Eenie Meenie Minie Mo

Chapter Nine

  I had writer’s block. A horrible, horrible case of it, in fact. Every time I sat down to type, I drew a huge blank. I sat and read a few of my other, unfinished stories, watching my writing improve. Somewhere in my stack of boxes were dozens upon dozens of folders full of stories I wrote when I was thirteen through fifteen. They were mainly awful. No—really. I had some great ideas, but there were so many grammatical errors; plus my writing was totally snore.

  “Okay!” my mom strutted into my room. “We’re going out!”

  I looked her up and down. She certainly didn’t look like a mom. Her brown hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail with a tie-dye bandana wrapped around her head. She was wearing a simple pink tank top and capris.

  I shut my laptop. “Where?”

  With a big, sly smile on her face, Mom walked slowly over to me, plopping herself on the end of my bed. “So….you know how you’ve been bugging me for years about getting a dog?”

  Immediately, I perked up, a cheesy smile on my face. “No way.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes way. Alaric’s niece’s dog had puppies a few weeks ago and they’re trying to give them homes.”

  “What kinda puppies are they?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement. It was weird for a girl to get so psyched about a dumb dog, but ever since our family dog, Sampson, died we hadn’t had anymore pets. I had been dying for a dog of my own for years.

  “Their mom is a golden retriever and their dad is a black lab. So they should be really cute.”

  “Let’s go!” I shrieked, hopping off of my bed and bolting to the front door.

  I heard my mom laughing behind me as I snatched the keys and ran out to the car. I was getting a puppy—maybe! Hopefully. Agh! This was so exciting!

  “You so realize,” my mom said as she joined me in the car. “that you’re going to have to train it.”

  I nodded anxiously. “Mmm-hmm!”

  “Potty train it, feed it, take it out for walks,” she continued to list. “Get it shots.”

  “Him,” I interrupted. “It has to be a him. I don’t like girl dogs. How old are they again?”

  “Eight weeks old.”

  “How much are they?”

  “Best part,” Mom said. “They’re not selling them. They only have three left—out of eight puppies!”

  “Whoa.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. That would hurt.”

  “Ew.”

  “So….what’re you gonna name it? I mean, you’ve been picking out dog names for years.”

  It’s true; I had been. “Well, I was thinking Jackson or Reagan; for two of the best presidents. But you know I’m gonna name him something entirely different when I see him.”

  “Reagan kinda sounds femi,” Mom commented.

 I nodded. “That’s kinda what I was thinking, too.”

  We drove on for fifteen minutes listing possible names until we came to a long dirt driveway, leading to a cute farm house. The land was flat and beautiful with a barn nearby the house. It looked like a typical southern home, honestly.

  “Who’s house is this, anyway?” I asked curiously as we neared the house.

  “Scott and Kim Nelsons?”