No More Dead Dogs Read online

  Nathaniel stared in horror at Wallace. “What’s he doing here?”

  “What’s wrong with a little fresh blood in the drama club?” I asked.

  “The sportos run everything at this school,” Nathaniel complained. “If they take over drama, there’ll be nothing left for us!”

  “Relax,” I soothed. “The play is totally cast; we’ve all got our parts. Wallace is probably here to work on set design or something.”

  Mr. Fogelman propped himself up on the edge of the stage. “Sorry I’m late, everybody. Let’s get started.”

  I knew it would take a few minutes to hand out scripts, so I figured this was a good time for the president of the drama club (me) to welcome the newcomer. I approached Wallace. “Hi, Wallace, I’m Rachel. Are you here to work on props?”

  He looked straight into my eyes. “No.”

  I frowned. “Set design, then?”

  “No.”

  “Lighting?”

  “Fogelman said to come to the gym at three-thirty,” Wallace told me. “This is the first I’ve heard about a play.”

  “You should sign up,” I persisted. “Mr. Fogelman adapted the book just for our school. He’s directing it personally!”

  “What book?” he asked without much interest.

  “An award winner,” I said proudly. “Old Shep, My Pal.”

  He groaned as if he had a bad stomachache.

  I was kind of torn. I knew Wallace would be a great advertisement for our play. But I wasn’t about to let him make fun of us.

  “Mr. Fogelman is a real professional writer, you know. He even had a play produced in New York once.”

  “If he’s the next Shakespeare,” Wallace challenged, “how come he’s teaching middle school in Bedford?”

  I stared at him. “That’s rude!”

  “No it isn’t.” He looked me squarely in the eye again. “It’s the truth.”

  “Rachel,” called Mr. Fogelman, “we’re starting.” To Wallace he added, “You can go when you’ve written a proper review of Old Shep, My Pal. Prove to me you’ve read the book at least.”

  I joined the cast in the circle of chairs. Trudi grabbed my arm, digging her painted fingernails into my wrist. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s like a guy serving detention,” I replied, “and he isn’t really thrilled to be here.”

  “Yeah, but did he say anything about me?”

  “That’s warning sign number two,” I whispered back.

  She giggled. You couldn’t insult Trudi Davis. She had a hide like a rhinoceros.

  There was no feeling quite like the first day of rehearsal. To take simple words on paper and bring them to life was a fantastic challenge. It was like the birth of a new baby (I’m only guessing here).

  Of course, you can’t have a performance on the first day. You have a staged reading. We all gathered in a circle with our scripts, and went through the entire play with each actor saying his (or her) lines. Okay, some of the cast was fooling around a little. There was a lot of laughing when Leticia Ogden choked on her gum, and when Vito Brundia read “What can this dog do?” as “What is this, dog-doo?” Even Mr. Fogelman had a pretty good laugh at Vito’s expense. That’s part of the fun of drama.

  The only person who found no humor in the situation was Wallace Wallace. Mr. Fogelman stuck him right in our circle, hoping our reading would inspire his book report (Mr. Fogelman dreams in Technicolor). In fact, as the reading went on, I paid less and less attention to my part, and began concentrating on the paper in front of Wallace, who was right next to me.

  This is what he wrote:

  “Pssst!” I hissed. “Cross that out!”

  He grinned at me (nice teeth for a football player).

  I pointed to the last line. “That’s not a review. That’s mean.”

  “But true.” He gave me the teeth again.

  “No, it’s not—”

  “Rachel,” came Mr. Fogelman’s voice.

  I looked up to find that I was the center of attention.

  Trudi kicked me under my chair. “It’s your line!” she whispered.

  I grabbed my script and began flipping pages, but I was hopelessly lost.

  I’m not a tattletale, but this was all Wallace’s fault (sort of).

  “It’s because of him,” I accused. “He’s writing a terrible review.” I caught a wild-eyed look from Wallace, like he couldn’t believe I was ratting him out.

  Mr. Fogelman’s brow clouded up like a thunderhead. He stomped over and scanned the paper.

  “This is unacceptable!” He frowned. “It’s not a review; it’s a plot summary, and not a very nice one at that.”

  “It proves I read the book,” Wallace pointed out.

  “You read the words but not the meaning,” Mr. Fogelman insisted passionately. “The rich themes, the wonderful characters—”

  “I hated the characters, Mr. Fogelman.”

  “You’d better be careful,” warned the director. He indicated the cast (us) with a sweep of his hand. “I’ll have you know you’re talking to Corey, Lori, Morry, and Tori right here.”

  “I’m Tori,” Trudi piped up. “Awesome touchdown last year. Is that a real Giants Windbreaker? I’ve never seen one of these up close before.” She stuck her elbow in my face and reached over to brush his arm. “Ooh, nice material.”

  Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Give me a break!”

  Wallace looked earnestly around the circle. “I’ve got nothing against you guys. I just didn’t like the book, okay?” He stood up. “Well, thanks for—uh—having me—”

  “Oh, you’ll be seeing us all again,” announced Mr. Fogelman. “On Monday, right after school.”

  You could almost see the stubborn streak rise out of the creep’s spine, straighten his neck, and come forward to stiffen his jaw. “I’ve got football practice.”

  The teacher shook his head. “Not anymore. Not until you complete the work I assigned you.”

  “But, Mr. Fogelman,” Trudi piped up, “Wallace is really important to the Giants. You know, last year—”

  “I know all about last year.” The director cut her off. He looked at his watch. “We’ll meet back here on Monday. That includes you, Wallace.”

  “Hey, Rach!”

  I wheeled. My brother, Dylan, was running toward Trudi and me.

  “Careful!” I cried as he raced across Bedford Avenue without a glance to the left or right (part fearless; part stupid).

  He was short for a ten-year-old, so his enormous book bag very nearly dragged along the pavement as he panted up.

  “Didn’t anybody ever teach you to look both ways before you cross the street?” I snapped.

  “Not in middle school,” Dylan gasped, catching his breath. It was the biggest thrill in his life that the fifth graders had been moved out of Bedford’s three elementaries, so he could go to the same school as his older sister.

  “How’s it going, D-man?” Trudi grinned.

  “Never mind that!” Dylan exclaimed, as if he had no time for small talk. “The guy you just walked out of the gym with—wasn’t that Wallace Wallace?”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “The Wallace Wallace? The football player?”

  “No, one of the other ninety-five guys named Wallace Wallace in this town!” I said sarcastically. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Well, what did you say to him?”

  Trudi glared at me. “Tell him, Rachel. You got the poor guy in trouble with Mr. Fogelman.”

  “At least I didn’t kiss up to him like you did,” I snorted.

  Trudi shrugged. “He’s so cool.”

  “Warning sign number three,” I intoned.

  “I can’t believe you know him!” Dylan enthused. “He’s practically in the NFL!”

  “Know him?” Trudi repeated. “D-man, your sister and I—we’re hooked up. Actresses always hang with the ‘in’ crowd.”

  Actresses? I hope she wasn’t talking about herself.

  “
Wow!” breathed Dylan. “Remember the big touchdown last year?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time we all found something else to think about?” I suggested. “For instance, do you know what the school play is going to be this semester?”

  But Dylan was already running down the sidewalk, backpack bouncing with each step. “Hey, Mark! Guess who my sister’s best friends with!”

  Enter…

  WALLACE WALLACE

  I applied the final brushstroke to the garage door. “See? What did I tell you? Fourteen minutes flat.” Eleven Giants were there helping me paint. The guys never let me down when it came to jobs around the house.

  “Now can we practice the flea-flicker?” asked Rick, brushing at a paint stain on his jeans and making it worse.

  Cavanaugh jumped up. “Good idea.” He always showed up at my place out of team solidarity, but he never touched a paintbrush, or a hedge clipper, or a broom. My ex–best friend wasn’t crazy about me or the idea of helping me out.

  My mother rounded the corner of the garage. “Great job, boys,” she approved. “There’s juice and soda in the kitchen if you’re thirsty.”

  Feather led the stampede into the house, Cavanaugh bringing up the rear with his famous slouch. That slouch was almost as much a trademark as his super-long blond hair.

  “Come back!” cried Rick. “We don’t have time! The sun’ll be down in forty-five minutes!”

  I laughed. “Forget trying to control those guys where their stomachs are concerned.”

  Rick started for the door. “You hit the nail right on the hammer,” he muttered.

  Mom took the brush from my hand and smoothed out a bubble in the paint. “You know, I probably could have managed on my own, Wally. You don’t have to call in the entire team every time a fuse needs changing.”

  I shrugged. “I like to do my share.”

  She whistled through her teeth, which was the signal that she had something on her mind. I waited.

  “I’ve been mulling over this problem of yours at school,” she began finally. “I think I’ve come up with a solution.”

  “Me, too,” I replied. “What if there’s an earthquake this weekend, and a giant crack opens up, and Fogelman falls in?”

  Mom pretended to consider this. “Not bad. But just in case that doesn’t happen, why not try it my way?”

  “I’m not going to lie.” It was an old song I’d been singing all my life, and she was used to it.

  “You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “Just write a serious paper on exactly why you think Old Shep, My Pal isn’t any good. No wisecracks, no sarcasm, just a simple, solid essay. It’s the man’s favorite book, Wally. If you insult it, you’re making fun of him.”

  “Anybody who likes that waste of toilet paper deserves to be made fun of,” I observed.

  “That’s exactly the attitude that’s been getting you in trouble,” she reminded me.

  I sighed.

  I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped into the locker room on Saturday. The usual pregame chatter died all at once, like someone had pulled the plug.

  I tossed my duffel onto the bench. “What is this, Joe’s Funeral Parlor?”

  Feather put a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. “Listen, Wallace, before my dad sees you—”

  Too late. Coach Wrigley rounded the corner, eyes shooting sparks. “Hello and good-bye, Wallace. Get out of my locker room.”

  Honestly, I thought he was joking. “What are you talking about, Coach?”

  “Detention is what I’m talking about!” roared Wrigley. “You’re still on it!”

  “Not on Saturday.”

  The coach shook his head. “School rules. If you’re on detention, you can’t play on a team, join a club, or go on a field trip—even on weekends.”

  Did you know that a school has more power than the government? I mean, it was Saturday, not even a school day! How could Fogelman have this much control over my life? I was so stunned that all I could manage was a very feeble “No kidding.”

  And if you think I was upset—

  “Hey!” Rick was framed in the doorway. He dropped his helmet with a clatter. “Detention was yesterday!”

  Cavanaugh shook his head. “This is terrible, Jackass Jackass.” And when nobody was looking, the rat winked at me. I was the only one in the locker room who knew how much my ex–best friend was enjoying this.

  “It stinks, Dad,” put in Feather. “Fogelman’s got it in for Wallace.”

  “That’s Mr. Fogelman to you, pal,” his father corrected him.

  “But can’t you talk to him?” Feather pleaded. “Get him to go easy. It’s out of Wallace’s hands.”

  “Wallace’s hands aren’t the problem,” Wrigley snarled at me. “It’s his mouth that keeps getting him into trouble.”

  “I can’t believe we painted your garage door for nothing!” Rick complained. “How can we try out my new trick play if you’re not even in the game?”

  “The flea-flicker?” I managed, still in shock.

  “This one’s even better,” he assured me. “Check it out: You take the handoff, but instead of running, you look for me to go deep. Then you hit me for the surprise touchdown.”

  “That’s why you became a quarterback,” I pointed out. “You couldn’t catch a cold.”

  “Well, we’ll never know now, will we?” Rick seethed.

  The coach put a friendly arm around my shoulder. “I’ve got some advice for you, kid. A lot of people think football is played on the field.”

  “You mean it isn’t?” What was he talking about?

  “Look around you. Feather’s on an all-celery diet to slim down and speed up. Wilkerson sleeps with a football to learn to hang on to it. Falconi’s trying to memorize the playbook so he doesn’t have to invent something new on every snap. These battles don’t have a down and distance. But they’re battles that will help our team. And now you’ve got one, too. It’s your job to get off detention.”

  “But Mr. Fogelman won’t—”

  Coach Wrigley held up his hand. “Mr. Fogelman is your problem. Now, get lost. And don’t come back till you’ve straightened out your life.”

  The door closed, and I was outside the stadium for the first time ever on a football Saturday. It felt like being dead. I could see my life going on all around me, but I was a nonparticipant.

  Okay, so I wasn’t a football nut like Feather or Cavanaugh, and certainly nowhere near to being a maniac like Rick. But I liked the game, enjoyed the physical challenge, and I had a lot of friends on the team. How could all that be over just because I wasn’t psyched about Old Shep, My Pal? I mean, wasn’t this supposed to be a free country?

  I thought back to the coach’s words. Could I get myself off detention? Of course I could. If I was my dad, the words would have flowed like sap from a maple tree: This is the greatest book ever written. I wish I could give it ten more awards. I cried at the heartbreaking ending. By the time Dad was through, he and Zack Paris would have been old friends. They might even have been Green Berets together in “the ’Nam.”

  I gagged—I just couldn’t do it. It went against everything I believed in to say one nice word about such a lousy book. No way—not for football—not for anything!

  “Where are you going?”

  A high-pitched voice jolted me out of my reverie. This little kid stepped into my path like he was a cop, stopping a fleeing bank robber.

  I’m no bully, but I wasn’t in the best of moods either. “I’m going home,” I said wearily. “Get out of my way.”

  The kid seemed genuinely horrified. “But what about the game?”

  I softened. Because of that fluke touchdown last year, I had fans, believe it or not, among some of the little kids around town.

  “I can’t play,” I explained patiently. “I’m on detention.”

  “Detention? During football season?”

  “Fogelman wouldn’t care if it was the last minute of the Super Bowl,” I mumbled.

>   The runt started. “Mr. Fogelman? That’s Rachel’s director!” I must have looked blank, because he went on, “My sister, Rachel. You know—your friend.”

  I ran down a mental list of everyone I knew. There were no Rachels.

  “You know,” he insisted again. “The girl from the play.”

  “Oh. That Rachel.” What a friend. If it wasn’t for my friend Rachel, I might not even be on detention anymore. Although, to be honest, Mr. Fogelman probably would have read my review even if dear Rachel hadn’t squealed on me.

  “I’m Dylan, Rachel’s brother.” The way the kid said it, you’d think he was announcing himself as the Grand Duke of Luxembourg. “Do you want me to ask her to put in a good word for you?”

  “I think Rachel’s already put in enough words for me,” I assured him. “So why don’t you go and enjoy the game?”

  The tragedy on his face was kind of flattering. “It won’t be the Giants without Wallace Wallace!”

  In spite of myself, I laughed out loud. “The bench will really miss me.”

  The Giants lost on Saturday, and my phone started ringing at about five in the afternoon. Where was I? What happened? Why wasn’t I at the game?

  “Mom, why don’t you answer the phone for a while?”

  “Well, okay, Wally,” she agreed, “but I’m going to have to tell people you’re not here. And that wouldn’t exactly be true, would it?” She always knew how to get to me.

  “Forget it,” I mumbled. The phone was ringing again.

  So I reprogrammed our answering machine: “Hello. This is Wallace Wallace. If you’re calling to find out why I wasn’t at the game today, it’s because I’m on detention. Anyone else can leave a message at the beep.”

  That brought me through the weekend okay. But on Monday morning I was mobbed in the school yard. It was always the same stuff. Where was I? Why didn’t I play? And how could I sit by and watch the Giants get creamed by a last-place team? I was tempted to step into my locker and pull the door shut behind me.

  No way was I going to get stuck in the crush of people at the front entrance. A few minutes before the bell rang, I climbed in through the bathroom window.

  And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. There, combing his ridiculously straight, ridiculously long, ridiculously blond hair, was my ex–best friend.