No More Dead Dogs (15 page)

Determined to set things right, I showed up at football practice the next day, waving the scrimmage shirt like a battle flag.

“Of course I’ve seen it before,” said Feather Wrigley. “Everybody has.”

“Where?” I asked excitedly.

“On Wallace,” the big guy explained. “See? His name’s on it.”

“I can read!” I informed him. “But did you notice anybody else with it?”

Suddenly, the other Giants thundered down the practice field, and Feather went right along with them. That really burned me up! Just because he was a football player didn’t mean it was okay for him to treat me like I didn’t exist.

Incensed, I ran after that rude slob, planning to give him a piece of my mind. “Excuse me!” I called ahead. “Hey, I was talking to you!”

Without slowing, he turned his head. He seemed shocked to find me matching him stride for stride. “Get off the field!” he yelled.

“You conceited jock!” I panted. “I’m the president of the drama club—”

“Look out!” he shouted, pointing behind me.

I turned my head just in time to see a football screaming at me like a guided missile. Blindly, I threw my arms up to protect my face. I felt the pass thump into my hands. The force of the catch knocked me over, and I slid across the turf into the end zone, the ball clutched tightly to my heart.

There were three sharp whistle blasts, and Coach Wrigley ran onto the field, cheering. “Great catch! That’s exactly how I want you to execute—” His eyes fell on me, and he stopped in his tracks.

Rick Falconi galloped down the field, dancing with excitement. “Sign that skinny kid up!” he cheered. “Who is he? Who made the grab?”

“The president of the drama club,” Feather supplied.

“Aw, man!” cried Rick. “How come they get all the best players?”

I stood and brushed at the grass stains on my sweater. This wasn’t how I’d planned it, but I had the attention of the entire team. “One of you had Wallace Wallace’s scrimmage shirt from last year,” I said. “Who was it?”

“What are you, the laundry police?” the coach asked in disbelief.

I stood my ground. “It’s really important. Wallace is in trouble.”

From the chorus of disgusted snorts, I got the idea that Wallace was about as popular with this crowd as he was with the cast and crew of
Old Shep, My Pal.

“You’re that chick from the paper!” Rick accused me. “Wallace’s girlfriend!”

“You’re thinking of Trudi Davis,” I defended myself. “And she’s not his girlfriend either.”

The coach sighed. “Wallace is a big boy. He can look after himself. Now get out of my practice.” He added, “Unless you want to put in some quick weight training, and we can start you at wide receiver on Saturday.”

“I’ve got the play that night,” I replied. But I guess it wasn’t a serious offer because everybody laughed at me.

A few of those rotten Giants were stomping Wallace’s scrimmage shirt into the wet grass, but they scattered when they saw me coming. I picked up the muddy jersey, shaking off the clumps of turf.

“Nice catch back there, kid.”

I wheeled. A lone player was watching me. He pulled off his helmet, and long blond hair spilled out onto his shoulder pads. It was the mop-top (Cavanaugh) from leaf-raking day.

I held up the shirt. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Why should I help Dummy Dummy?”

“Hey, lay off Wallace!” I snapped. “You’re just jealous because he’s a better football player than you!”

“Better?” he snorted. “He stinks.”

“You’re crazy!” I stormed. “Everybody knows Wallace got the touchdown that won the championship!”

“And that’s all he got!” Mop-top snapped back at me. “One touchdown and fifty thousand splinters in his butt from sitting on the bench!”

(Huh?)

Mop-top raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. You’re his
real
girlfriend, aren’t you?”

I felt a red-hot flash of anger. “I don’t even
like
Wallace Wallace! Next to you, he’s the biggest jerk I’ve ever met! For all I know, he really did shred those scripts and do all that other stuff!”

He shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask him?” I echoed. “He’ll just say no!”

Suddenly, this big football player was laughing so hard that, even through all those pads, his entire body was shaking.

I was enraged. “What’s so funny?”

“You—you don’t know Dummy Dummy at all, do you?” he guffawed.

“What are you talking about?”

All that long blond hair disappeared as Cavanaugh put his helmet back on. “Wallace Wallace is a million percent honest. He wouldn’t tell a lie to save his own mother from bloodthirsty cannibals.” He jogged back out onto the field.

I ran after him. “Hey! How do you know so much?”

He faced me once more. “Wallace Wallace was the best friend I ever had.”

(Run that by me again?)

I peered in through his face guard, searching for that sarcastic sneer. But it wasn’t there.

Enter…
TRUDI DAVIS

I
sent Parker Schmidt six E-mails to make sure he got it right: I was not now, nor had I ever been, Wallace’s girlfriend. Or even, like, somebody who could stand to be in the same room with that creep.

Cosmo
says that the breakup of a long-term love affair is the most traumatic time in a single woman’s life. I think that means bad.
Cosmo
isn’t always clear about stuff like that. The point is, I was stressed out. And opening night is the worst time for it to happen, because that’s extra stress.

Even Rachel was nervous, and she was the best actress in school. When she noticed I wasn’t using the regular theatrical makeup, she practically inhaled the mirror on the dressing table backstage.

“What are you smearing on your eyes? The curtain goes up in two hours!”

I spread my eye shadow with my pinkie. “It’s called Heavenly Heliotrope. Love it?”

“You look like a raccoon!” she growled.

“I need to call attention to my eyes,” I explained, “so that even the people in the back row can see they’re hazel.”

Stage fright makes Rachel crabby. “They’re brown,” she informed me. “Dog-poop brown.”

The two of us got up and peeked through the curtain. Fifteen rows of chairs stretched back from the stage, all the way to the basketball bleachers. They were empty now, but in two hours—

Rachel turned to Leticia, who was practicing her veterinarian’s rap under her breath. “How many tickets did we sell?”

“All of them,” she replied. “Seven hundred and fourteen.”

I gulped. “Maybe I need a little more Heavenly Heliotrope.”

“Don’t you dare!” snapped Rachel. “You’re supposed to be Tori Lamont, not a burglar with a purple mask!”

Vito was nervously spinning the wheels of his Rollerblades, which were hanging over his shoulder. “I’d feel a lot better if—”

“Don’t say it!” I cut him off.

“Why not?” he demanded. “Everybody’s thinking it. We have a great play, and we owe it to him.”

All around me, cast members, set designers, stagehands, lighting guys—they were nodding! Some of them even
clapped
!

“Oh, puh
-lease
!” I exploded. “Am I the only one who remembers that Wallace Wallace is worse than slime? Think about the pepper bomb! The marbles! The pancake syrup! Think about ‘Old Shep, Dead Mutt’! Think about what happened four days ago! He turned our scripts into confetti and walked out on us without another word!”

I was marching back to the mirror for more Heavenly Heliotrope when I heard Rachel murmur, “Not true. He
did
say something. He said, ‘Old Shep shouldn’t die.’”

“Big joke!” I snorted, digging a chunk of purple makeup out of my eye. “He’s a regular comedian.”

“I think I know what Wallace meant,” Vito said, nodding. “Somewhere around third grade, every kid in every school has to read a book where the dog dies. Don’t you remember the first time you went home crying on the bus over Old Yeller or Irish Red?”

“It was Bristle Face,” said Joey tragically. “He never lived to see the words
The End.
I felt like mine shaft, underwater cave, center of the earth, low.”

“Wallace is right,” Everton said positively. “We have the chance to save one dog. Let’s take it.”

I thought I was going to croak or something! “You’re
considering
this?”

Rachel’s gaze traveled from face to face around the stage. “You know, it never made sense that a football player could come in straight off the field and instantly see all the things that were wrong with our production. But every time we did what he said, the play got better. And every time we didn’t, the play bogged down.” She looked scared. “We’ve got one last piece of his advice. Do we follow it?”

“Sure we do!” crowed Joey. “We’ll rewrite the words to ‘Farewell, Old Pal.’ Maybe ‘Shep beat the odds’ or ‘Shep is okay!’”

“What about Mr. Fogelman?” asked Nathaniel. “He’ll say no for sure.”

“We don’t even have to tell him!” Joey enthused. “The music won’t be different, just the words!”

Well, what was I supposed to do—quit? Rachel was the drama expert, not me. I just tried out for the play to meet guys. If she thought we should do this, then so did I.

A chant started from the crew.
“No more dead dogs! No more dead dogs!…”

We had a show of hands.

Enter…
WALLACE WALLACE

T
his had gone on long enough! I mean, last year everyone and his grandmother lined up to tell me how wonderful I was. Now the team hated me and the drama club hated me. Around school I was the double traitor who had been dumped by Trudi Davis. I was as popular as a skunk at an outdoor wedding.

There was only one way out of this mess. I had to go back to the people who were my friends before I was a hero
or
a villain. I would call up Rick and Feather and try to convince them to forgive me.

“Hi, Mrs. Falconi. Is Rick around? It’s Wallace…” I almost dropped the phone. “He’s
where
?! Are you sure? Okay, thanks anyway. Bye.”

I hung up in disbelief. Why was Rick going to see
Old Shep, My Pal
? I mean, sure, the performance was a hot ticket at Bedford Middle School, what with all the hoopla over Parker’s articles. But Rick was
furious
at the play. He blamed it for the Giants’ terrible season.

Maybe Feather could explain it.

“Hi, Mrs. Wrigley, it’s Wallace. Could I please speak to Feather?…
Really?
Him too?…”

Now Feather was a drama fan all of a sudden? I put down the phone, head spinning. Through the kitchen window, I saw a good hair day bobbing down the street. Cavanaugh was on his way to school and
Old Shep, My Pal
! It didn’t make sense. None of these guys had ever sat through a play in their lives. In fact, any one of them could be the person who had attacked the production and framed me.

My heart began to pound. If somebody hated the play enough to shred scripts and vandalize sets, the performance itself would be the sweetest target of all. It was a chance to ruin
Old Shep, My Pal
in front of seven hundred people! I had to get over there and stop it!

My hand was already on the doorknob when I froze. What did I care if the play got trashed? I wasn’t part of it anymore. Come to think of it, I was banned from the performance. I’d get in trouble if Fogelman caught me anywhere near
Old Shep, My Pal.

I thought about the dozens of hours working shoulder to shoulder in the gym; the entire cast and crew raking leaves in my yard; people like Laszlo and Rory and the Dead Mangoes, who weren’t even drama nerds but who had dedicated themselves heart and soul to the play. They had written me off, but I refused to do the same to them. Maybe no one else in this town understood loyalty, but I did.

I was going to crash a play.

The parking lot looked like the freeway at rush hour, and cars lined the street in both directions. There was no chance of sneaking in the gym entrance; I was bound to be recognized in that mob scene. Luckily, the custodian’s door was unlocked, and I was able to slip inside, snake my way through the connected storerooms, and let myself into the school hall.

Wouldn’t you know it. Who should be standing not five feet from the door but Rachel Turner?

“Wallace, are you crazy?” she hissed. “You’re not allowed to be here! What if Mr. Fogelman sees you?”

“Shhh!” I put a finger to my lips. “I think there’s going to be an attack on the play tonight.”

She was horrified. “How do you know?”

“A lot of the Giants are here,” I said. “They’re not exactly the world’s biggest drama fans.”

“We have to warn Mr. Fogelman!” she exclaimed.

“No!” I ordered firmly. “And don’t tell the others either. They’ll panic and ruin everything. Just keep your eyes open. I’ll try to find a good lookout spot.”

She seemed a little uncertain, but I think she trusted me. She ran off, and I slipped into Coach Wrigley’s office, which also opened into the gym.

I cracked the door about an inch and peered out. The place was jam-packed—students, brothers and sisters, parents, members of the community, and even some high school kids who were Dead Mangoes fans. It seemed like the whole world was there—from the stone-faced Giants to the smiling Dr. Chechik. From little fifth graders like Dylan Turner to the president of the school board.