back at the dog. “Nah. They’re just stupid punks.”
“Who’s Chris?”
She shrugged. “Guy from school. I don’t really know him, but they ... ah ... saw me with him, and they think we’re friends or something.” She gave the dog a final pat and resumed picking up the cans.
New Kid dropped to a knee and started to help her. His arm brushed hers.
She told her cheeks to knock off the frigging blushing already. He’d made that comment to Tommy in class—he’d been kidding, right? Or was he g*y? She couldn’t get a read.
“You don’t have to help,” she began, but the dog picked up a can and set it on the shelf, then pushed it with his nose.
She stared. “What kind of dog is this?”
“A German shepherd.” New Kid grabbed a few more cans. The dog grabbed another. “My uncle was a K-9 cop. Casper used to be a police dog.”
“Used to be?”
There was a little flinching around his eyes. She’d said it before registering the importance of words like was and used to be, and now she wished she hadn’t said anything at all. “God—that was stupid. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. It’s okay.” He gave a little shrug, but he wasn’t looking at her now. “My uncle died in a car wreck.”
“So you got to keep his dog?”
“Sort of.” His eyes were focused on the shelf, and his hands moved more slowly. “Casper was in the car with him.” He paused, straightening the cans he’d just placed. “Me and my dad, too.”
She studied his profile, the studs and rings along the outside of his ear, the markings on his neck. He didn’t look like any teenager she knew, but was some hybrid of Goth and punk and new age. He rubbed at a can where the ruckus had torn a bit of the paper, and the light caught the stones on his twine bracelets.
“My mom thought it’d be a good idea for her and me to move back here,” he said. “Stay with her folks for a while.”
That had to mean his father had been killed, too. She started to say, “I’m sorry,” but she’d just said that, and he’d brushed it off. It felt odd, kneeling here in the aisle talking about death with some guy whose name she didn’t even know. She wanted to ask, but now, after such an intimate exchange, asking his name felt rude, like they were well past the basics. She fumbled to grab another can, but there weren’t many left.
He reached for one as well, but Casper ducked under his arm and started licking his face. New Kid smiled and lightly pushed him away, scratching the scruff of his neck. “Bravy, Casper. Bravy.”
“Your dog speaks another language? Does he do your Calculus homework, too?”
“German. Just the commands.” He placed the last can and straightened, looking slightly self-conscious for the first time. “Lots of police dogs do.”
She scratched the dog on the top of his head again. “Well, I think he’s pretty cool.”
New Kid moved toward the end of the aisle and grabbed one of the forty-pound bags of dry dog food, and she took a moment to appreciate what that did for the muscles in his upper arms.
