No More Dead Dogs

by Gordon Korman

  “But—you hate me!” I managed.

  “I hate what you did, not you!” he stormed. “You jerk! How could you think I’d be rotten enough to do all that stuff to the play?”

  I shrugged apologetically. “I knew it had to be a Giant—”

  “How come?”

  “You’re the ones with a gripe against Old Shep, My Pal,” I explained. “Plus, I got framed with an old scrimmage shirt. Who else could have had one besides a Giant?”

  “Millions of people,” Rick argued. “After the championship last year, anything with your name on it was an instant souvenir. All those screaming kids—they cleaned you out!”

  “Wait a minute!” I said excitedly. “That celebration in the locker room—Coach Wrigley has the whole thing on videotape!”

  Joey Quick’s mournful guitar solo wailed in through the crack in the door as we rifled through the boxes of VHS cassettes in Coach Wrigley’s office.

  “Hey,” Rick commented, pulling another carton from under the desk. “What happened to all that great music? It’s getting, you know, depressing.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s supposed to. We’re getting near the end of the play. Old Shep dies pretty soon.”

  “Old Shep dies?” He looked shocked. “What’s the point of having a whole story about a dog if he’s only going to die?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If someone had said that to Zack Paris fifty years ago, we both wouldn’t be here right now. Jackpot,” I added, pulling out a tape marked POSTGAME CELEB. NOV. ’99.

  I popped the cassette into the VCR and hit play. Last year’s celebration appeared on the monitor, trembled, and stabilized.

  The video brought it all back to me—a crazy, happy afternoon. I was already soaked with Gatorade by the time my teammates carried me into the locker room. Players were shaking bottles of soda and spraying them in all directions. Then came the parents, puffed up with pride, and finally the kids, our nutty fans, out of their minds with happiness. We had the volume off, but my memory provided the sound—a never-ending shriek of joy, punctuated by chants of “Way to go!” and “Number one!”

  I could see Rick’s face growing long and tragic as he stared glumly at the screen. I put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Rick. It was a football game, not world peace.”

  He grimaced. “It was world peace to me! But you don’t even care!”

  “That’s not true. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But it’s over! We can’t live in the past.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. It just kills me that I’ll never again get to see the—the gloriosity of you sailing through the air to save the nick of time.”

  I slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, Rick. You’ll see plenty of gloriosity in your life.”

  Suddenly, Rick pointed at the screen. “Stop the tape!”

  I dove at the VCR and hit pause. We both knelt in front of the TV. In the frozen flickering picture, Feather held the championship trophy over his head. Below his elbow, in the background, was my open locker. A small hand was reaching inside and pulling out—yes!—my scrimmage shirt.

  “Who is it?” asked Rick.

  It was impossible to see because Kevin had just launched an entire barrel of Gatorade at Feather. The mass of orange liquid exploded out of the bucket and was captured on our screen—completely blocking the thief’s face.

  “Watch carefully,” I ordered, and pushed play.

  Sploosh! The Gatorade hit Feather full in the chest, and the party raged on.

  I stared at the TV. “Can you see him?”

  Rick shook his head. “Too many people in the way.”

  Determinedly, I backed up the tape. This time, I played it in super slo-mo. Now the Gatorade bomb seemed to crawl out of the bucket. We concentrated hard as it floated toward Feather like a balloon.

  “There’s the hand!” exclaimed Rick.

  But the culprit’s face was still blocked by the big glob of orange. He pulled my jersey out of the locker, and turned to rejoin the celebration where he’d disappear into the mob.

  “Show your face!” I breathed at the hidden bandit.

  At that moment, the Gatorade reached Feather. In slow motion, the big mass turned to millions of tiny droplets shooting out in all directions.

  “There he is!” cried Rick.

  I punched pause. Through the freeze-frame orange spray, I could just make out the face of the thief, the guy who set me up, the enemy of the play.

  Oh, boy.

  The stage entrance was locked for the performance. With a sense of deep purpose, I pounded and kicked at it until Laszlo swung the door wide.

  He clapped me on both shoulders and shook my hand. “Wallace! You came!” Then he saw Rick, and his grin disappeared. “Hold it—”

  I stepped in the door before he could slam it on us. “Don’t let anybody else backstage!” I ordered.

  “But, Wallace—”

  Rick and I ran off into the wings, leaving Laszlo gaping after us.

  Rick stumbled and went down. I dropped to my knees to see what had tripped him up. It was the basket that was home to the injured Old Shep. I gazed out onto the stage. Leticia, the veterinarian, had just begun her rap.

  I frowned. The dog was supposed to be dead—in the basket—onstage. What was the basket doing here? Where was Old Shep? More important, where was he?

  Desperately, I spun all around. There were millions of great hiding places. Curtains, equipment, and scenery provided countless nooks, crannies, and alcoves.

  “It’s too dark,” Rick complained. “If he’s here, we’ll never find him.”

  And as he got to his feet, a high-pitched voice cried, “Ow!”

  I gawked. Underneath Rick’s sneaker was another sneaker, protruding from behind a small curtain. Rick reached around and hauled out the culprit.

  Dylan Turner.

  “Dylan, are you crazy?” I rasped.

  “Me, crazy?” he shot right back. “I’m not the one who killed the Giants!” He shook his arm free and glared at Rick. “And I’ll bet you were in on it! You stank all season on purpose!”

  “No way!” Rick defended himself. “I stank naturally!”

  I tried reason. “Look, Dylan, this is wrong! All these guys, the actors and crew—they’ve put so much work into this play! How can you wreck it for them? For your own sister?”

  He looked at me in scorn. “The Giants work hard, too, you know.”

  “Then punish me! I’m the traitor!” I spread my arms wide. “Here, take a shot. A punch, a kick—whatever you want. Just leave the play alone.”

  “And get beaten up?” he sneered. “I don’t think so.”

  “We won’t lay a finger on you,” Rick promised. “Just tell us what you did.”

  A wicked smile took hold of Dylan’s features. “It’s too late to stop it.”

  “Stop what?” I demanded.

  His grin became wild. “I put a cherry bomb on Old Shep.”

  “Where’s Old Shep?” I exclaimed. “He’s supposed to be dead!”

  “They changed the ending!” he told us. “They said it was”—he started to giggle—“your idea!”

  My attention snapped back to the stage. Leticia was finishing off her big number. But instead of delivering the bad news, she rapped:

  “This is no hype, this is no jive.

  Your dog, Old Shep, is still alive!”

  And suddenly, there he was, the world’s most famous dead dog, not dead at all. Back on his remote-control car, Old Shep passed through the dog door of the Lamont house into the beam of a single spotlight. I felt like I was watching someone coming back from the afterlife.

  The audience went crazy. Even the kids who didn’t know the story of Old Shep, My Pal had for sure read Sounder or Old Yeller, and were bracing themselves for the tragic conclusion. Instead, our Old Shep returned like a sunrise, moving across the stage bathed in pink light. If Zack Paris himself could have heard the roar in our gym that night, he would have gone back in time and ch
anged his own ending. It might have cost him the Gunhold Award, but he would have had a better book, and a whole lot more satisfied readers.

  I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off Old Shep as he closed in on the Lamont kids. He was magical, supernatural—all at once, I spotted the red of the cherry bomb stuck in the crook of his paw—he was dynamite on wheels!

  I snatched the pillow from Old Shep’s basket and ran out onstage.

  “Wallace?!” It came from all directions and a lot of different throats. I recognized Rachel and Coach Wrigley and Mr. Fogelman in there somewhere, but I had no time to think about that now.

  The glowing dot of orange on the cherry bomb’s wick was burned all the way down. I wasn’t going to make it.

  I hurled myself at the stuffed dog in a flying desperation leap. As my feet left the floor, I was aware of a split second of complete silence—not a sound from the audience, the band, or the cast. I was in the air, and Old Shep was getting closer, and I held the pillow over my face, and—

  BOOM!!!

  Old Shep exploded just as I landed on top of him. I felt the blast through the cushion. Instantly, I was engulfed in a whirlwind of flying plush animal hair and pillow stuffing. I gasped for breath and inhaled a throatful of smoke and fluff.

  “Wallace!” Rachel threw herself on top of me and pulled me from Old Shep. I bounced off her, she somersaulted over me, and we tumbled along the stage. Finally we rolled to a halt at the feet of the other cast members. Trudi, Vito, and Nathaniel gawked down at us, mute with shock.

  The audience was cowed, and I didn’t blame them. Picture it: Rachel and I were covered with gray soot and charred brown fur. A plume of thick smoke rose from the now-naked stuffed dog, which smoldered amid piles of its own hair. The wheels of the remote-control car were spinning, but I had busted the toy with my crash landing. It wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was Old Shep.

  From the gym floor and bleachers, over fourteen hundred wide eyes stared up at us. Dr. Chechik and some of the teachers were halted halfway to the stage. I guess they stopped because they weren’t really sure if all this was an accident or just a very weird part of the show.

  The cast looked to Mr. Fogelman, but our director stood frozen like a block of ice, white to the ears before his keyboard.

  That was when Rachel showed why she was the president of the drama club. In the middle of all that chaos, she struggled to her feet, elbowed Trudi in the ribs, and whispered, “The show must go on!”

  The Lamonts stared at her.

  “What?” Trudi hissed.

  “The show must go on!”

  And with that, she nodded to the band. Joey Quick played the opening chords of “Farewell, Old Pal,” and the Dead Mangoes, even Mr. Fogelman, joined in.

  I was trying to slither behind the scenery board of the Lamont house. But as soon as the singing began, I sat up in surprise. It wasn’t “Farewell, old pal!” that the Lamont kids were belting out at top volume; instead they chorused:

  “Shep is okay! Hip hip hooray!

  He’ll live to bark another day!”

  Of course! They had to change the words to fit the new ending!

  The problem was that Shep wasn’t okay. Shep was on fire. Shep was belching smoke at seven hundred astounded spectators.

  All at once, waves of laughter and applause filled the gym. The audience was on its feet again, roaring its approval of this hilarious ending. The four bewildered Lamonts could only sing on:

  “Shep is okay! His health is super!

  He’s strong as the shaft of his pooper scooper!”

  At that moment, the fire spread from Old Shep down into the car. With a loud pop, the remote-control toy short-circuited and blew. The crowd howled with mirth as flames shot up six inches from the stuffed dog. Still on my knees, I crawled back out onto the stage and tried to blow out the fire, but it was no use. I had to beat down the blaze with what was left of the pillow from Old Shep’s basket.

  A final puff of smoke dispersed just as the song and the play came to a close. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but I missed most of it. Rachel yanked me up by the collar and frog-marched me into the wings.

  “He took off, Wallace!” Rick called to me. “I turned my back for a second and—”

  “Aha!” Rachel thrust her index finger half an inch from Rick’s eye. She turned to me. “Was it him, Wallace? Is this the low-down scum who ruined our play?”

  “Ruined?” repeated Trudi in disbelief. “We’re a smash! Listen!” She pointed onstage where the tremendous ovation raged on. Vito and Nathaniel beckoned, and the rest of the cast was straggling out to accept the adulation of an enraptured audience.

  “Bravo!”

  “Best play I ever saw!”

  “Old Shep rocks!”

  “They’re laughing at us!” Rachel shrieked. “And why not? We nursed a dog back to health only to have him blow up like a hand grenade! Who was it, Wallace? Who did this to us?”

  Oh, how my heart went out to Rachel just then. Her precious play had literally exploded; her acting career, her life’s dream, had been converted into a big joke; she was humiliated in front of her parents, her classmates, and half the town; and now she was about to learn that her own little brother was the cause of it all.

  Poor Rachel, who believed me when nobody else would—who even risked her life to save me from a burning stuffed animal! I had to find a way to make this easy on her. But how?

  “It was me,” I blurted.

  Rick gasped. “What?”

  I cut him off with a razor-sharp look. “It’s been me all along,” I went on. “I’m sorry.”

  She hauled off and punched me in the stomach. I barely felt the pain through my horror and disbelief at what I had done.

  After fourteen years of total honesty, I, Wallace Wallace, had told a lie!

  Enter…

  RACHEL TURNER

  My parents grounded Dylan for eight hundred years. He almost got away with it. After the play, he ran straight home and hid in a tree. When we finally found him (just before midnight), he was already blubbering lame excuses. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he might even have pulled it off.

  I tried to forgive him. Well, not really. But he was my brother (and would be in the next room for at least eight hundred years), so I was stuck with him. I swallowed my anger and visited him on day one of his sentence. I even brought a little gift, a (repulsive) plastic skull with nasty protruding eyeballs.

  “Thanks, Rach. I love it! But”—Dylan looked embarrassed—“don’t you hate me?” He studied the carpet. “Sorry about yesterday. And, you know, all those other times.”

  “Well, I figured the chamber of horrors could use a little brightening up,” I told him. “Especially since you’re going to be spending a lot of time here for the next eight hundred years.”

  Dylan shrugged. “Mom was just mad. I’ll bet I’m out in half that.”

  I laughed. “Hey, Dylan, do you have any idea why Wallace tried to take the rap for you?”

  “Sure.” He brightened. “Because he’s the greatest!”

  “The greatest?” I echoed. “Last night you detonated the whole world just because you were mad at him!”

  “But he proved one thing,” Dylan enthused. “He’s still got the moves!” He swiveled his computer monitor to face me. He was logged on to porkzit.com, where Parker posted all the articles he wrote for the Standard.

  Right on page one was a picture of Wallace leaping onto the exploding Old Shep. I blinked in surprise. It was exactly the same photograph as the big touchdown last year, with the stuffed dog taking the place of the football.

  Parker Schmidt’s E-News Page

  TOUCHDOWN STAGE LEFT!

  by Parker Schmidt, Staff Reporter

  I shook my head. “If he picked up a paintbrush, they’d call him Picasso.”

  “Is it true that he and Trudi got back together?” asked Dylan. “And he’s taking over your job in the drama club?”

  “Porker Zit is d
elusional. He gets his facts in fantasy-land.”

  Dylan pointed over to his desk. “Hey, Rach. I’ve got a letter of yours. It must have come yesterday. It was stuck to my package from the Ooze of the Month Club.”

  I picked up the envelope by the edges and brushed it off on his pillow. “Dylan,” I said, annoyed, “I like to get my mail the day it arrives. And that little green spot better not be ooze.”

  Suddenly, my eyes fell on the postmark—Hollywood, CA. There was no return address, just the scrawled initials JR.

  I didn’t believe it. I still didn’t believe it when I had the short note open right in front of me:

  Two questions jolted through my body like four thousand volts of electricity: 1) Why didn’t I know that? And 2) Why didn’t I know it YESTERDAY?!!

  Wallace was ignoring me at school on Monday. Not that Julia’s predictions had any chance of coming true after I’d punched him, but at least I wanted to say I was sorry. I guess he was pretty mad at me, and I couldn’t really blame him. For over a month, I’d treated him like a criminal. And not only was he innocent, but the true culprit turned out to be my own flesh and blood.

  I finally cornered him with a move so immature it was worthy of Trudi. In the cafeteria line, I saw Wallace filling up a taco. I picked up the salsa bowl and dumped out the entire thing onto my plate. When he reached the empty container, I came up behind him.

  “Here, take some of mine,” I offered. “I got a little carried away.”

  “That’s okay,” he mumbled, and turned his back on me. He sure didn’t sound like the Wallace I knew (who would stick out that iron jaw and tell the king of the world what he thought of him). It made me really sad to think that Wallace would rather choke down a dry taco than be forced to look at me.

  I followed him to an open table. “I have to talk to you.”

  “No.” He pushed away his taco. “I have to talk to you. Listen, Rachel. I lied.”

  “I know,” I said soothingly. “Dylan’s serving hard time in his chamber of horrors.”