Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love Read Online Free Page A

she means senior citizens. ( Jess is planning to go to law school someday so she can make the world a better place. I think it’s a FINE plan.)
    Kat is staring at her boots as if they’re interesting. She glances up at me—up from the boots, I mean, but actually down, since she’s a good five inches taller than me.
    “I just don’t know, Felicia,” she says, barely audible.
    Which is the last straw. Enough! “Look,” I say. “The Search for X is NOT what you think!”
    What I want to say is this:
    Hear me, O Kittens! Is it right that I should spend these precious days of my fourteenth year moping, pining, wondering, and waiting for a smoke signal of looooove from Matthew Dwyer, Dawg-o’-my-dreams?
    Is it fair that I should be exerting so much of my Kittenpowers purring hopefully in his direction, with only the most feeble of tail wags in return?
    No. It is not. So I have to DO something. Even the Oracle thinks so. Anything would be better than this LIFE OF TORMENT.
    But that sounds so deeply loseresque, so what I actually say is: “Yes! I’m going to tell Matthew how I feel about him. But it’s not the pathetic stalker move it sounds like!”
    We’ve arrived at the Pound. The Free Children are milling about, trying to make wet gray snowballs out of the mush. Kat is looking at her feet again. Miss Jessica Kornbluth for the Prosecution has crossed her arms. That’s never a good sign.
    “And even if it is, it’s for the sake of science!” I blather on. “Matthew’s a scientist. This is something that will add to the body of human knowledge. I’m sure he’ll totally understand.” And not think I’m a geeky, X-deficient loser, I neglect to add—out loud, anyway.
    Neither Jess nor Kat is looking at me at all now. They’re both focusing on something a little above and behind my right shoulder.
    “And NOT think I’m a geeky, X-deficient LOSER!” I decide to say, borrowing some of Jess’s emphaticness for emphasis.
    “Hey.” It’s a Dawgvoice. “Hi, Jessica. Hi, Katarina.”
    I’m wondering exactly what shade of red my face is, but it’s a moot point, since you can’t RIP your face off your head and hide it in your backpack, even if you desperately want to for some humiliating reason.
    “Hi, Felicia,” says the Dawgvoice.
    Exhale a whew of relief! It’s only Randall. Randall is perfectly nice but dull, the sort of person you would not even notice except he’s best friends and Dawgbuddies with Matthew Dwyer. On his own merits, Randall’s not the sort of Dawg your face should get red about saying something stupid in front of.
    (Mr. Frasconi would prefer I say Randall’s not the sort of Dawg in front of whom your face should get red. But I like it better my way.)
    Nope, Randall’s definitely not the sort of Dawg whose unexpected arrival would make your cheeks turn strawberry ice cream color, but not cool like ice cream, more hot like tomato soup, no matter how much of a fool you might have just been acting like (sorry, Mr. F!).
    Unless, of course, shoot-me-now Matthew Dwyer was standing RIGHT BEHIND HIM.
    Yes, there’s my cutieDawg standing there, skinny and slouched like a greyhound in the cold morning sun. Hair the color of winter grass in Central Park, and soft as a rabbit’s ear. At least, I imagine it is. I’ve never actually touched Matthew’s hair.
    Jess and Kat are looking at me with that mixture of horror and fascination usually reserved for watching reality television. Now that she’s eaten a teacup full of slugs, what will that madcap Felicia do next? I do not disappoint.
    “Hey, Matthew.”
    “Hey,” he says.
    “Listen,” I say, smiling the smile of a used-car salesman with a lemon to unload, the useless, nothing-left-to-lose smile of a death row inmate slurping down one final milk shake. “I have a really cool idea for a, um, science thing. Can I talk to you about it?”
    At the words “science thing,” Matthew perks up like a puppy that just spotted his lost chew toy