Macy narrows her eyes at me and says, “I thought you said she couldn’t be adopted?”

“No, I mean what if we could convince the animal shelter that Dewey is really your dog? That she was always your dog and that you’ve been looking for her? We could put your phone number on the flyer—it’s perfect!”

“But my dad’s allergic to dogs, so I could never take her home even if we could convince them.” I feel all the air in my lungs deflate like a balloon. “But . . .” Macy begins, “you could use my phone number on the flyer if you want. I mean, if you think it would help.”

“Really?” I shout. I’m so happy, I want to throw my arms around Macy.

She writes her phone number across the empty space on the flyer.

“So if they call you, you’ll say that Dewey is yours?” I double-check.

Macy nods. She leans over the paper and reads it more closely before crossing out the middle of the word reward. I had typed “REWRAD” in my excitement. She rewrites it: REWARD.

“Thanks,” I tell her.

She just shrugs and says, “I’ll keep thinking of ideas. I mean, we have to do something.”

We. I like the sound of that.

Chapter 13

BUTTERFLYER

I race home from the bus stop after school, yelling, “I’m home, Gramps!” as I run up the stairs to my bedroom. I drop my backpack on the floor next to my desk and swing my laptop open. I type in the wrong password twice because I’m too excited—hyperhappy, as Jude would say.

The third time works.

I open up the poster file, pull the folded paper Macy wrote her phone number on out of my back pocket, and carefully type in the number. I proofread everything in the poster once more. I change “REWRAD” to “REWARD” and make the heading even larger. I click save, then print.

I nearly fall down the stairs to make it to the printer because I’m running too fast. I race past Gramps in the kitchen, and he says, “Where’s the fire?”

“What?” I yell from the little office nook area in the living room, where we have a computer that Moms use to do grown-up things like pay bills and stuff like that. The poster has just finished printing as I skid to a stop in front of the desk.

“What’s the hurry?” he says, translating his Gramps-speak for me.

“Nothing,” I tell him, careful to keep the paper facing me. “I just had to get some homework off the printer.”

“Okey dokey. You want a snack while you do your homework?”

“If it’s your famous PB&J, then yes!”

“Oh, they’re famous now, are they?” Gramps laughs and says, “Coming right up.”

“BRB,” I tell him.

This time Gramps says, “Say what?”

“BRB, Gramps. Be right back. You know: Bee. Are. Bee. Get it?”