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other sucker to rub their hands on that filthy, flea-ridden tummy of yours. I'm not a cat person, either. In fact, I'm not an animal person at all. And being surrounded by a farmload of the things is making me itch.
    I start to walk away. Unfortunately, the mutt follows.
    "Arg!" the thing says again.
    I keep walking.
    "Don't you know dogs say 'ruff,' not 'arg'?" I ask it. "What are you trying to be, a pirate?"
    The dog answers with another, "Arg!" this time screechier than the last as if he's trying to annoy me on purpose. Hey, the way my day has been going, I wouldn't doubt it.
    "Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!"
    You'd think the mutt was joking with me, wouldn't you? But as I turn to the rough, deep barking sound I realize pretty quickly the mutt has friends. A lot of them.
    In the first place, I was wrong about it being dirt-encrusted. These five dogs are caked in mud and definitely dirtier than the mutt-puppy. Also (in the first place) they're very, very big.
    And they're running right toward me barking up a storm as if I'd kidnapped their child.
    Panic isn't the word to describe how I feel right now. As my life flashes before my eyes, I briefly weigh my two
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    options. I could either head toward the wire and run into the minefields or jump into the sheep pens.
    I don't have time to waste so I just run as fast as my sweaty, tired, sorry legs can carry me. As I move, I'm not even conscious about which option I've chosen.
    I run faster and faster, barely aware of the high-pitched "arg" sound at my feet and the hefty "ruffs" not far behind. Just a little farther, I say to my clouded mind. I think I'm screaming and yelling obscenities, but I can't be sure because I'm too busy worrying about what my legs are doing and can't be bothered with censoring my mouth, too.
    It seems like a long time, but when I reach the enclosure my pace doesn't falter. Mr. Haraldson, my gym teacher, would be proud of my leap. I was nowhere near getting the presidential award in physical fitness last year, but I'm probably making a world-record jump right now.
    I don't really aim where I'm going; it's all just a blur. And when I land, I close my eyes. I hope I don't squash a sheep during my crash landing.
    But instead of colliding with a sheep, something hard and solid breaks my fall.
    I'm afraid to open my eyes, so I can't see, but my sense of smell is heightened. I know this because the scent of boy sweat surrounds me.
    It's not grody body odor, just this musky guy aroma that makes me inhale deeper.
    Okay, now I realize what I'm doing, where I am, and who I'm smelling--like he's a damn rose petal--but it's really just a boy. I open my eyes wide.
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    Don't ask me how I came to be straddling no-shirt-cute-jerk. His hands are on me. To be specific, one of them is on the small of my back and the other one is on my hip. And I get caught staring into mocha eyes that could definitely put someone in a trance.
    I'm about to push away from him, but I hear the sound of someone walking along the grass beside the sheep's pen. I look over at who it is. I'm acutely aware the position I'm currently in looks really promiscuous and will probably get me in a ton of trouble.
    When I finally lean away from him, it opens my view to whoever has witnessed my debacle. I realize it's the last person I wanted to see.
    O'snot.
    And when I see her lips in a tight line and her hands accusingly on her hips I come to the only conclusion one can muster.
    No-shirt-cute-jerk is my cousin O'snot's boyfriend.
    O'shit.
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CHAPTER 7
    I'll never get used to being humiliated .
    "I swear, Ron, it's not my fault."
    "Those words come off your lips pretty often, Amy," he says to me. "Now explain again why you ran away before you even met Sofia and then, within a matter of fifteen minutes, end up on top of a boy. In the middle of a pile of hay, no less."
    I dig some dirt out of my fingernail while the Sperm Donor has this very serious talk.
    "Actually, to be technical, I fell on him," I say. I finger a