No More Dead Dogs

by Gordon Korman

  “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

  This 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 scri
pts 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.

  I tried to memorize the location of my former teammates so I could keep an eye on them during the performance. I spotted Cavanaugh a few seats down from Dylan, but the lights were already dimming before I found Rick and Feather way back in the ninth row of bleachers.

  Mr. Fogelman and the Dead Mangoes took their places on the small band platform to the right of the stage. Joey screamed, “One, two, three, four!” and the group exploded into their opening number.

  It was louder than anybody expected—and better. From my hiding place, it looked like half the kids in the audience were waving their hands in the air, grooving with the music. For a moment, you could almost forget that this was a school play, not a rock-and-roll show. Then the curtain slowly rose on Scene One of Old Shep, My Pal.

  There were oohs and aahs from the crowd as they watched the Rollerbladers and the moving dog. Naturally, they were focused on Rory, who was even more spectacular than usual with his dogcatcher’s net. But I knew the guy to keep an eye on was Spitzner. The spider mite had never survived a single rehearsal without a couple of humongous wipeouts. I realized in surprise that I was actually rooting for him to make it. Oh, sure, he was a loudmouth and a crybaby and all that. But you had to admire the way he was risking his life on Rollerblades when he had the athletic ability of belly-button lint.

  The roar of the moped shook the gym like a volcanic eruption. There were screams from the bleachers as Laszlo shot onstage and ran over Old Shep. It was a hundred times more amazing than I remembered it. The stuffed dog went flying, Nathaniel stayed on his feet, Laszlo rode into the wings, and Rory scooped up the remote-control car with his net. Clockwork precision. Awesome.

  The audience leaped to its feet in a standing ovation. Mr. Fogelman brought the Dead Mangoes to a crashing finish, and Vito skated over to the fallen Old Shep, and bellowed the very first line of the play: “Check it out!”

  What a feeling! Every time one of the Lamonts spoke a piece of my dialogue, it was like scoring that touchdown all over again. When I heard the audience cheering, the excitement took hold of me in my gut. I used to roll my eyes when Rachel talked about the exhilaration of opening night, but now I understood 100 percent!

  She was good, too. It drove me nuts when Rachel put on that “Little Miss Actress” attitude, but tonight she was showing that she was more than just a great-looking girl. Come to think of it, everybody was on. The Dead Mangoes were kicking! Fogelman’s hands were just a blur as he pounded his keyboard. The Old Shep dancers were a hit, too. When they came out to back up the Lamont kids for the first big number—“Puppy Chow Blues”—the audience clapped and stomped along with the beat of the music. There were a few anxious moments when a triumphant Vito slapped Spitzner on the back, which sent him rolling slowly forward toward the edge of the stage. But a split second before he went over, one of the dancers managed to grab him by the shirt. She whipped him around, and sent him careening into the wings. Luckily, the Void’s thunderous drum solo covered up most of the crash.

  None of the Giants had left their seats yet. I kept a special eye on Kevin Wilkerson, who was shifting around in his chair. He could be waiting for his chance to make a move. Rick was fidgety as well. But some of the guys were actually getting into the play—applauding and cheering with the rest of the audience. Amazingly, Cavanaugh seemed to be one of them, but that was probably an act. My ex–best friend could be Mr. Happy while plotting the end of the world. Now there was a guy who belonged in drama. His whole life was an award-winning performance.

  I was so wrapped up in the guys and the play that I almost missed the click behind me. I spun around. There, by the opposite door, stood Coach Wrigley. The jig was up.

  I smiled weakly. “Great play, huh, Coach?”

  He glared at me. “You’re not supposed to be here, Wallace.”

  “Don’t kick me out,” I pleaded. “You can put me back on detention starting Monday, but I really need to see this.”

  “Ever heard of school rules?”

  I admit it. I was sweating. “I can explain—”

  I fell silent while he looked me over. Finally, he said, “I don’t want an explanation, I want some of that famous honesty. Should I be worried about what you’re doing here tonight?”

  “It’s cool, Coach. You can trust me.”

  “I hope so,” he growled. “Or your next appearance at practice will be as the tackling dummy.” And with that he left me to my spying.

  Good old Coach Wrigley! I hurried back to my post at the door to check on the suspects. It was a madhouse out there. The Dead Mangoes had swung into their second big song, “Shep’s the Man (Even Though He’s a Dog),” and the entire audience was dancing. Onstage, the Lamont family was singing, the thunderstorm was raging, and the Old Shep dancers were riling the crowd. A lot of the kids were actually standing on their chairs, punching the air in time to the heavy beat. Anxiously, I searched the riot for the Giants. There was Cavanaugh; Kevin; Feather, and right beside him—my breath caught in my throat. Rick’s seat was empty.

  In desperation, I scoured the dancing, seething mass of humanity that covered the bleachers. The quarterback was nowhere to be found. I was just beginning to feel cold panic when I spotted him. He had made his way to the end of the row, and was climbing down the side of the bleachers. He dropped to the gym floor, unnoticed by the partying crowd.

  I ran to the other door and opened it a crack. Rick slipped out of the auditorium and headed down the hall. I waited for him to turn right, then ran to the corner. There was a banging sound and muted curses.

  I peered around the corner, and smiled
in spite of myself. A couple of times every year, Rick always forgot his locker combination. Usually, the custodian had to come to cut off the lock with a hacksaw.

  “Aw, great! Why tonight?” he muttered, twisting and yanking. By sheer luck, he hit upon the right number, and the lock came off. He threw open the vented door and rummaged through his stuff, coming up with a small rectangular object.

  I squinted. What was that thing? Images flashed through my mind like somebody was channel-surfing with a remote hooked up to my brain. I pictured our cast, holding their noses and running from a stink bomb on the stage. Or jumping around and scratching because a container of itching powder had been dumped into the vent and blown over everybody. The vision changed. Now the actors were bumping into each other in the darkness. That box was some kind of electric gizmo that shorted out the lights.

  Rick shut his locker and headed back toward me. I still couldn’t identify what was in his hand, but it was now or never. If I let him pass, he’d be three steps from the stage door. I had to stop him.

  When he rounded the corner, I pounced, jerking whatever it was out of his hand. Without even looking at it, I hurled it with all my might down the hall.

  Rick gawked in amazement and then outrage. “Are you crazy, Wallace?”

  “You’ve got nothing to say, Rick!” I seethed. “I know you’re upset about me and the Giants, but that doesn’t give you the right to declare war on the play! You busted up rehearsals, terrorized the cast—”

  “Wait a minute!” he cried in shock. “You think all that was me?!”

  Angrily, I pointed down the hall. “Then what were you doing with that—that—thing?”

  Rick grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me over to where the mysterious object lay broken on the terrazzo floor. It was a small Kodak box camera, the kind you throw out after one roll of film.

  I looked at him in confusion. “A camera?”

  He glowered at me. “I was going to take a couple of pictures for my good friend Wallace who wasn’t allowed to be here tonight. I thought maybe it would help patch things up between us if I gave them to you as a present, since you’re persona nongratitude at the play.”