No More Dead Dogs (16 page)

I tried to memorize the location of my former teammates so I could keep an eye on them during the performance. I spotted Cavanaugh a few seats down from Dylan, but the lights were already dimming before I found Rick and Feather way back in the ninth row of bleachers.

Mr. Fogelman and the Dead Mangoes took their places on the small band platform to the right of the stage. Joey screamed, “One, two, three, four!” and the group exploded into their opening number.

It was louder than anybody expected—and better. From my hiding place, it looked like half the kids in the audience were waving their hands in the air, grooving with the music. For a moment, you could almost forget that this was a school play, not a rock-and-roll show. Then the curtain slowly rose on Scene One of
Old Shep, My Pal.

There were oohs and aahs from the crowd as they watched the Rollerbladers and the moving dog. Naturally, they were focused on Rory, who was even more spectacular than usual with his dogcatcher’s net. But I knew the guy to keep an eye on was Spitzner. The spider mite had never survived a single rehearsal without a couple of humongous wipeouts. I realized in surprise that I was actually rooting for him to make it. Oh, sure, he was a loudmouth and a crybaby and all that. But you had to admire the way he was risking his life on Rollerblades when he had the athletic ability of belly-button lint.

The roar of the moped shook the gym like a volcanic eruption. There were screams from the bleachers as Laszlo shot onstage and ran over Old Shep. It was a hundred times more amazing than I remembered it. The stuffed dog went flying, Nathaniel stayed on his feet, Laszlo rode into the wings, and Rory scooped up the remote-control car with his net. Clockwork precision. Awesome.

The audience leaped to its feet in a standing ovation. Mr. Fogelman brought the Dead Mangoes to a crashing finish, and Vito skated over to the fallen Old Shep, and bellowed the very first line of the play: “Check it out!”

What a feeling! Every time one of the Lamonts spoke a piece of my dialogue, it was like scoring that touchdown all over again. When I heard the audience cheering, the excitement took hold of me in my gut. I used to roll my eyes when Rachel talked about the exhilaration of opening night, but now I understood 100 percent!

She was good, too. It drove me nuts when Rachel put on that “Little Miss Actress” attitude, but tonight she was showing that she was more than just a great-looking girl. Come to think of it, everybody was
on.
The Dead Mangoes were
kicking
! Fogelman’s hands were just a blur as he pounded his keyboard. The Old Shep dancers were a hit, too. When they came out to back up the Lamont kids for the first big number—“Puppy Chow Blues”—the audience clapped and stomped along with the beat of the music. There were a few anxious moments when a triumphant Vito slapped Spitzner on the back, which sent him rolling slowly forward toward the edge of the stage. But a split second before he went over, one of the dancers managed to grab him by the shirt. She whipped him around, and sent him careening into the wings. Luckily, the Void’s thunderous drum solo covered up most of the crash.

None of the Giants had left their seats yet. I kept a special eye on Kevin Wilkerson, who was shifting around in his chair. He could be waiting for his chance to make a move. Rick was fidgety as well. But some of the guys were actually getting into the play—applauding and cheering with the rest of the audience. Amazingly, Cavanaugh seemed to be one of them, but that was probably an act. My ex–best friend could be Mr. Happy while plotting the end of the world. Now
there
was a guy who belonged in drama. His whole life was an award-winning performance.

I was so wrapped up in the guys and the play that I almost missed the click behind me. I spun around. There, by the opposite door, stood Coach Wrigley. The jig was up.

I smiled weakly. “Great play, huh, Coach?”

He glared at me. “You’re not supposed to be here, Wallace.”

“Don’t kick me out,” I pleaded. “You can put me back on detention starting Monday, but I really need to see this.”

“Ever heard of school rules?”

I admit it. I was sweating. “I can explain—”

I fell silent while he looked me over. Finally, he said, “I don’t want an explanation, I want some of that famous honesty. Should I be worried about what you’re doing here tonight?”

“It’s cool, Coach. You can trust me.”

“I hope so,” he growled. “Or your next appearance at practice will be as the tackling dummy.” And with that he left me to my spying.

Good old Coach Wrigley! I hurried back to my post at the door to check on the suspects. It was a madhouse out there. The Dead Mangoes had swung into their second big song, “Shep’s the Man (Even Though He’s a Dog),” and the entire audience was dancing. Onstage, the Lamont family was singing, the thunderstorm was raging, and the Old Shep dancers were riling the crowd. A lot of the kids were actually standing on their chairs, punching the air in time to the heavy beat. Anxiously, I searched the riot for the Giants. There was Cavanaugh; Kevin; Feather, and right beside him—my breath caught in my throat. Rick’s seat was empty.

In desperation, I scoured the dancing, seething mass of humanity that covered the bleachers. The quarterback was nowhere to be found. I was just beginning to feel cold panic when I spotted him. He had made his way to the end of the row, and was climbing down the side of the bleachers. He dropped to the gym floor, unnoticed by the partying crowd.

I ran to the other door and opened it a crack. Rick slipped out of the auditorium and headed down the hall. I waited for him to turn right, then ran to the corner. There was a banging sound and muted curses.

I peered around the corner, and smiled in spite of myself. A couple of times every year, Rick always forgot his locker combination. Usually, the custodian had to come to cut off the lock with a hacksaw.

“Aw, great! Why tonight?” he muttered, twisting and yanking. By sheer luck, he hit upon the right number, and the lock came off. He threw open the vented door and rummaged through his stuff, coming up with a small rectangular object.

I squinted. What was that thing? Images flashed through my mind like somebody was channel-surfing with a remote hooked up to my brain. I pictured our cast, holding their noses and running from a stink bomb on the stage. Or jumping around and scratching because a container of itching powder had been dumped into the vent and blown over everybody. The vision changed. Now the actors were bumping into each other in the darkness. That box was some kind of electric gizmo that shorted out the lights.

Rick shut his locker and headed back toward me. I still couldn’t identify what was in his hand, but it was now or never. If I let him pass, he’d be three steps from the stage door. I had to stop him.

When he rounded the corner, I pounced, jerking whatever it was out of his hand. Without even looking at it, I hurled it with all my might down the hall.

Rick gawked in amazement and then outrage. “Are you crazy, Wallace?”

“You’ve got nothing to say, Rick!” I seethed. “I know you’re upset about me and the Giants, but that doesn’t give you the right to declare war on the play! You busted up rehearsals, terrorized the cast—”

“Wait a minute!” he cried in shock. “You think all that was
me
?!”

Angrily, I pointed down the hall. “Then what were you doing with that—that—
thing
?”

Rick grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me over to where the mysterious object lay broken on the terrazzo floor. It was a small Kodak box camera, the kind you throw out after one roll of film.

I looked at him in confusion. “A camera?”

He glowered at me. “I was
going
to take a couple of pictures for my good friend Wallace who wasn’t allowed to be here tonight. I thought maybe it would help patch things up between us if I gave them to you as a present, since you’re
persona nongratitude
at the play.”

“But—you hate me!” I managed.

“I hate what you
did
, not you!” he stormed. “You jerk! How could you think I’d be rotten enough to do all that stuff to the play?”

I shrugged apologetically. “I knew it had to be a Giant—”

“How come?”

“You’re the ones with a gripe against
Old Shep, My Pal
,” I explained. “Plus, I got framed with an old scrimmage shirt. Who else could have had one besides a Giant?”

“Millions of people,” Rick argued. “After the championship last year, anything with your name on it was an instant souvenir. All those screaming kids—they cleaned you out!”

“Wait a minute!” I said excitedly. “That celebration in the locker room—Coach Wrigley has the whole thing on videotape!”

Joey Quick’s mournful guitar solo wailed in through the crack in the door as we rifled through the boxes of VHS cassettes in Coach Wrigley’s office.

“Hey,” Rick commented, pulling another carton from under the desk. “What happened to all that great music? It’s getting, you know, depressing.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s supposed to. We’re getting near the end of the play. Old Shep dies pretty soon.”

“Old Shep
dies
?” He looked shocked. “What’s the point of having a whole story about a dog if he’s only going to die?”

I rolled my eyes. “If someone had said that to Zack Paris fifty years ago, we both wouldn’t be here right now. Jackpot,” I added, pulling out a tape marked
POSTGAME CELEB. NOV.
’99.

I popped the cassette into the VCR and hit
play.
Last year’s celebration appeared on the monitor, trembled, and stabilized.

The video brought it all back to me—a crazy, happy afternoon. I was already soaked with Gatorade by the time my teammates carried me into the locker room. Players were shaking bottles of soda and spraying them in all directions. Then came the parents, puffed up with pride, and finally the kids, our nutty fans, out of their minds with happiness. We had the volume off, but my memory provided the sound—a never-ending shriek of joy, punctuated by chants of “Way to go!” and “Number one!”

I could see Rick’s face growing long and tragic as he stared glumly at the screen. I put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Rick. It was a football game, not world peace.”

He grimaced. “It was world peace to me! But you don’t even care!”

“That’s not true. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But it’s
over
! We can’t live in the past.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. It just kills me that I’ll never again get to see the—the gloriosity of you sailing through the air to save the nick of time.”

I slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, Rick. You’ll see plenty of gloriosity in your life.”

Suddenly, Rick pointed at the screen. “Stop the tape!”

I dove at the VCR and hit
pause.
We both knelt in front of the TV. In the frozen flickering picture, Feather held the championship trophy over his head. Below his elbow, in the background, was my open locker. A small hand was reaching inside and pulling out—yes!—my scrimmage shirt.

“Who is it?” asked Rick.

It was impossible to see because Kevin had just launched an entire barrel of Gatorade at Feather. The mass of orange liquid exploded out of the bucket and was captured on our screen—completely blocking the thief’s face.

“Watch carefully,” I ordered, and pushed
play.

Sploosh!
The Gatorade hit Feather full in the chest, and the party raged on.

I stared at the TV. “Can you see him?”

Rick shook his head. “Too many people in the way.”

Determinedly, I backed up the tape. This time, I played it in super slo-mo. Now the Gatorade bomb seemed to crawl out of the bucket. We concentrated hard as it floated toward Feather like a balloon.

“There’s the hand!” exclaimed Rick.

But the culprit’s face was still blocked by the big glob of orange. He pulled my jersey out of the locker, and turned to rejoin the celebration where he’d disappear into the mob.

“Show your face!” I breathed at the hidden bandit.

At that moment, the Gatorade reached Feather. In slow motion, the big mass turned to millions of tiny droplets shooting out in all directions.

“There he is!” cried Rick.

I punched
pause.
Through the freeze-frame orange spray, I could just make out the face of the thief, the guy who set me up, the enemy of the play.

Oh, boy.

The stage entrance was locked for the performance. With a sense of deep purpose, I pounded and kicked at it until Laszlo swung the door wide.

He clapped me on both shoulders and shook my hand. “Wallace! You came!” Then he saw Rick, and his grin disappeared. “Hold it—”

I stepped in the door before he could slam it on us. “Don’t let anybody else backstage!” I ordered.

“But, Wallace—”

Rick and I ran off into the wings, leaving Laszlo gaping after us.

Rick stumbled and went down. I dropped to my knees to see what had tripped him up. It was the basket that was home to the injured Old Shep. I gazed out onto the stage. Leticia, the veterinarian, had just begun her rap.

I frowned. The dog was supposed to be dead—in the basket—onstage. What was the basket doing here? Where was Old Shep? More important, where was
he
?

Desperately, I spun all around. There were millions of great hiding places. Curtains, equipment, and scenery provided countless nooks, crannies, and alcoves.

“It’s too dark,” Rick complained. “If he’s here, we’ll never find him.”

And as he got to his feet, a high-pitched voice cried, “Ow!”

I gawked. Underneath Rick’s sneaker was another sneaker, protruding from behind a small curtain. Rick reached around and hauled out the culprit.

Dylan Turner.

“Dylan, are you crazy?” I rasped.

“Me, crazy?” he shot right back. “I’m not the one who killed the Giants!” He shook his arm free and glared at Rick. “And I’ll bet you were in on it! You stank all season on purpose!”

“No way!” Rick defended himself. “I stank naturally!”

I tried reason. “Look, Dylan, this is
wrong
! All these guys, the actors and crew—they’ve put so much work into this play! How can you wreck it for them? For your own sister?”