Zoe tells me as we bounce along in the school bus. We’re going to Dr. Mac’s Place, the veterinary clinic where we volunteer. It’s the perfect way to start the weekend. “Forget about it,” I say. “It’s useless. My mother won’t let me. End of story.” “You’re giving up too easily.” Zoe fixes the butterfly clips in her hair. “You like cats more than anyone I know.” She has a point. I’ve always loved cats. Long-haired, short-haired, tabby, Siamese, or stray. I adore them all. I can watch cats for hours—the graceful way they move, that mysterious look in their eyes, the twitching tail, the cute whiskers—everything about them fascinates me. My mother, however, doesn’t like them. I think they scare her, though she won’t admit it. Instead, she gives reasons like “They shed” or “They’ll ruin the furniture with their claws.” She has made up her mind. No cats in the Patel house. “You just haven’t asked the right way,” Zoe continues. “Parents expect you to ask a million times so they know you really, really, really want something.
