No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (10 page)

“Gotcha.” He's still holding out his hand.

I look at it. “What?”

“Well . . . it's just that . . . you've made twenty-seven dollars, so far.”

“Yep.” That's almost half a new dog!

“I . . . I was wondering . . . uh . . . when do I get my half?”

“Your half?”

“Of the money from Isabelle's Smell.” He sees the look of shock on my face. “What's the matter?”

“Doyle, it's just that . . . you know I'm trying to save as much as I can as fast as I can for my dog.”

“Well, sure, but—”

“And I thought that since you have a dog already, you wouldn't mind—”

“I mind, all right. Dogs aren't cheap, you know. I have to buy him treats and toys, and I'm saving up for one of those cool doghouses with a tin roof.”

My chest starts to ache. Can't Doyle understand that I want those things too? Doesn't he see that I'm miles and miles behind him? I only want to catch up. Why won't he let me catch up?

“Half seems a lot,” I say. “How about a buck a bottle? That's fair.”

“A buck? We always split everything down the middle, Scab. I thought we were a team.”

“We are, but—”

“But what?”

“Doyle, it's my invention.”

“Is not.”

“Is so.”

“Who dug around in your stinky garbage cans? Whose dog gave you the secret ingredient? Who's been working like crazy to get all these orders?” He pounds his chest. “Me, that's who. You'd be broke now if I hadn't told the guys about Isabelle's Smell. It's only fair that I get an equal share—”

“Wart!” I hiss, spit flying everywhere. I pull Doyle behind a post. We don't say a word until Mrs. Lipwart goes through the big red doors into the school.

Doyle jerks out of my grasp. “Do I get my half now or not?”

“Not!” It's my turn to do the chest pounding. “It's
my
invention.”

Doyle balls up his fist and for a minute I think he is going to hit me. His eyes drill into mine. His cheeks are turning
blister red. I stare right back. I don't blink. I don't flinch.

“Forget it. Forget you.” Doyle swings at air. He stomps off toward the building. “Go buy yourself a new best friend.”

“Couldn't do any worse than you!” I yell back.

Nobody cheats Scab McNally, especially not greedy, seedy, slimy, grimy former best friends who can't blow a decent snot bubble without my help. If I live to be 105, I'll never talk to Doyle Ferguson again.

“And you can keep your stupid dog poop,” I scream. “I'll find my own!”

The red door slams shut. A kindergartner in a lime green jacket is staring up at me.

“What?” I shout.

He takes off running.

I
t's weird being in the lunch line without Doyle. We like to pretend to wrestle until Mr. Hibbolt tells us to “straighten up and act like gentlemen.” That's my cue to let out an enormous burp, which always makes Doyle laugh.

Should I buy sausage pizza or spicy chili? The pizza tastes good, but the slices are tiny. If I go with the chili, I'd get a big bowl. Plus, I could let some chunky farts fly at Cloey Zittle during math.
Fla-hooey!

I go for the chili. I pay for my lunch. I turn around. Doyle is already sitting at our table with Will and Alec. He's claimed my second and third best friends for himself. Bug spit! I can't go over there now. A drop of sweat dribbles down my back. Everything is a blur. Kids are rushing past me to get to their friends. I feel smaller. Not on the outside. Inside, I mean.

“Scab!”

Just hearing my name, I grow a whole foot. On the inside.

“Hey!” Isabelle is waving a hunk of corn bread at me. I am glad to see her. Don't tell her I said that.

Isabelle is sitting at the last table in the last row by the window. Normally, she eats with Laura and Kendall, but they are not around. Again. My sister seems to be spending an awful lot of time by herself. I want to ask what's wrong, but I don't. She'd only call me a
Pilobolus
and tell me to mind my own business.

“You can sit with me until you patch things up with Doyle,” says my sister.

“How did you know—?” I stop. Stupid question. She is, after all, Super Spy.

“What's the fight about?”

“One of my inventions.”

“Then it's a dumb fight.”

“How do you know?”

“I've seen your inventions. You should tell him you're sorry.”

“But I'm not.” I don't need Doyle or his stupid
dog. Mr. Dawber's sheepdog, Grizwald, lays plenty of dog cookies. I can make Isabelle's Smell all by myself. And I can sell Isabelle's Smell all by myself. However, Doyle was right about one thing; to get a dog there is one person's help I
do
need. . . .

I clear my throat. “Isabelle?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm going to ask Mom and Dad for a dog.”

“Again?”

“This time I'll have sixty dollars.”

“You do?”

“I
will
. But I need your help.”