“You can’t run and scratch your buttocks at the same time,” people say. I was facing two impossible jobs at once: get JK punished and win Lucy’s heart. Both sounded easy until I actually had to do them. This needed a plan—and other people. I called a meeting for Friday after school. We met, plotted, and decided the order: first, deal with JK; then the three of us (minus Frank) would go to war for Lucy. Whoever won, won.
That Friday evening I decided to visit Lucy at her home. I hadn’t seen her since the hospital and wanted to make an impression—soft voice, steady eyes, all that nonsense. I bathed, brushed, dressed up, and even swiped my mum’s perfume. We lived in the same neighbourhood, so I didn’t need a taxi.
I reached her gate and pushed it open. I’d never actually been inside her house before—only followed directions like a man reading treasure clues. No one seemed around, but I could hear music coming from a room. I walked toward the sound and knocked on the door.
Then a dog started barking. Not a friendly woof—an all-systems GO, teeth-on-standby kind of bark. It ran toward me, full furious speed. My heart thudded into my throat. I had two choices: fight the dog (brandish courage), or run (preserve the one heart I still needed for later). But run where?
I kept knocking, faster now. The dog closed in. In a panic I shoved the gate open and dove into the closest room I could reach. I didn’t care whose room it was or who might be in it; I only cared I wasn’t out in front of that dog. The gate slammed behind me. The dog prowled for a minute, then gave up and stalked away.
I caught my breath and decided it was safe to leave. I reached for the gate—then it swung open.
Who had opened it?
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