I debate what I can (or should) tell her about the Dewey mission. Saying she’s in danger might seem a little strange, so I cross that out.

but she’s stuck at the animal shelter.

Except “stuck at the shelter” isn’t really accurate either, though, so I scribble that out too.

but it’s a long story. I could tell you about it at lunch if you want???

I toss the note back over to Macy—she reads it and makes the okay sign with her hand. And then she immediately begins reading out loud from the text. I hadn’t even noticed it was getting to her turn. I don’t know how she manages to pay attention all the time. Maybe if we ever become real friends, I can ask her.

In the cafeteria, I unpack my lunch bag at the seat at the end of the table where Macy always sits, while I wait for her to get through the lunch line. The longer I sit there alone, the more I wonder if she’ll really sit down next to me.

Then, finally, after what feels like an entire hour, I see Macy walking toward me, carrying her lunch tray. She sits in the seat next to me and opens up her carton of juice. She sticks her straw in and takes a big sip.

It’s only then that she looks at me and says, “What’s the long story?”

“Well,” I begin, and tell her everything—except that Dewey and I can talk to each other.

“Maybe someone will claim her?” Macy offers.

I shake my head. “They won’t. I can’t explain how I know, but I just do.”

We’re quiet for a while, and I finally start eating my cold leftover veggie pizza while Macy finishes her grilled cheese and dips her spoon into the Styrofoam bowl of tomato soup.

Macy sets her spoon down in the bowl and leans toward me. “Wait, but I adopted Dango from the animal shelter—that’s my rabbit.” She looks at me, waiting for a response, but when I don’t say anything she goes on. “I mean, why can’t they just wait for someone to adopt the dog if she doesn’t have anyone?”

“I thought of that too. I even begged my moms to let me adopt her, because I know she’s such a good—such a great, special, amazing—dog. But they said no.”

“Your moms?” Macy asks, emphasis on the s, so I know her question is about the plural part.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I have two moms.”

“Oh,” Macy says, but I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

So I say, “Families come in all shapes, sizes, and colors,” repeating something Moms have been telling Noah and me since as far back as I can remember.