No More Dead Dogs (11 page)

Now the thought of being rid of me put a grin on her mug like she had just won all fifty state lotteries at the same time. She did kind of have a nice smile, though.

I whistled for attention. “This play could be a real winner!” I called. “Two weeks from now I’ll be in the front row cheering you guys on!” With a sideways look at Mr. Fogelman, I added, “Don’t let anybody make you change the things about it you know are good!”

As I headed out, I remembered that football practice was canceled today. Instead, there was a big Giants pep rally in the cafeteria. I quickened my step. It was the ideal place to make the announcement that I was back.

I heard the funky beat of the Dead Mangoes coming from the boom box. Rehearsal had begun, and the dogcatcher and the Lamonts were on Rollerblades to the tune of Joey Quick’s band. I couldn’t help noticing how perfectly the music made the action come alive. I felt a surge of satisfaction as I stepped out into the hall.

Screaming voices drew me back inside. Some of the crew were pointing and yelling at a dark wave creeping across the stage from the wings. From my weird angle it looked like army ants, but it was moving too fast. I ran up for a better view, and gawked. Marbles—hundreds of them—were rolling over the stage floor. When they reached the Rollerbladers—

“Watch out!” I shouted, but it was too late.

Vito was the first to fall, then Trudi. Rachel desperately grabbed hold of the curtain cord as her legs slipped out from under her. She went down, pulling the curtain shut, and cutting the rest of us off from the mayhem onstage.

“What’s going on?” demanded Mr. Fogelman.

The sound was like machine-gun fire as the marbles rolled off the edge of the stage, and dropped to the hardwood floor of the gym.

Owen Quick stopped the tape. “Man, middle school’s
changed
!”

I leaped up to the stage and searched the curtain for the opening, bursting through just in time to see Nathaniel Spitzner take a spill. His pudgy stomach landed on enough marbles to propel him forward along the floor. He rolled right past the main set, offstage, and straight into Old Shep’s doghouse.

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t the kind of booby trap you could set up in advance! You’d have to dump those marbles right in the stage entrance. Which meant that the culprit was still around!

I bolted for the door.

“Don’t you dare sneak away from this!” Rachel cried.

But I was a man on a mission. I was going to get this guy if I had to tear the school apart brick by brick.

The halls were deserted, and then I caught sight of the jam-packed cafeteria. The pep rally! Number one Giants fan Dylan Turner was right by the door.

“Hey, Dylan!” I cried. “Did you see anybody coming out of the gym?”

But the runt took one look at me heading in the direction of the rally, and put two and two together. He freaked.
“Hey, look, it’s Wallace Wallace! He’s back!”

I scanned the cafeteria. Half the school was there. Worse, all my suspects—the entire Giants team—were at the very front, right by a door that was ten feet from the stage entrance. Any one of them could have dumped the marbles, and waltzed into the rally three seconds later. It was another dead end.

I sighed with resignation. At least it wasn’t my problem anymore. I was back on the team.

I savored the cheers as I jogged to the front. I had to squeeze out of this pep rally an entire month of football I’d been robbed of. And when I caught sight of the stricken look on Cavanaugh’s face, I really played it up. It was almost like a lie, but I couldn’t resist. I did the whole hero gig—throwing my arms up in the air, signaling the V for victory, riling the crowd. And yet—

I wasn’t quite as happy as I expected to be. First of all, I could hear the handful of boos and moosecalls underneath the cheers as I took my place among the other Giants. Second, except for Rick and Feather, my teammates had treated me like garbage this past couple of weeks. Even now, Kevin wore a nasty sneer as I exchanged high fives with some of the players. And as for Cavanaugh, well, with friends like him, who needs Dracula?

Even worse, one of these guys was guilty of the attacks on the play. I mean, talk about poor sportsmanship! The Giants could take a lesson in classiness from the drama nerds. They treated me like gold even when I was walking out the gym door. Now, thanks to me, Fogelman was back in charge, and the play was headed straight down the toilet.

It was too bad, really. The cast and crew deserved a success. They’d earned my loyalty a whole lot more than the Giants had.

Coach Wrigley waved his arms, and the cafeteria quieted down. “Wallace, what a surprise,” he greeted me. “Have you come here to tell us something?”

“Yeah, Coach.” I faced the crowd. “As of today my detention is officially over—”

A roar of approval rocked the cafeteria. Rick and Feather were slapping each other on the back so hard I thought they’d need X-rays to check for internal injuries.

Finally, the room calmed down, and I went on. “So I’m quitting the team to go back and work on
Old Shep, My Pal.
”

What?!
Did
I
say that?

An enormous gasp sucked all the air out of the cafeteria. For an instant, I was at the center of attention, surrounded by total silence. But I was the most shocked guy in the place. If somebody had told me I was going to do that, I would have bet him a million dollars he was crazy. It definitely wasn’t my brain talking. Those words had come straight from my gut.

One thing decided it for me. Wallace Wallace never lied. I said it so I must have meant it. “That’s all,” I finished, and headed for the door.

As I marched out, I heard Rick Falconi behind me. “I’m hitting the fan! I’m totally hitting the fan!”

They caught up with me about halfway home—Rick and Feather, I mean.

If Rick had hit the fan back in the cafeteria, by now he was going through the jet engine of a 747. “Are you
crazy
, Wallace?” he howled, his face purple.

Feather was a little more in control, but you could see he was pretty upset. “I don’t get it,” he told me. “I thought you wanted this. I thought you
liked
being on the team.”

“It’s nothing against you,” I said honestly, “but most of the Giants haven’t been the best of friends lately.”

“Who listens to Cavanaugh?” Rick moaned.

“It’s not just Cavanaugh,” I insisted. “But these drama people really stood by me, even when it looked like I was trying to mess up their play.”

“But it’s only a play!” Feather wailed. “A bunch of guys in goofy costumes saying fake things! How can you compare that to football?”

“I can’t,” I admitted. “A play is completely different. But it’s just as good in its own way.”

“It’s not fair,” Feather complained. “I ate all that celery for nothing!”

“This is a joke, right?” Rick pleaded. “A really cruel, sick, unfunny joke?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, hating to hurt my two closest friends. “But I’m not coming back to the team.”

Rick turned very white, then very red. “I am never going to forgive you, man! This is the
end
between you and me! I refuse to be friends with a Benedict Omelette like you!”

Feather pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket, ripped it open dramatically, and dumped out three stalks of celery. With the heel of his sneaker, he ground them into the dirt.

The two of them stormed away.

I felt like Benedict Omelette.

Enter…
TRUDI DAVIS

I
can’t believe I ever thought Mrs. McConville was cool. She was, like, so 1990s! When I suggested the library should cancel its subscription to
Teen Dazzle
magazine and switch to
Cosmo
, she got all bent out of shape.

“But you love
Teen Dazzle
!”

“It’s so juvenile,” I complained. “Who cares about friendship rings and glitter makeup? I need hardcore advice on my love life.”

She got really pale. “Love life?”

“That’s just it! I don’t have one. And I
need
one. That’s where
Cosmo
comes in. They’ve got an article called ‘Get Your Man to Notice You.’ I’d buy it myself, but I’m broke. I’ve decided to go auburn, and Rascal Red is the most expensive hair color on the market.”

Rascal Red! What a scam that turned out to be! When I got out of the shower and showed Rachel, she said, “You look like somebody dumped a pot of chili on your head.”

I looked in the mirror. She was right! This was getting totally serious. It would take weeks for the stuff to wash out! By then, Wallace Wallace could have another girlfriend.

I tried everything. New jeans; a frosted lipstick; heels so high Coach Wrigley recruited me for girls’ basketball; sexy perfume. Nada. Wallace didn’t notice a thing, except maybe the perfume—he was allergic to it. No refunds, either, especially when the bottle is half empty.

It was frustrating in the extreme. Now that the word was out that Wallace had quit the Giants to work on
Old Shep, My Pal
, the whole school was, like, suddenly interested in our play. There were so many kids nosing around that Mr. Fogelman had to close the rehearsals to spectators. So every day, there I was, locked in the gym with Wallace for a whole hour, and I still couldn’t attract his attention! Not even with my clip-on belly-button ring. How pathetic is that?

The cast and crew banded together and agreed that we wouldn’t talk about the play outside of rehearsals.

“And whatever you do,” added Wallace, “don’t say anything to Porker Zit. By the time he gets through with it,
Old Shep, My Pal
will be an underwater Norwegian ballet, starring Navy frogmen and tap-dancing eels.”

Wasn’t he adorable? What a sense of humor! And smart, too. Sure enough, Parker bounced from cast member to cast member, trying to wheedle an interview. We froze him out. Even me, and you know how I love to talk—especially when I’ve got some inside info.

There was only one teeny little slipup, but I’m pretty positive I got away with it. I sure hope what happened afterward wasn’t my fault.

Here’s how it went down: Parker spotted Wallace helping the Dead Mangoes carry some amplifiers into the gym. He cornered me in the parking lot.

“It’s a musical, right? And Wallace Wallace is a singer?”

I laughed. “Don’t be stupid. My sweetie couldn’t even carry a tune.”

He stiffened like a pointer. “
Sweetie?
Are you Wallace’s girlfriend?”

Well, who could blame me? I was getting nowhere with Wallace, and this was my chance to be his girlfriend, even if it was only for the, like, half a second it would take to say yes.

So I said it.

Was that so terrible?

The Bedford Middle School Weekly Standard

Loverboy Football Hero
Follows His Heart,
Quits Team to Join Girlfriend in
Old Shep, My Pal

by Parker Schmidt, Staff Reporter

He did it all for love.

This reporter has finally discovered the truth behind Wallace Wallace’s absence from the Giants. The gridiron superstar has been carrying on a secret romance with seventh-grade actress Trudi Davis, who will be appearing as Tori Lamont in the upcoming drama club production of
Old Shep, My Pal.

Miss Davis didn’t say whether she would be working with Wallace to pull his English grade up from an incomplete.…

Enter…
RACHEL TURNER

“Honest, Rachel, it isn’t my fault!” Trudi defended herself on the phone. “Parker’s psycho! He made it all up! I had nothing to do with it!”

“Oh, sure!” I was so mad, I almost chewed the receiver. “Every time Wallace sticks out his foot, you’re beating off the competition to be the first to fall to your knees and kiss it. I know you, Trudi. You love these rumors, even if you have to spread them yourself.”

“Parker blew everything out of proportion!” she insisted. “I never said that stuff about how Wallace’s loneliness during football practice was eating him up inside—although it
is
a very sweet thought—”

“I’m not the one you have to explain it to,” I told her. “Your so-called
sweetie
must be ready to kill you by now.”

“I’ve already called Wallace and straightened out the whole wacky business.”

“And he wasn’t mad?” That didn’t sound like the kind and understanding (not) Wallace that I knew.

“Well, actually, he wasn’t home,” Trudi confessed. “But I explained everything on his answering machine.”

“He’s probably burning the tape right now—” I began.

Crash!

I lifted the blinds. A stream of garbage was sailing down into the yard from the window next to mine.

“Trudi, I’ll call you back!” I slammed down the receiver and shouted, “Dylan, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept hurling stuff.

I burst in the door of Dylan’s chamber of horrors. Through the hanging spiderwebs and mummy bandages I could see the pile of stuff by the window, waiting to be flung. It was all his lovingly collected football memorabilia—his framed pictures and mementos of Wallace’s big touchdown, his Giants helmet and jersey, his pennants, T-shirts, his miniature of the county championship trophy, and even his dried-up square of turf from the end zone where the Giants won it all last year.