“It’s a temporary solution. We keep Dewey here until it’s the right time to tell your moms, and in the meantime, she won’t be alone. I’ll be able to take care of her during the day when everyone’s gone, and you’ll have time to play with her and walk her after school,” he explains. “It’s better than the alternative, right?”

I nod reluctantly. I can’t argue with that. “Anything is better than the alternative.”

“Then don’t worry!” he snaps at me, his voice turning loud and sharp for a moment. Then, softer, he continues, “Think of it as me wanting to give you, my granddaughter, a dog. I have every right to give you a gift, don’t I?”

“I guess,” I say. “I mean yes.”

“That’s right,” he agrees, but then he shifts away from me slightly and mumbles, “Your mother can’t take that away from me.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I can still make some decisions for myself, you know.”

“I know, Gramps.”

“I know you know, Sass—you might be the only one who does. I don’t mean to be getting grumpy with you. You know what; we’ll talk more about this later.”

Chapter 17

THE MOST IMPORTANT THING

Gramps never comes out of his room for dinner. My moms act like it isn’t a big deal, but I can see the creased foreheads and frown lines in their faces as they look at each other across the table.

I start to worry he might be upset with me for not being as enthusiastic as he had hoped I’d be about the whole Puppy Palace thing.

After dinner I go to my room to find a series of messages waiting for me on my laptop.

JUDE: check your phone! I called a bunch of times. . . .

JUDE: I am sooo sorry I forgot to call you back the other day!!!

JUDE: pls call as soon as you can

JUDE: I want to hear abt your butterflyer

It took her two whole days to realize she forgot about my emergency. Checking my phone, I see that she called three times in a row while I was eating dinner. I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed, taking a deep breath before calling back.

“Sadie!” she shouts into the phone.

“Hi.”

“Sade, I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I lie.

“So what is it? What’s the butterflyer about?” she asks, and if I close my eyes tight, I can almost imagine that she’s here sitting across from me. “It’s not about Gramps, is it?”

“Well,” I begin. “It wasn’t before, but now it might be . . .”