During my smoke, I give myself a pep talk, and upon stubbing out my second cigarette, I've convinced myself to go against my M.O. and apologize. I don't know about the rest of the world, but saying 'I'm sorry' is not on my list of effortless feats. I've been wired to regard the phrase as a plague of sorts, something that should be avoided at all costs. I can hear my grandpa's gruff voice in the back of my head, "Don't apologize, Lillian, it's unbecoming." He'd say it with a wink, but mean every syllable. Once upon a time, I took his advice to heart, eradicating the restrictive nature of regret and 'I'm sorry' altogether.

I'm outside her guest room. My fist hovers over the door, and freezes. It's done this twice already. At this rate, I'm not sure if I'll ever get around to apologizing. I hear a faint scraping sound, like a chair being drug across the wooden floor, and then a meek, "I can see your shadow." Miley sounds miserable, and my guilt balloons.

"It's me." Is that my voice? I sound so dainty.

There's silence, and then Miley says, softer still, "Go away."

"I'm…," my throat clams up. I crack my fingers. "Can I come in?"

"Go away. I'm not in a fraternizing kind of mood." She's snarky.

"Miley, please?" I'm begging, like an animal. Begging. Me. My words are strained. If she doesn't let me in soon, I'll look like a flaming moron. No girl is worth this embarrassment! I'd rather be arrogant than some sad display of anecdotal teenage angst.

The silence is just long enough to make my shoulders slump in defeat. The door clicks open a crack. "Come in then," she sighs.

I push past the threshold. She's situated on the bed with her hands in her lap. She's ringing them. Her eyes are cutting through me. I briefly register a flinch. "What do you want?" It's an absent question. We both know she could give a fuck about what I want, or so I imagine. Honestly, I can't tell what she's thinking.

I run my fingers through my hair, and stare at the ground, feeling like a petulant child that's been reprimanded. Feeling ashamed. It's a disgusting sensation, one that I don't think I'll ever forget even if I never experience it again. "I just," I start. "I want to… I'm…" Well shit. This is no good.

Miley gets it. I can tell because her eyes are smiling. I'm taken aback by their lack of jeer. "You're what?" She's trying to coax it out of me, encouragingly… patiently. Although my marked attempt is admirable as is, she won't settle for a half-assed stab.

"I'm…" God! "It's difficult," I try to buy myself some time, some nerve. "I've never said this to someone before, and actually meant it... Miley, I'm… I'm sorry." And there it is, out of the fucking gate and over the finish line! I thought my head might explode or rotate a full circle like that little girl from the Exorcist, but you know what? It doesn't feel half bad. In fact, I feel a little airier.

Miley's face lights up. "Thank you," she whispers. "That means a lot to me."

I peek up at her, and she laughs. "What?" I ask. I'm pouting.

"You look like a puppy dog right about now." Her laughs get richer. The sound is enthralling. I think it's marketable. If it was recorded in one of those pull-string dolls, I'd invest in stocks.

"I do not."

The laughter crests, and breaks into a somber tension. "Can I tell you a secret?" She sounds unsure, like maybe she's thinking that entrusting me with secrets is a rash and dim-witted idea. It might be.

I nod, elated at the prospect of hearing one of her secrets. "Sure." Tell me all of them.

She cocks her head to the side, taking time to frame her words correctly, "You intrigue me."

If it was any other girl, I'd have taken that as my cue to kiss her. Ravenously. I could see us on that disheveled bed, bare and intertwined. I'd lick up every trace of her cherry lip gloss. Her lips would give way to the sweetest gut-wrenching moans and her pretty face would twist up in the purest of pleasures. It's all one hot blur. I remind myself that she's not any other girl, and a part of me is relieved. "You intrigue me too," I admit. My admission probably sounds like some lame con. It isn't.

She licks her lips and announces, "I won't sleep with you." Her cheeks are slightly rosied. How curious.

As telling as her announcement is, it's unexpected and I can't help the giggle that bubbles out. "Okay."

She frowns. Maybe she didn't get the reaction she wanted, but maybe I'm wrong. I don't have much to go on. "I'm serious," she insists.

"And I said okay." I bite my lip. "If you want my honest opinion, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than you're trying to convince me." I can feel a smug grin working its way onto my face.

"I don't want your honest opinion." She picks up her book and finds her place, and I know I'm about to be dismissed. "Good night, Lilly."

"Good night."

The rest of the school week passes by in a haze. Oliver's plate has been too congested with school work to play, and Miley's been cordial, but distant. I don't like it. It's the weekend, and her time as a recluse is up, whether she likes it or not.

We're having a civil, if entirely uninteresting, dinner. Aunt Luce is at a gala with Georgio. "Let's do something," I say, using a finger to trace the rim of my glass.

"Like what?"

"Let's go to a club."

She rolls her eyes, nonplussed. "We're underage."

I can't help but smile at her naivety. It's endearing. I think it annoys her. "I'm a Truscott." I'm satisfied with my explanation. It's a loaded statement.

"You're also a law breaker." She folds her arms across her chest. "I refuse to participate."

"God, you're uptight!" I know she hates it when I wield those types of words. Spiting her just makes me feel all gooey inside. In my defense, I told her that I'd stop as soon as she drops the goody-two-shoes persona. My jab makes her eyes sparkle with fire, and knowing that I'm accountable for that heat sends a thrill down my spine. I wonder if she'll ever bite.

"I'm done with this conversation."

I block her when she tries to leave. "Okay," I sigh. "You win."

She takes a side step and I'm right there with her. Her arms fold across her chest. "Move." She's stern.

"Don't you want to claim your prize?" C'mon, Miley, give me something to work with! I want to yell it out, but hope that my insistence is conveying just that. O…kay…We're obviously not telepathically linked because she just blinks at me. I take the initiative again, breaking the silence. "You've won the pleasure of my company for the entire weekend. I'm serious, whatever you want, wherever you want me, I'm there. Even if that means planting trees, reading to geriatrics, rescuing babies from burning buildings, feeding bums, rallying against the evils of the Wal-Mart Corporation, you name it."

She cracks a hint of a smile. It's barely recognizable, but there. Thank God. I think my sigh is heard around the world. "Okay. You can come down to the Humane Society with me tomorrow morning."

"The Humane Society?" Are you fucking kidding me?

"Did I stutter?" She brushes past me, but stops at the doorway to say, "Be up by 6," and then she disappears.

It smells like piss and wet fur. Fear too, I suppose. If fear had a smell, it'd smell like the kennels in the Humane Society. I've been mucking them out for the past hour. Miley took off with Polly Hernandez minutes after we got here. I've concluded that Polly is the person single-handedly responsible for this sordid foray. She'd put Miley up to this, I know it. I could kill the bitch.

I'm not particularly fond of animals in general, let alone fond enough of them to voluntarily pick up their shit. Maybe Polly doesn't deserve the entire rap. I'm starting to think Miley's toying with me. When Polly approached us, Miley bit her lip to keep from laughing at my slack jawed expression. I know sheer amusement when I see it. Her smile was a little wider, and her greeting was a hell of a lot peppier than usual. For a second, as she walked away and tossed me an over the shoulder glance, I caught sass in her eyes. I don't know what she's thinking. I happen to be the queen of mind fucks, and this game's no different from any other because I intend on winning.

"Lilly?" It's Miley.

I stop what I'm doing. She's standing by the open gate. "Yeah?" I ask, coolly.

"Someone's going to take over this job for you. We need your help at the grooming station."

Screw you! I flash the corniest tight lipped smile I can muster considering the circumstances and follow her out. Yeah, they need my help at the grooming station. My dumb fucking masochistic ass. I'm the only one here! Miley pointed to a rack of aprons and rubber gloves, and then at the Saint Bernard in the tub, and left.

I really wish I had some goggles.

The dog's wriggling around like a greased pig. Its tongue is flopping all over the place, and no matter how many times I scrub at its chin, foamy goops of slobber keep making a comeback. I'm up to my neck in suds. The saturated apron is weighing me down, and possibly acting as a contributing factor to a near future of coldlike symptoms.

Once I'm done drying the beast, some other volunteer appears with a scraggly little mutt. This keeps happening until I've polished at least a dozen dogs and puppies because that's when Miley reappears. This time she needs my help petting dogs and cats. She leads me to another room, and points to a specific cat carrier. "Start with Diablo."

Diablo? "Diablo?" Hm. I wonder why they call him that…

MEEERRRRRREEEOOOOWWWRRRRRR! What the fuck?

As soon as I get close enough to peer inside, it jabs a paw out through the wire mesh—claws fully unfurled and thirsty for blood. Fuck! The demon cat hisses at me. The cage hops and rattles with its brute force. I swear it's foaming at the mouth!

MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOWWWWWRRRRRRR! SSSSSSSSSSS!

I gulp and look back at Miley. She's leaning casually against the wall, totally stone-faced. She only motions for me to proceed. Fine. I turn back around and crack my knuckles. I will win this game! Even if I have to bathe 300 more dogs, or shovel up another month's worth of shit! Even if I have to lube up rectal thermometers and take temperatures myself.

I.

Will.

Win.

I brace myself and unlock the cage in one fluid motion. Diablo launches out like a furry, orange torpedo and latches onto my shoulder. All I can register is stinging pain. His claws are completely embedded in my skin, and he's making the screechiest, most demented cat noises in my ear. I feel myself gasp. I want to choke the cat. I want to wrap my hands around its crazy little head and choke it. Choke it dead. But I don't. Mainly because Miley's watching. I deserve a medal. Hell, I deserve 10 medals. I would adopt this cat just to tie it in a sack and drown it. Maybe I will.

"Oh my God," breathes Miley as she rushes over to help me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think—," she bites her lip and wraps her hands around Diablo. She gives him a solid tug which just makes him squiggle and reach his claws in deeper. She yanks at him again.

"Fuck," I gasp. "Allow me to point out the obvious, Miley, that is clearly not working!"

"I'm sorry! I'll go get Polly," she stammers.

"Yeah, you go do that," I yell after her. Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you, and this fucking cat!

I clench my jaw and do my best to withstand the pain. Before long, Miley's running back in with Polly. There's a whole crew of volunteers trailing behind them. The volunteers quickly form a circle around me. They mostly whisper, and gasp, and point. I feel like Diablo and I are the spectacles of some schoolyard brawl. Even Polly's giving me a glazed, deer in the headlights look. "Can you hurry the fuck up already?" I growl, snapping her out of her daze.

"Sorry," she mumbles. She raids through some drawers and snatches up a bundle of catnip. She holds it up to Diablo's face; waving it around, making sure he catches a nice waft. The cat immediately directs its attention to the substance. Its eyes are bugged out like a junkie's. I guess the stuff is the feline equivalent of crack. Diablo lets up on his grip. Polly tosses the bundle into his cage, and he quickly leaps inside. Hook, line, and sinker! Polly slams the gate shut. It's all so dramatic. For a second, I think the room will burst into applause, but it passes.

My shirt's peppered with cat hair. The fabric covering my shoulder is shredded and smeared with generous dollops of blood. The volunteers are still staring at me. "Don't you have some dog shit to pick up?" I'm menacing. They quickly scatter. Soon Miley and I are alone again.

"I'm so sorry," she says, trying her hardest to suppress a laugh. Like I said, I know amusement when I see it, or more accurately, when it takes a dump on me.

I suppose the whole situation did border on ridiculous. I mean, how many people can claim that they've been attacked by a cat-shaped Satan incarnate? The pissed off feelings give way to hysterical laughter, and my body trembles with the maniacal noise. Miley joins in, and suddenly I feel a hell of a lot better.