Happiness for Beginners by Katherine Center Page B

asked.
    â€œDon’t worry so much.”
    â€œI feel under-educated.”
    â€œWe do experiential learning here. You’ll learn as you go.”
    â€œBut what if there’s some information I need before I have it?”
    â€œYou’ll figure it out.”
    â€œWhat if I don’t?”
    â€œThen you’ll die,” Beckett said with a shrug. “And I’ll use my one stick of dynamite to make it look like an avalanche.”
    *   *   *
    I took my journal with me to the Mexican place on State Street for supper, thinking I’d sit quietly with a bowl of guacamole and jot down some pre-journey deep thoughts. But as I approached the hostess’s podium, I heard a loud wave of laughter in the back. When my eyes followed the sound, I saw every single member of our hiking group, including Beckett, cozied up for dinner at two pushed-together tables, well into their meal.
    I looked away so fast I spun halfway around. Then I peeked back to see if they’d noticed me. They hadn’t.
    I felt like I was crashing a party I hadn’t been invited to. Like I was stalking them, or tagging after them, or trying to be friends with a group that wasn’t friends with me. Except they weren’t friends. We were all strangers, dammit. How had they formed a south-of-the-border drinking club in the half-a-day since we’d all met?
    Maybe I should have joined them. That’s no doubt what Jake would have done—just bounded over like a chocolate Lab with a wagging tail to slip into the pack. But I wasn’t a chocolate Lab. In fact, in that moment, I was Pickle: a mangy-looking mini dachshund with a tail that never wagged and a foul temper. Maybe that’s why we got along so well.
    Pickle was, of course, quite literally, a bitch. And though I would not have called myself a bitch, I certainly admired that about her. There are women who describe themselves as bitches—often proudly—on T-shirts, say, or bumper stickers. I’ve noticed them for years around town: Sweet Bitch, Sexy Bitch, Crazy Bitch, Alpha Bitch, Yoga Bitch, Bitch on Board, Bitch on Wheels, Bitch on a Broomstick. Pronouncements like that caught my eye because I actually didn’t get it. Why would you put that on your car? Or across your boobs on a T-shirt? What were you trying to say about yourself? Was it a beware-of-dog warning to let the world know how tough you were? Because I couldn’t help thinking that if you were tough enough to fit into the “bitch” category, you probably didn’t need to bedazzle it in rhinestones across the butt of your shorts.
    Pickle certainly didn’t need a sign. One look at Pickle’s little pinched-up, pointy face, with that one lip always caught on her teeth, and you knew not to mess with her. That was the kind of toughness I wanted, especially in that moment. The kind you didn’t have to declare.
    The principal at my school had a poster of Chuck Norris jokes hanging in his office. I’d read that poster a thousand times since he’d put it up, and it always reminded me of Pickle: “Chuck Norris doesn’t call the wrong number. You answer the wrong phone.” “When Chuck Norris does division, there are no remainders.” “Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas.”
    I’d read the poster so many times, I’d just about memorized it. And even though I knew the jokes were, in fact, jokes, I had somehow come away with a bizarre affection for Chuck Norris—and, also, for the idea of toughness in general.
    So, tonight, I decided to see this experience of standing ignored in a Mariachi-themed entryway as a teachable moment. Had the group left me out on purpose, or just forgotten me? Did it even matter? I felt like I had exactly two choices: slump my shoulders in defeat, or stand up taller in defiance. What would Chuck Norris do?
    Another roar of laughter from the group at the back. One of the girls