Text copyright © 2017 by Sara Pennypacker
Illustrations copyright © 2017 Marla Frazee
Cover illustrations © 2017 Marla Frazee
A special thank-you to Daniel Shintaku for hand-writing our endpapers
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN: 978-1-4847-8577-5
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author and Illustrator
To Caleb, for plugging me back into science.
—S. P.
To grokking.
—M. F.
One look at Baxter’s face, and Waylon knew. “Dumpster Eddy was picked up again.”
Baxter nodded miserably. He stamped slush off his boots and stepped inside Waylon’s front hall. “About an hour ago. In a Dumpster behind Pizza Palace.”
“Is he okay?”
Baxter nodded again—this time with a little smile. “I was hanging out with my dad in the police station when they brought him in. He practically wagged his tail right off! It took me ten minutes to calm him down enough so I could dig the pepperoni out of his ears.” Baxter sniffed the air. “What’s cooking?”
“Vindaloo,” Waylon answered, pulling his coat off the hook. “Let’s go see Eddy.”
Baxter sniffed again. “Is it good? It smells good.”
Vindaloo was good. So good that Waylon made an exception from his No Spicy Foods! rule for it. But he didn’t tell Baxter this. “Let’s go,” he said instead, shooting his arms into his coat sleeves.
Baxter leaned into the kitchen. “Hi, Mr. Z. That smells great.”
Waylon’s dad saluted Baxter with his spoon and went back to stirring. Just then, a timer buzzed. Mr. Zakowski dropped the spoon and tore into his writing studio.
“What’s with him?” Baxter asked.
“He’s a little nuts these days. He’s waiting to hear if he sold his screenplay. He cooks nonstop, except every fifteen minutes, when he checks his email. He says that if he didn’t set a timer, he’d check his email every three seconds, and he’d never get anything done.” Waylon pulled on his gloves. “Come on. I want to see my—our—dog before they close up.”
Baxter took a last longing sniff before letting Waylon drag him to the door. They ran the whole twelve blocks to the police station, never mind the ice and slush. Well, Waylon ran, and Baxter kept up.
But just before they reached the station, Waylon drew up short. He pointed to the sign above him. “This Pizza Palace?” he panted.
“They nabbed him here?”
Baxter doubled over, hands on his knees. “Yep. This. Pizza. Palace,” he puffed.
“But it’s so—”
“Close. To the station. I know.”
“And last time, they got him behind Rosie’s Bakery. Which is…”
Baxter nodded. “Only two blocks from the station. The other direction.”
Waylon looked at Baxter. He could tell Baxter was thinking the same thing he was. They took off even faster than before, ran up the steps to the police station, and spilled into the lobby.
When the dispatcher caught sight of them, she pulled out a ring of keys. “You two look like you need to see a dog right away.” She chuckled as she unlocked the big door next to her desk.
Waylon and Baxter flew in. Midway down the hall of cages, a scrappy brown dog began barking in a higher pitch than the rest. Baxter stepped away—he always seemed to know when Waylon needed alone time with Eddy—and Waylon lifted the latch on the door. Eddy flew into his arms and knocked him over.
Waylon laughed as he let Eddy lick his whole face, every square inch. Dumpster Eddy was a thorough dog. When Waylon could finally sit up, he put Eddy in his lap and shook his finger. “What were you thinking? How come you don’t run far away when we bust you out of here?”
Baxter dropped down beside Waylon. He gave Eddy a head scratch, and Eddy gave him a chin slobber in return. “Maybe he doesn’t know where he is.”
Waylon shook his head. All the science in him (which was a lot—Waylon was as science-y as Dumpster Eddy was thorough) rejected that possibility. “Dogs have great navigation skills. Scientists think they sense the earth’s magnetic fields, like a compass. No, Eddy knows just where he is.”
“Well, then, maybe he wants to get caught. Sometimes criminals who have spent a long time in prison don’t feel comfortable on the outside anymore. When they get released, they commit another crime to get back in.”
Waylon thought it over. Baxter was an expert in all things criminal, so maybe he had a point.
But finally he said no. “He loves to run too much,” Waylon explained. “He hates being locked up.”
“Hey, why don’t you try that grokking thing,” Baxter said. “Find out why he’s letting himself get caught.”
If anyone else had said Try that grokking thing, Waylon would have worried he was being made fun of. But Baxter wasn’t doing that. Baxter understood: grokking was a science fiction term that meant to connect with something so totally that you practically merged with it, and Baxter knew that Waylon and Eddy grokked each other.
Waylon placed his hands on Eddy’s head in mind-meld position and gazed deeply into his eyes. What he found there at the center of Eddy’s soul hit him hard.
“What?” Baxter asked. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s our fault! Yours and mine. Eddy’s letting himself get caught, so he can be with us.”
Just then, the Animal Control officer came in through the back door, dragging a sack of kibble. “Got to kick you out, boys,” she called, rubbing her back. “Visiting hours are over.”
“A few more minutes, Meg?” Waylon tried.
“Not tonight. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do. Sorry.”
Waylon gave Eddy a final hug, and then he and Baxter left. Once outside, they drew up their hoods. Sleet needled through cones of light spilling from the streetlamps.
“So, that’s why he busted out of Desmond’s garage,” Waylon said as they turned onto the street. “It was so far away, we couldn’t visit him every day.”
Baxter nodded. Desmond was the guy who washed the windows at Waylon’s condo. He had taken Eddy for them in November, but Eddy had escaped after just a week. “Nothing I could do, boys,” the window washer had said. “That dog’s a runner.” Which Baxter and Waylon already knew, of course.
Dumpster Eddy had been in and out of the stray animals’ lockup since September. It was always the same pattern: for ten days, Eddy lived in the lockup. Waylon and Baxter took turns taking him out for walks before and after school and on weekends. For those ten days, Eddy’s life was the best they could make it.
The problem came on the eleventh day.
After ten days, Meg sent unclaimed strays off to whichever shelter in Massachusetts had room.
>
Eddy wasn’t the kind of dog that would get adopted from a shelter. Cute little puppies got chosen. Eddy, it had to be admitted, was homely. Plus, anyone could see he had the itch to run. What happened to dogs that didn’t get adopted was so terrible neither boy ever said it out loud.
So, by the eleventh day, they had no choice but to smuggle Eddy out of the lockup. Whenever they could, they hid him somewhere, but he never stayed long before bolting. When they didn’t have a place to stash him, they simply had to let him run free. They were always torn between relief and terror as he streaked out of sight.
Sooner or later, a call would come in about a dog scavenging in a Dumpster, and the police would go pick him up. It wasn’t hard to capture him—Eddy always sprang joyfully into the cruiser, grinning as if to say What took you so long?
“We need a place nearby this time,” Baxter said. “He won’t run if we visit him every day.”
Waylon nodded. There was nothing else to say. Waylon’s mom was allergic to dogs, and Baxter’s apartment was No Pets. They’d asked everyone they knew, but since Desmond, no one had wanted to take in a dog for them. The boys walked on in silence until Waylon’s building loomed over them.
Baxter sniffed up toward the fourth floor. “I can smell that vindaloo stuff from here,” he claimed.
Waylon turned away from the hopeful look on Baxter’s face. He kicked at a chunk of ice. “What are we going to do? About Eddy?”
Baxter shrugged. “Same as always, I guess. Bust him out ten days from now. Hope he can take care of himself until he’s caught again.”
They watched the sleet freeze onto the sidewalk. Waylon shivered. Baxter tightened his hood. The last time they’d freed Eddy, it had been a sunny December afternoon, so warm they’d peeled off their jackets. Over the last few weeks, though, winter had hit hard.
Waylon climbed the front steps to his condo. “Ten days. We have until next Thursday to figure it out.”
Wednesday morning, Waylon got to school early and stationed himself at the Pit to wait for Baxter.
The Pit was the alcove of lockers where the fourth graders kept their stuff. Arlo Brody, king of the fourth grade, had named it the Pit on the first day of school. Since he was Arlo Brody, king of the fourth grade, the name had stuck, even though the place was nothing like a pit of any kind—peach, barbecue, or arm.
In the Pit, for the first time in their school careers, the fourth graders had fifteen minutes of No-Teachers-Around time. Fifteen minutes between when the school doors opened and the Get-In-The-Classroom bell rang.
Everything important that happened in school happened in the Pit. Friendships were born and died. Secrets were whispered, jokes were spread, and lunches were swapped and stolen.
And plans were made.
Waylon silently practiced what he’d say when Baxter got there. I know it’s your day, he’d begin, but can I come with you to see Eddy? Dumpster Eddy had been gone over two weeks this last time, and Waylon had missed him more than ever. He’d barely slept last night, his Eddy-ache had been so bad.
Charlie came in and started unloading his stuff into the locker beside Waylon’s. And Waylon remembered something that Dumpster Eddy’s return had totally wiped from his mind. Waylon pulled a blue notebook from his backpack and handed it over. “Cosmo-Quest, Volume One: ‘Pluto Landing.’ I finished it yesterday.”
Charlie took the notebook and bowed. “Time for my comedic genius!”
Waylon and Charlie had been brainstorming their comic book all year. The story line—Astronaut Char-Lon voyages around the solar system with his pet monkey, Asteroid—would provide plenty of hilarious astrophysical adventures.
Waylon had never told Charlie this, but he was planning on sending a copy of Cosmo-Quest to Neil deGrasse Tyson. Neil deGrasse Tyson was the greatest living scientist in the world. Neil deGrasse Tyson would appreciate a comic about astrophysics. Maybe he’d even make it a regular feature on his web page.
Waylon had spent the past week researching the science for the first chapter. Now it was time for Charlie to insert some jokes and do the drawings. Charlie wasn’t so great at drawing comics, it was true, but he sure was funny. Neil deGrasse Tyson seemed like a guy who would like a good laugh.
Charlie slid the notebook into his own backpack as the first bell sounded. “Supposed to snow tonight. If school’s canceled, I’ll work on it all day,” he promised as he went into the classroom.
Baxter walked in then. Waylon slammed his locker shut and hurried over.
“Any ideas?” Baxter asked. “About where we can put Eddy?”
“No,” Waylon admitted. “But about him.…Can I ask a favor?”
Baxter peeled off his gloves. “Sure.”
Waylon steeled himself. But before he could speak, the second bell rang. Mrs. Fernman stuck her head into the hall and waved them in.
The favor would have to wait until lunch.
But when the noon bell rang, Mrs. Fernman sent Waylon to run some papers to the science room. There, Mrs. Resnick asked him if he had any ideas for projects to enter in the Science Fair in April. Waylon told her his top-ten possibilities, but he kept stealing glances at the clock. Lunch period was only twenty-five minutes long.
When he finally got to the cafeteria, he looked all around. He filled his tray and slid into a seat beside his friend Clementine. “Where’s Baxter?” he asked her. Clementine knew everything that went on at school.
“Principal’s office. Mrs. Rice pulled him out of the line. Something about guts in her briefcase. Sounds like an awesome prank. Were they human?”
Waylon popped open his milk container. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Clementine asked. “He didn’t tell you?”
Waylon sized up the items on his plate. When he was younger, he used to make his food do battle before he ate it. Now, he only analyzed which stuff would win. The mashed potatoes could take the chicken nuggets any day, he decided. They were thick enough to wall off the peas, wait out any siege. “It’s not like we’re friends,” he answered, without looking up.
Clementine dropped her fork. “You are so friends with him. You did that thing with that dog in September, and since then, I’ve seen you leave school with him lots of times.”
Waylon shook his head. “It’s still about that dog. Whenever he’s locked up, we take care of him—but separately. I get Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Baxter gets Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But he goes to the station whenever his dad’s on duty, so on my days, we’re walking there at the same time is all.”
“Nope,” Clementine said. “I’ve seen you. You guys do friend-walking.”
“What do you mean? What’s friend-walking?”
Clementine reached for Waylon’s spoon. She placed it beside her own, with their bowls leaning in toward each other. “Friend-walking.” Then she moved the bowls apart so the spoons made a V. “Not-friend-walking. See?”
Waylon didn’t answer.
“So, you walk like friends. Are you just pretending?”
“I’m not pretending. I like Baxter, but…”
“What?”
“Well…haven’t you noticed he knows an awful lot about criminal stuff? He checks Encyclopedia of Crime out of the library every week. He’s memorized the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. He’s visited the scene of every bank robbery in Boston!”
Clementine shrugged. “So what?”
“So, he makes me feel a little…” Waylon peered around. He didn’t mind telling something like this to Clementine, because she never made fun of him. But some of the boys might. “Nervous.”
Clementine lifted a single shoulder, as if shrugging was too much effort for something so unimportant. “I make lots of my friends nervous. They’re still my friends.”
“Really? You don’t make me nervous.” Waylon stopped to think. It was true that Clementine spent a lot of time in the principal’s office. Not as much as Baxter, but a lot. Still, he’d known her since kindergarten, and he knew she never d
id anything really bad. “Who do you make nervous?”
“You know Mitchell’s sister, Margaret?” Clementine asked, twirling a carrot stick. “When they first moved into our building, she was a wreck whenever I was around. She used to fake heart attacks when our parents made us play together. She’d get so pale, her mother would check for a pulse. She’s my friend, though. Ask her.”
“Margaret doesn’t count,” Waylon said. “She gets nervous around dust. Who else?”
Clementine turned to the girl sitting on her other side. “Maria, do I make you nervous?”
“Sure,” Maria said. “You’re a trouble magnet. I’m afraid some of that trouble’s going to splatter onto me.”
“But you’re still my friend, right?”
Maria sucked on her milk straw and nodded.
“And does my trouble splatter onto you?”
Maria sucked on her milk straw and shook her head.
Clementine turned to Waylon. “If Baxter’s criminal stuff makes you nervous, don’t do any criminal stuff.”
Waylon went back to his lunch. Clementine might know everything that was going on at school, but she didn’t have a clue about what was going on in his life.
Finally, after school, Waylon got a minute with Baxter in the Pit. He drew a steadying breath. “I know it’s your day,” he began, “but could I come with you to see Eddy? I won’t—”
“Sure.”
“You can hold the leash. I won’t even…Wait. Did you say ‘sure’?”
Baxter nodded. “It’s good, actually. Now Eddy won’t be lonely when the chief calls me into his office.”
Waylon took a step back. Being called into a police chief’s office sounded as ominous as being called into a principal’s office. Then he relaxed. The important thing was, Baxter truly didn’t seem to mind that Waylon was butting in on his Eddy day.
Still, once they were inside the lockup, Waylon held back to let Baxter open Eddy’s cage.
Except Baxter didn’t. He rattled the handle. He shook it hard. “It’s locked. Why is it locked?” he yelled. “It’s not supposed to be locked!”
Waylon! Even More Awesome, Volume 2 Page 1