“Want to go to the pool tomorrow?” Rosa asked Stephanie during break time.

The pool Rosa mentioned was one of their favorite places.

Rosa and Stephanie did everything together. They rode the school bus together. They sat together during lunch. They took dance lessons together and even went to the same summer camp. They were best friends. Most of the time.

Sometimes, though, when Stephanie was with other friends, she ignored Rosa or treated her like a little kid, even though they were the same age.

Today was one of those times.

“Sorry. I’m already going to the pool,” Stephanie said. “Toni and Vanessa and I are going.” She smiled, but it wasn’t her nice smile. She walked away to join Toni and Vanessa, and Rose was left standing alone.

After school, at dance class, Stephanie talked and laughed with the other dancers as they stretched in front of the mirror. Rosa wanted to join them, but she still felt too upset.

Then she noticed Kiara, the new girl, standing with one leg up on the barre. Rosa joined her and began stretching, too. Kiara smiled, and Rosa smiled back. Rosa tried not to check the mirror to see if Stephanie had noticed. I hope she feels left out. Rosa thought.

The next morning, when Rosa got on the bus, Stephanie was waiting in their usual seat. Stephanie quickly moved her schoolbag off the seat to make room for Rosa. But Rosa walked past her and took the empty seat next to Kiara.

How does it feel now? Rosa thought.

On the bus ride, Rosa discovered that Kiara was not the quiet girl Rosa had thought she was. She talked a lot-about her little brother, about the tree house her uncle had built, and even about swimming.

“I love swimming!” Rosa said.

“Me too,” Kiara said. “My dad said he’d take my brother and me to swim tonight.”

“Great!” Rosa said.

“Maybe you can come with us tonight,” Kiara said. “That would be fun,” said Rosa.

When they stepped off the bus, Stephanie was waiting on the sidewalk.

Rosa suddenly began to feel unhappy and her face began to burn.

When my daughters reached the third and fourth grades, I occasionally allowed them to walk to and from school alone if the weather permitted. One warm spring day, a little dog followed them home after school. It had short legs and long lovely ears, with a brown-colored coat. It was the cutest dog I had ever seen and the girls begged me to keep it.

The dog was barely twelve weeks old. It had no identification marks. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about running an advertisement but I really didn’t want to. It would break the kids’ hearts if someone should show up. Besides, its owners should have watched it more closely.

By the end of the week the dog was part of our family. It was very good with the girls. The following week something told me to check the lost-and-found part in the local newspaper. One particular advertisement jumped out at me and my heart beat with fear for what I read. Someone was begging for the return of a lost dog in the neighborhood. They sounded anxious. My hands shook.

Instead, I pretended I hadn’t seen the advertisement. I quickly put paper away in the drawer. I never said a word about it to the kids or my husband.

By now we had named the dog Molly. It followed the girls everywhere they went. But there was one problem bothering me: my conscience (良心). I knew in my heart I had to call that number in the paper and see if our Molly was the dog they were eagerly looking for. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

With mixed feelings, I finally picked up the phone.

I asked the woman to come in and she quickly hugged Molly tightly.