No More Dead Dogs (18 page)

“That’s okay,” he mumbled, and turned his back on me. He sure didn’t sound like the Wallace I knew (who would stick out that iron jaw and tell the king of the world what he thought of him). It made me really sad to think that Wallace would rather choke down a dry taco than be forced to look at me.

I followed him to an open table. “I have to talk to you.”

“No.” He pushed away his taco. “
I
have to talk to
you.
Listen, Rachel. I lied.”

“I know,” I said soothingly. “Dylan’s serving hard time in his chamber of horrors.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I never lie. It just doesn’t happen—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted.

“I don’t know what came over me. I mean, what was I thinking? I guess—well, Old Shep blew up, and you were so upset—”

I scooped up a spoonful of salsa from my mountain and dumped it on his taco. “It was sweet,” I told him. “Really sweet.”

His response to that was to eat his lunch. (Oh, Julia, why couldn’t your letter have come just a little bit sooner? Why couldn’t my rotten brother have given it to me when it arrived? Thanks to the Ooze of the Month Club, I had chased this guy away forever!)

Then he said, “Now that the play’s over, maybe we could get together sometime. You know, if you want.”

I always figured that the first time a guy asked me out, the words would resound like thunderclaps, deep and romantic (or at least
different
). But no, it was Wallace’s usual voice, his here’s-the-truth, take-it-or-leave-it style.

Did I want to get together with Wallace? Was Julia Roberts an actress? (Definitely.)

And then it hit me.

“There’s a problem,” I admitted. “What about Trudi? We’ve been friends since third grade. And, well, you’ve probably noticed that she totally loves you. You and me hanging out—do you think she could handle it?”

At that moment, Trudi marched into the cafeteria with that mop-topped friend of Wallace’s, Steve Cavanaugh.

“Hey, Rachel!” Dragging Steve behind her, she rushed over and sat down at our table, depositing him on the bench beside her.

“Nice lunch,” the big football player remarked to me. “I see you’ve got the salsa food group pretty much covered.”

Trudi guffawed like a braying donkey. I’d heard that (un)magical sound before. Trudi didn’t laugh with her mouth; she laughed with her hormones. My friend had locked her homing mechanism on another guy.

Wallace had a piece of advice for his former teammate. “If you see her talking to Parker, leave town.”

Steve eased himself a little farther down the bench from where Trudi was plastered up against him. “I hear Hong Kong is nice this time of year.”

“Isn’t he hot?” Trudi whispered to me. “And we have so much in common! I would
kill
for his hair!” She ruffled the blond mop-top. “Hey, I’m going to rent
Demolition Ninja Bombers
to watch after school. Who wants to come?”

All at once, Wallace and I were grinning at each other. (Julia Roberts, you’re a wise woman.)

“We’re in,” I agreed.

The mop-top looked uncertain.

Wallace sighed. “Come on, Steve. It’s just like
Old Shep, My Pal.
Everything blows up at the end.”

Steve clasped his hands together in mock joy. “Oh, Doofus Doofus, really? Wally and Stevie, together again! It’ll be just like the good old days. Plus I hear you’re coming back to the Giants on Saturday. We’ve kept your spot on the bench all nice and warm for you.”

Wallace just smiled (I said it before; nice teeth for a football player).

“I’ll take that spot any day of the week,” he replied. “It’s exactly where I want to be.”

I know the truth when I hear it.

Gordon Korman is the author of more than seventy popular young adult and middle grade novels, including
The Juvie Three
;
Schooled
;
Born to Rock
;
Son of the Mob
;
Son of the Mob: Hollywood Hustle
;
Jake, Reinvented
;
No More Dead Dogs
; and
The 6th Grade Nickname Game
.

Gordon lives with his family on Long Island, New York. Visit his Web site at
www.gordonkorman.com
.