Showoff

by Gordon Korman

  “Knowing I can leave again,” the big Russian replied, deadpan. “Dmitri still despises the dog show.”

  The reporter stared at him but came back gamely. “Tell us about the dog. We’re all curious about Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic.”

  “He has four legs and a tail,” Dmitri offered blandly. “He does not play the harpsichord. He has never been to Pakistan.”

  Emma had been moving closer to Griffin and Ben in the hope of being introduced to their famous handler. This brought Jasmine and Luthor face-to-face. They seemed to be pleased to meet again, and touched noses in a familiar and affectionate way. When Luthor showed signs of becoming a little love-struck, the pinkie finger came up to call him back to his duty.

  The schedule was nearly identical to the Long Island show, but the day could not have been more different. Dmitri was in control, which took some of the pressure off of Griffin and Ben. For his part, Dmitri didn’t seem to feel any pressure at all. While other owners and handlers primped and brushed their dogs, he lay in the dirt and grass of the benching area, reading to Luthor from an ancient copy of Lassie Come-Home. The Doberman was paying rapt attention, peering over his trainer’s shoulder as if following along.

  At last, the announcement came. Dobermans — open class. Dmitri carefully marked his place by folding the corner of the page, and led his pupil to ring two. Although the other handlers were dressed conservatively in black and muted shades, Dmitri resembled a commune leader at the height of the 1960s, resplendent in DayGlo orange. Yes, the strategy was to fade into the background and highlight the dog — unless the handler happened to be the immortal Dmitri Trebezhov.

  Griffin felt the familiar buzz of nervous electricity that always came when a plan reached a make-or-break moment. If Luthor could not pass this first test, Operation Doggie Rehab would crash and burn. Everything was hanging on the next few minutes.

  Ben nudged Griffin. “Uh-oh, look who’s here. Mr. Mustache.”

  There, talking to the judge a mile a minute, was the man with the long waxed mustache. Schroeder, his Doberman, was at his side. The judge, an older woman, was taking it all in, nodding.

  She approached Dmitri. “Mr. Trebezhov, it’s an honor to meet you. There seems to be some concern that the size of your dog might indicate a mixed breed.”

  Dmitri bristled. “Look at him. He is an exact copy of the others. There is not a single feature that differs from them.”

  “Except his size,” she persisted, “which might indicate Great Dane or even mastiff. According to the breed standard —”

  “When a dog is too large, this will show itself in other ways. His proportions will be off, also his gait. Perhaps his hocks will meet the ground at an incorrect angle. He will not stack properly. But if he is perfect in every way, it is the breed standard that is lacking — not the dog.”

  The wisdom of this — and the fact that it had come from Dmitri himself — seemed to satisfy the judge. She nodded briskly and called the handlers into the ring.

  “Think Luthor can do it?” Ben whispered anxiously.

  Griffin shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s one thing to run up the Empire State Building, but I don’t see any skyscrapers around. The only way to win here is with dog show stuff. And I didn’t see Luthor practice much of that.”

  Yet as the dogs began to circle the ring, Griffin had a vision of the Doberman navigating the mob scene on the floor of the stock exchange. When they were called upon to stack, he remembered Luthor at the beach, not flinching even when an ice-cold wave washed over him. And when the judge began the physical examination that had knocked Luthor out of the last show, Griffin pictured the dog at the airport, unperturbed even as large jets roared in overhead.

  Luthor aced everything. But, to Griffin’s untrained eye, so did the others. It was all in the judge’s hands now. Would the accusations from Mr. Mustache manage to plant just enough suspicion in the judge’s mind to keep Luthor out of the winner’s circle?

  The answer came immediately, but Griffin wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

  “Number fourteen, number three, number eleven, number five.” There was polite applause.

  Ben frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Griffin caught sight of the number on Dmitri’s armband: 14.

  “We won,” he whispered. Relief flooded over him, and he struggled to keep his emotions under control. All this meant was that Luthor would move on to compete for Best of Breed. Without a victory at that level, he would not qualify for Global.

  “Well, what do you know,” Ben blurted. “Luthor’s the real deal!”

  “And Dmitri,” Griffin added.

  Dmitri was unimpressed by the victory. “This was kindergarten. My brother should win this with one paw tied behind his back.”

  Two chapters of Lassie Come-Home later, the Doberman was back in action, this time vying for Best of Breed. Decisions had come quickly in the open class, but this judge was taking forever. His physical inspection was so slow and thorough that Griffin was positive Luthor was going to turn and bite the official’s head off. Only the mystical power of Dmitri’s pinkie kept his pupil still and focused.

  “Come on, dude, don’t make a science out of it,” Ben murmured under his breath, exhorting the judge. “Grab one pooch’s butt, you’ve grabbed them all.”

  Ferret Face, sensing the tension, whined softly.

  The waiting did not end there. The dogs circled the ring endlessly as the deliberate man marched around, examining them from several different angles.

  For Griffin, it was pure torture. This was the competition that really counted. A Best of Breed win would catapult Luthor to Global. Anything less — even second place — would send him home. That meant the pound, and a terrible fate.

  Hurry up!

  19

  The judge stepped back. He had reached his decision. His arm came up, his pointer finger panning the Dobermans.

  Griffin shut his eyes.

  The finger stopped, trained on Luthor. “Number fourteen —”

  Other numbers followed, but Griffin didn’t hear any of them. He was already leaping over the fence, punching the air, and cheering at the top of his lungs. Ben was right behind, and if his celebration was a little more restrained, it was only for the sake of Ferret Face, who didn’t like noise.

  “Luthor — you did it, man!” Griffin was about to throw his arms around the newly crowned Best of Breed, when Dmitri stepped in front of him.

  “You embarrass yourself,” he said sternly. “And you embarrass my brother.”

  But Luthor didn’t look embarrassed. He looked vaguely pleased with himself. He knew he’d won something.

  “So what happens now?” asked Ben. “Maybe we should pull him out — you know, quit while we’re ahead.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Griffin agreed. “Like resting your starters when you’ve got a big lead. We’ve already got what we came for. Winning another round doesn’t do any good. It could only hurt us if Luthor goes berserk and gets banned from competition.”

  “You do not interrupt da Vinci while he is painting the Mona Lisa,” Dmitri proclaimed. “Nor do you replace a pitcher after eight innings of a perfect game. And you do not stand between a dog and his destiny.”

  “But this isn’t his destiny,” Griffin argued. “The Global show is. Shouldn’t we save him for that?”

  “Never ration greatness,” the handler lectured. “It is bigger than you. It is even bigger than Dmitri.”

  Back in the benching area, Emma was packing away her poodle’s latest Best of Breed ribbon in a velvet box containing many others. Spying the boys, she said, “You guys are still here? I thought you’d be chasing your dog down the Garden State Parkway by now.”

  “That shows what you know,” Ben retorted. “Luthor just won Best of Breed, so we’ll be hanging around for a while. We might be hanging around longer than you.”

  Griffin shot Ben a dirty look and beamed at Emma. “Congratulations on Jas
mine’s win. I guess we’ll be seeing you at Global.”

  She cleared her throat in annoyance. “If you’re going to be Global, we have to set some ground rules. Jazzy and I have worked too hard to have a big galoot like Luthor come along and get her thinking about romance instead of ribbons.”

  “We don’t want Luthor getting distracted, either,” Griffin agreed. “Let’s talk about it. It’s lunch break anyway. Care for a sandwich?”

  Ben stared openmouthed.

  “Oh — no, thanks,” Emma said quickly. “I should eat with my mom.” She looked around hopefully. Mrs. Hightower was nowhere to be seen.

  Griffin held out a roll piled high with corned beef. “We’ve got plenty.”

  She made a face. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  While Emma dug through piles of hair products for the cooler that contained her lunch, Ben snatched the sandwich out of Griffin’s hands.

  “ ‘We’ve got plenty!’ ” he mimicked savagely. “That was my food you gave away!”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “You tried to! If your girlfriend ate meat, I’d be begging puppy chow from the cocker spaniels!”

  “She’s not my girlfriend!” Griffin hissed.

  “You want her to be. Why else would you be kissing up to her when she treats you like garbage? What’s the deal with that, Griffin? How does she fit into Operation Doggie Rehab?”

  “It can’t hurt to get along with the other owners and handlers —”

  Ben cut him off. “There are no bonus points for making friends in the dog show! I’ve known you all my life. This is the first time I’ve ever seen The Man With The Plan take his eyes off the ball —”

  Emma put an end to their argument when she sat down beside them on the grass, a large Tupperware of salad balanced on her lap. “Where are Luthor and Mr. Trebezhov?”

  Griffin took a bite of his own sandwich. “They’re at some trattoria in town. Dmitri’s got a thing about dog shows and pasta. Did you figure out where your mom is?”

  “I saw her on the other side of the campus with Mercedes Devlin. She does nothing but bad-mouth that woman, but she never passes up a chance to hang out with her.” Emma grinned. “Probably looking for an opening to kick Xerxes down a storm drain.”

  “Is Xerxes really that good?” Griffin asked.

  She shrugged. “He is. But my Jazzy is better. The problem is once the judges see a dog as number one, it’s almost impossible to break into that spot. Xerxes spent years in Electra’s shadow. I’m just worried that the same thing is going to happen to Jazzy — always second place behind Xerxes.” The poodle came up beside her, nuzzling her neck and chin. “Don’t listen to me, girl. Today will be our day. I can feel it!”

  “I can feel it, too,” added Griffin. Now that Luthor had qualified for Global, he could afford to be generous.

  She smiled timidly. “What’s it like to work with Dmitri Trebezhov? He’s a legend, but he has a reputation for being kind of odd.”

  “He’s a total wack job,” Griffin said honestly. “And definitely the president of his own fan club. But when it comes to dogs, he rocks. You wouldn’t believe the kind of training he does. It’s pretty off the chain.”

  Ben finished his sandwich and stood up. “I hope nobody minds if I go to the bathroom,” he announced, miffed at being completely ignored. When Griffin didn’t even turn in his direction, he added, “By the way, Dmitri called. Luthor was struck by a falling satellite. He’s got a solar panel sticking out of one ear, and that’s not in the breed standard.”

  “Yeah, great,” Griffin said absently. He had Emma’s attention. Nothing else seemed as important as that.

  Soon the bell rang to end the lunch break and call the dogs and handlers to the next event — the group competition.

  As the top Doberman, Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic was in the “working” group, which included guard dogs, sled dogs, hunting and fishing companions, and rescue dogs. They made a motley assortment as they took their places beside pedestals marked with their breeds. There was everything from the short-haired, all-business Rottweiler to the fuzzy, web-footed Newfoundland. There was a strange creature called a komondor that resembled a lamb with dreadlocks. The Great Dane and Neapolitan mastiff dwarfed even Luthor.

  The handler of the giant schnauzer looked more like a bank president, perfectly groomed with a Hollywood hairdo and a four-thousand-dollar suit. He took in Dmitri’s bright orange poncho. “I see your sense of style hasn’t changed.”

  “Only one dog, Nigel?” Dmitri returned. “You are usually not without three or four.”

  “Try seven,” Nigel informed him. “I have assistants handling the others. Business is good.”

  “I am delighted that you have gained so much from Dmitri’s retirement,” the big Russian said graciously.

  The perfectly coiffed man flushed. “We’re equals here. Two handlers at group.”

  Dmitri nodded. “With one exception. I am Dmitri. And you are not.”

  Griffin and Ben leaned over the gate. “Who’s that guy? He doesn’t like you very much.”

  Dmitri dismissed the question. “He is nobody. If he has had any success, it is because he handles so many dogs that one of them is bound to win by sheer random chance.”

  If the judging had been confusing in the early rounds, here at group it was a total mystery.

  “I sort of understand how you pick the best Doberman,” Ben wondered aloud. “But how do you compare Luthor to a sled dog or that sheep thing? It’s like trying to decide what’s better — a bowling ball or toilet paper.”

  Griffin was reading the show brochure. “According to this, you pick the dog who matches his own breed standard better than the other dogs match theirs. Anyway, it doesn’t matter who wins this. We’ve already qualified for Global.”

  Yet as soon as Dmitri led Luthor out into the ring, they just knew. Every step, every motion of his head, his gait, his carriage, the movement of his muscles underneath his shiny coat — all perfection. And when the judge announced that the winner was the Doberman, they were happy, but unsurprised. Dmitri had used the word destiny. That seemed to be exactly what was unfolding here.

  There was only one more competition scheduled that day. More than nine hundred dogs had entered the Mid-Atlantic show. Now only seven remained. The group winners gathered in the center ring. It was time to determine which animal would take home the top prize.

  Best in Show.

  20

  It had all come down to this supercharged moment.

  Luthor represented the working group. From the terriers, there was an Airedale with a coat as lustrous as gold leaf; from the sporting group, a fiery red Irish setter; from herding, a Welsh corgi whose short stature did nothing to diminish a regal bearing; from the hounds, a sleek, aero-dynamically perfect greyhound handled by none other than Dmitri’s well-dressed rival, Nigel Diamond; from non-sporting, Jasmine, white and immaculate, Emma at her side; and from the toy group, Xerxes, now the number-one dog in the world. It was the cream of the canine crop. The fact that Luthor had gone from the Cedarville pound to here in a matter of weeks would have been ridiculous if it hadn’t been so remarkable.

  To Griffin, it was the plan, working out in all its glory.

  There was a tense delay, as everyone waited for the judge to arrive. It was dog show tradition that the person who decided Best in Show came in totally cold. At last she was there, shorter than the Great Dane, squatter than the dachshund, with an expression that would not have been out of place on the face of the bloodhound.

  It started again: stacking, gaiting, physical examination. It was the same old same old, yet the moment seemed bigger somehow. All eyes were riveted on the competitors. The silence was total, the crowd holding its collective breath. Even Ferret Face ventured far enough out of Ben’s shirt to watch the drama unfold.

  “Any idea who’s winning?” Ben whispered.

  Griffin shrugged. The judge seemed to be paying the most attention to Xerxes and Jasmin
e, her sharp eyes alternating between the Yorkie and the poodle. Emma’s words came back to him: Today will be our day. For her sake, he hoped so.

  And then the verdict came down. The woman spun on her heel in an about-face and pointed at Luthor. “The Doberman.”

  Griffin swayed dangerously, coming closer to fainting than he’d ever come before. The buzz of surprise nearly drowned out the applause, and a chorus of yes, buts:

  “Yes, but he’s a total unknown …”

  “Yes, but his handler is Trebezhov …”

  “Yes, but he’s huge for his breed …”

  “Yes, but he’s in perfect proportion …”

  Everyone seemed to have an opinion, but only one mattered — the judge’s. Luthor, the world’s most oversized underdog, had won Best in Show.

  It took Ben to haul Griffin over the fence so they could rush the ring. The Doberman seemed pleased but a little bewildered by all the attention.

  “Dmitri — you did it!” Ben cheered.

  The big Russian looked as if he had lost his only friend. “Dmitri has turned this noble animal into a preening robot. I should be shot.”

  Cameras flashed as Luthor was draped with an enormous blue ribbon. Reporters shouted questions, but the winning handler wouldn’t answer any of them.

  “Go away,” he told them. “Dmitri hates himself. Don’t make me hate you, too.”

  The press quoted him word for word. The inimitable Dmitri Trebezhov was back.

  The benching area had mostly cleared out by the time the triumphant Team Spritz-o-matic returned to collect their belongings.

  Emma was packing up cartons of hairspray and sheen.

  “Great show, Emma!” Griffin congratulated. “I really thought Jasmine was going to win it all today.”

  “You jerk!” she hissed.

  Griffin was taken aback.

  Her eyes fairly shot sparks. “Jazzy and I have worked and slaved for years to get where we are today! You wouldn’t know a dog from a wildebeest, and you drop out of the sky with that big, stupid Doberman and hire the best trainer in history so nobody else has a chance! You’re nothing but a selfish, clueless, rich doofus!” And she hefted her boxes and stormed off.