by Trudi Trueit
12:22 p.m.: Scab called me Izzy again. I told him not to do it anymore. I don’t think he will forget.
THIS CONCLUDES SCAB NEWS FOR TODAY. Isabelle Catherine McNally reporting.
P.S.: Mom and Dad, I need to talk to you about something REALLY important!
My sister picks up her backpack. Calm as anything she says, “And for the millionth time, Scab, my name is Isabelle.”
Everybody watches my sister stroll out of the cafeteria.
Lewis watches a sesame-seed bun slip-slide down his shirt.
Hello, Isabelle. Off wiener sand, Lewis.
CHAPTER
13
Scab’s Lab, Part 2
Freedom!” Doyle yells into the phone.
“Freedom,” I yell back. As of today, my lab is no longer off-limits. I’m an inventor once again. Sweet!
“So what are you working on?”
I look at my drawings. “I’m inventing a minicannon that shoots gumdrops. You catch them in your mouth. I call it Pilobolus Candy-obolus.”
“Cool!”
“You want to help me build it?”
“Sure, unless you have to go.”
“Go?”
“Uh . . . didn’t you . . . uh . . . say you were going somewhere?”
“No.”
“Oh, then yeah, okay, I’ll come over.”
“Scaaaaaaaab!” That would be my sister. Isabelle must have found the dead grasshoppers I put in her jewelry box. They’ve been there for two hours. It’s part of my experiment to see how long it takes your sister to find dead insects in her jewelry box. She’s getting much better at finding my experiments.
“Isabelle’s coming,” I tell Doyle. “When you get here, I’ll be in the cave—”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“Maybe you’re . . . uh . . . not in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, maybe Isabelle wants you for . . . you know, another reason.”
What he is talking about?
“What are you talking about?”
“N-nothing.”
Oh, it’s something, all right. I can tell by his voice it’s something.
“Doyle, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
Yes, he does.
“And even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you.”
Doyle is trying to keep a secret. Lucky for me, my best friend can’t keep a secret.
“Does this have something to do with my birthday?” I press.
“I . . . uh . . . I gotta go.”
It does!
“Scaaaaaaab!” Isabelle’s in the hall. I’ve got exactly three seconds to pry this secret out of my buddy.
“Come on, Doyle. You’ve got to tell me—”
“I . . . I . . . can’t. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll never live it down with the guys. No matter what happens, no matter what she says or how she begs, you’ve got to promise—”
“What?”
“Spit-swear you won’t—”
“What?”
“No pink collar! Okay? Do you promise? Uh . . . Scab, are you there? Scab?”