“I guess I could call Angelo’s,” Heather said.
“Perfect,” Georgie said, “but tell them we don’t want any of those wrong pizzas. If we get a wrong pizza, we’re sending it back.”
Heather smiled back at her. “Do you like artichoke hearts?”
“I love artichoke hearts. I love all hearts.”
Heather bounced up and pressed redial on her phone. She ordered the pizza, already jiggling her leg and biting at her lip. “I’ll wait in the living room for it,” she said as soon as she ended the call.
“Good idea,” Georgie agreed.
Georgie and Porky went back to their melancholy staring. Georgie at the phone. Porky at Georgie.
“I’m sorry,” Georgie said, scratching under his collar. “But I really don’t like you.” She thought of Noomi. Noomi liked the pugs; she said they looked like really ugly kitties. “Meow,” Noomi would say, getting as close to Porky’s face as he’d let her. (Which, to Porky’s credit, was pretty close.)
“Meow,” Georgie said now.
Porky sneezed.
Both the pugs loved Neal. Georgie knew he fed them table food. (Because he was a soft touch. And because he hated her mom’s cooking.) As soon as Neal sat down on the couch, the pugs would start nipping at his jeans until he had both of them in his lap. That’s how Neal ended up every Thanksgiving afternoon and every other Christmas—with two little girls and two little dogs sacked out in his lap. Neal, tired and bored, but smiling at Georgie from across the room, his dimples playing hide-and-seek with her.
She felt the tears welling up on her again.
Porky whined.
“Oh God,” Georgie said, sitting up. “I have to do something.”
She took one more look at the phone. It didn’t ring.
“Come on.” She set the dog on the floor and left the room.
“What’re you doing?” Heather asked. She’d taken down her hair and spritzed the curls with something, and she was waiting by the door—literally, leaning against the frame.
“Losing my mind,” Georgie said.
“Can’t you do that in your room?”
“I thought you were worried about me.”
“I was. I will be. But now—” Heather pointed emphatically at the door. “—there’s a pizza coming.”
“That’s what happens when you order one.”
“Right,” Heather said, goggling her eyes at Georgie. “The pizza will be here any minute.”
“Oh, right.” Georgie said. “I’ll just . . .”
The doorbell rang. Heather jumped.
“I’ll just get my clothes out of the dryer.”
Heather nodded.
“It might take a while . . . ,” Georgie continued. “You just . . . shout or something when the pizza gets here.”
Heather nodded again. The doorbell rang again. Georgie felt like telling Heather that none of this mattered, that her pizza-boy dramatics were nothing compared to Georgie’s magic, life-destroying phone of destiny—but instead she turned deliberately toward the laundry room.
As soon as Georgie was through the door, she heard the whimpering
Porky was standing outside the open dryer, barking at it. “Damn it, Heather.” Heather must have let Petunia into the dryer again—to take a nap on Georgie’s warm, clean clothes.
Georgie stomped down the back steps, irritated with every living thing in the house. Porky looked up at her and barked. “What’s the problem?” Georgie asked. “Do you want to drool all over my clothes, too?”
She leaned over the dryer door to look for the other one, lumpy old Bit-a-Brick. That’s when Georgie saw the blood. “Oh God . . .”
Porky started barking again. Georgie crouched in front of the dryer, trying not to block the light. All she could see was a pile of clothes streaked with blood. Neal’s Metallica T-shirt was on top, moving; she pulled it out of the way. Petunia was curled underneath, gnawing at something, something dark and wriggling.
“Oh God, oh God—Heather!” Georgie shouted. She jumped up and ran back in the house. “Heather!”
When she got to the kitchen, Heather was standing at the front door, staring at Georgie like she was planning how to kill her later. The pizza boy was standing . . .
Oh. The pizza boy was a girl.
Smaller than Heather; wearing dark jeans, a short-sleeved white T-shirt under thin leather suspenders, and a ball cap that said ANGELO’S. The girl looked kind of like Wesley Crusher, but prettier and with nicer arms. It was a good look.
Huh, Georgie thought, then said out loud: “Heather. It’s Petunia.”
“What?”
“Petunia’s having a baby.”
“What?”
“Petunia!” Georgie said, more urgently. “She’s having puppies in the dryer!”
“No, she’s not. She’s having a C-section in two weeks.”
“Great!” Georgie shouted. “I’ll go tell her!”
“Oh God!” Heather shouted back. She ran past Georgie toward the laundry room. Georgie ran behind her as far as the door.
Heather knelt in front of the dryer and immediately screamed. Porky was running back and forth across the tile floor—it sounded like someone rattling their fingernails against a metal desk. He was already hoarse from barking. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Heather chanted.
“Whoa,” someone said.
The pizza girl stepped around Georgie on the stairs. “Whoa,” she said again, crouching behind Heather.
“She’s gonna die,” Heather said.
The girl touched her shoulder. “She’s not.”
“She is. Their heads are too big, she has to have a C-section. Oh God.” Heather took a few crazy breaths. “Oh my God.”
“She’s going to be fine,” Georgie said. “She was built for this.”
“She wasn’t,” Heather said, crying now. “Pugs are bred to be useless. We have to take her to the vet.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” pizza girl said, looking into the dryer. “There are puppies in there.” Porky ran by the dryer again, and the girl scooped him up, running her hand over his skull and whispering, “Hush.”
“Right,” Georgie said.
Heather was still crying and breathing like she was making every effort to pass out.
“Right,” Georgie said again. “Heather, move.”
“Why?”