No More Dead Dogs (2 page)

If there was one thing Cavanaugh had more of than hair, it was sarcasm.

“I’m not the best player,” I told Rick.

“Yes, you are,” Rick countered.

“I scored one touchdown all year,” I insisted.

“Well, Jackass Jackass,” my ex–best friend reminded me, “one is a pretty big number for a guy who spent the whole season on the bench.”

“One is all it takes,” Rick pointed out, “when it comes with three seconds to go in the county championship.”

Okay, that part was true. Actually, I was only on the field as a blocker. But Rick panicked, and handed off too high, stuffing the ball into my ex–best friend’s face, jamming it between the mouth guard and the visor. Poor Cavanaugh never saw the two linebackers who sandwiched him. The ball popped out. It sailed over the heads of both teams, and blooped into the end zone.

“It was a total fluke,” I insisted. “Anybody could’ve jumped on that ball.”

“But
you
did,” Rick told me. “And we won the championship.”

They just didn’t get it. It would have been great to be a football titan if it was the
truth.
But to act like an all-star when I was really a pretty mediocre player—that was almost as bad as lying.

I didn’t give in. “Why does that make
me
the hero? Why not Cavanaugh’s face, or even you, Rick? Without that bonehead handoff, we probably would have lost.”

“Hey, man,” Rick said angrily. “Deep, deep down, a tiny little part of my brain sensed that I needed to do that. It was, you know, subhuman.”

“You mean subconscious,” I supplied.

“Whatever.”

At that moment, Feather sprinted up, with two of the defensive backs hot on his heels. “What’s going on?” he panted. “Did Wallace get hurt?”

“He’s fine,” Cavanaugh assured him. My ex–best friend sounded disappointed.

In a way, I couldn’t blame him. I was getting all this credit for being the best player, which is what Cavanaugh really
was.
He was an explosive receiver with great hands, he ran like a deer, and he could cover any position on defense. He was even the kicker, so good field position, extra points, and field goals all came from him. He ate right and worked out like a maniac. As team captain he had every reason to expect to be admired.

I didn’t blame him for hating me; I blamed him for being a total jerk about everything else.

“Uh-oh,” Feather said suddenly. “Quit goofing off. Here comes my dad.”

His father, Coach Wrigley, jogged up, blowing sharp blasts on his whistle. “Wait a minute, Wallace! What are you doing here?”

The coach always called us by our last names, which in my case made no difference. “Short passes, Coach.”

“Not today,” said Wrigley. “You’re supposed to be on detention right now.”

I gazed over the coach’s shoulder. There, at the edge of the field, stood Mr. Fogelman.

“Detention?”
repeated Rick. “But our first game is tomorrow.”

“He should have thought of that before opening up his big mouth to Mr. Fogelman,” growled Coach Wrigley.

“I’m ready for tomorrow,” I assured Rick.

My ex–best friend reached out and patted the seat of my pants with his helmet. “I agree. Your butt is in perfect shape. Get ready to sit on the bench for another grueling season.”

Rick was not consoled. “But I wanted to practice the flea-flicker! Check it out: You take the handoff, toss it back to me, and I hit Cavanaugh with a fifty-yard bomb!”

I had to laugh. “You couldn’t throw a ball fifty yards if you swallowed a booster rocket off the space shuttle.”

The coach rolled his eyes. “There’s that famous honesty that makes people love you so much, Wallace.”

“Well, how about an extra workout tonight?” Rick persisted.

“Can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to paint the garage door.”

“Can’t you get out of it?” wheedled the quarterback.

I dug in my heels. “It’s just me and my mom. If I don’t do it, who will? Unless”—I popped a sly grin—“you guys want to come and help.”

“Not me!” chorused everybody.

“Come on,” I coaxed. “Last year it took ten minutes.”

“Because you bamboozled half the team into painting with you,” Cavanaugh pointed out.

“Not bamboozled,” I said. “The guys all knew what they were getting into.”

“Great,” complained Rick. “First you’re on detention, and now we have to paint your stupid garage door if we want to have a flea-flicker. It’s the icing on the gravy!”

I should probably explain about Rick-isms. Our quarterback had a way with words—the wrong ones. He could take two perfectly normal expressions and wind them together like a pretzel.
The icing on the gravy
was probably supposed to be
the icing on the cake,
but Rick got mixed up with the idea that something extra could be described as
gravy.

I had them hooked, so I reeled them in. “Come by right after practice,” I invited. “I bought extra brushes for the whole offense.”

There were groans of resignation from the team.

Coach Wrigley waved to Fogelman on the sidelines. “All right, he’s coming.” He turned to me. “Get out of here, Wallace. Go serve your time.”

Enter…
RACHEL TURNER

It was a long letter. I told her everything—about how I knew that acting was going to be my real career. Ever since my third-grade play,
Land of the Butterflies.
All the other kids rushed off the stage screaming when Justin Kidd, the gypsy moth, threw up all over his cardboard wings (gross). I alone held my place among the giant construction-paper flowers, hugging my caterpillar costume tight and holding my breath until I passed out. Even at eight years old, I was the only one who understood—the show must go on! I’m sure Julia knew exactly what I was talking about.

Okay, I realized that Julia probably wasn’t going to read this personally. When I write to movie stars, all I ever get back is an autographed picture or a postcard, or whatever they send to their fans. It just felt good to be communicating with Julia Roberts—you know, actress to actress.

“Ow!”

Trudi Davis elbowed me in the ribs. My pen clattered to the gym floor, but I held on to all four pages of Julia’s letter and jammed it into my book bag.

“Look,” Trudi whispered. “Know who that is?”

Mr. Fogelman, the director of our play, had just come in.

“Not him!” Trudi hissed. “
Him!
The kid toweling off his hair.”

I shrugged. “Some eighth grader. Why? Should I know him?”

“That’s Wallace Wallace,” Trudi whispered.

“It can’t be,” I said sarcastically. “Where are his bodyguards?” No offense to the football hero (I’d never even met him). But if you weren’t sick of hearing about last year’s championship yet, you obviously didn’t live in Bedford.

Trudi ignored my humor. “He’s
hot.
”

I rolled my eyes. “Every time you’re about to make an idiot out of yourself over some guy, it usually starts with the words ‘He’s hot.’ That’s warning sign number one.”

“Well, he is!” she insisted. “Look!”

And actually, Trudi had a point. I’d always thought football players were neckless wonders with muscles that went all the way up to the tops of their heads. But Wallace was almost slim, and really good-looking in a boy-next-door kind of way.

“His hair’s too short,” I murmured just to prove nobody’s perfect.

“Too long,” Trudi corrected. “When you’re clipped that close, you should probably buzz it all off and go for the bald look. A lot of athletes do that.”

That’s when it dawned on me. “This is fantastic. I’ll bet the whole school will come out for the performance when we spread the word that Wallace Wallace is working with us.”

“Don’t count on it,” warned Trudi. “Cool guys never go in for drama. If you want to act, you better do it for pure art, because guy-wise, it’s the Doofus Patrol. See?” she added as Nathaniel Spitzner walked up to us.

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.”