Dodger for Sale (2 page)

“Good question, Amy!” Apparently, Dad had been spending his free time studying his classic work,
1,001 Compliments for Every Occasion
. “Fortunately, your beloved father has prepared an answer for you!”
Ugh
, I thought.
Dads can be so corny
. “I gave each of you one of those books so that you can help me with my New Year’s resolution. You are all going to spend the next six months helping me write a book about my books!”

“Huh?” we all asked at the same time.

“Well, my next book is going to be sort of a … a living experiment. My plan is to have each of you follow one of my books as a New Year’s resolution of your own. Then I’ll write the book about what happens.”

“So,” Mom said, “it’s kind of like a reality TV show, only with books?”

Dad nodded, looking very pleased with himself.

“And you want us to be your guinea pigs?”

“Actually, I was thinking of you more as … uh … test pilots.” I think Dad had also brushed up on another of his books,
Flattery Will Get You Everywhere!
“What do you think, kids? Will this be fun, or what?”

Amy and I must not have looked overjoyed enough, because Dad added, “Oh, come on, guys! You’re always asking me to write a book about you. So here’s your big chance.”

I glanced over at Amy and saw she was starting to smile back at Dad. I had to admit my father was pretty slick. I mean, what seven-year-old girl
doesn’t
dream of being famous? I was sure Mom wouldn’t fall for it—but when I peeked over at her, she was gazing adoringly at her husband.

Oh, gak
, I thought.
Is Mom really that gullible?

“You’re right, honey,” she said. “This is a great idea!” Dad’s face broke into an even bigger grin. Then Mom continued, “And I know just the right book for
you
to follow!”

Dad’s smile got a lot smaller. “For me to follow? But … but … I’m the one who has to write the book at the end! I shouldn’t have to … I mean, it wouldn’t be fair if … can’t I just … oh, fine. What book do you have in mind, dear?”

Mom disappeared into the living room but was back in a flash. She handed Dad his book:
The Helpful Husband: 101 Tips for Manly Housekeeping
. I should have known Mom would have a trick or two up her sleeve.

I cleared my throat. “Dad? What about me? What’s this quest I’m supposed to do?”

“Well, son, I can’t tell you that. The whole point of the book is that you need to figure out your own quest. Set a goal! Find a problem and solve it! Blaze a new trail! Make the world a better place! Prove that Willie Ryan can make a difference! And, um, take good notes—that will make my job a lot easier at the end.”

I groaned.

Dad looked around at all of us. “So what do you say, family? Are you in? Can we all work together and have a bestselling adventure?”

Mom and Amy said YES! so loudly that I don’t think Dad even noticed when I didn’t cheer right along with them.

I spent the rest of the vacation worrying about my assignment. I mean, I was just one little fifth grader in one little town. I wasn’t even a particularly smart, talented, or cool fifth grader. How was I supposed to go on a heroic quest to make the world a better place—a quest that would be interesting enough for my dad to write a book about it?

On the last day of the break, I went over to Lizzie’s house to work on an extra-credit poster project we had signed up to do for our teacher, Mrs. Starsky. It was a crazy assignment: You had to color in a map of the fifty states using only four different colors without ever having two states of the same color touching each other. Sounds easy, right? But it’s actually quite hard to do.

Especially when your partner keeps arguing about everything, and a magical blue chimp won’t stop throwing crayons around the room.

After a couple of hours, we had figured everything out, except for how to keep Dodger entertained. He had already done just about everything you can do with crayons. He had tried coloring with them, tasting them, melting them on top of the radiator, and lobbing them at us while we tried to work. While Lizzie and I chatted and colored in the last few states, Dodger decided it was time to work on his crayon-juggling skills. It was a fairly weird conversation.

L
IZZIE:
So, Willie, I think I’ve come up with a perfect new nickname for you.

D
ODGER:
Wow, the blue crayon definitely flies better than these other ones! I bet I can juggle three blue crayons with just one hand.

M
E:
Lizzie, I don’t need a nickname.

L
IZZIE:
But this one is adorable! I think I shall call you—

(Insert crashing sound here)

D
ODGER:
Well, maybe I can’t juggle
three
blue crayons with one hand. I guess I should try two first. Plus this glass of chocolate milk.

L
IZZIE:
Willers!

M
E:
Willers?
Willers?
It sounds like, um, never mind.

L
IZZIE:
What does it sound like?

M
E:
Nothing. I just don’t like it, okay?

(Truthfully, it sounded like the kind of nickname a girl would make up for her boyfriend. And I would die if the kids at school—especially James Beeks—heard her call me that.)

D
ODGER:
I don’t know, I think it’s a cool name. Willers … I like it! In fact, that’s what we used to call that guy in England who asked Rodger for help rewriting his plays. And he was a cool dude. Well, except for those dorky shirts with the ruffly collars he used to wear.

L
IZZIE:
Dodger, are you trying to tell me that Rodger helped William Shakespeare write his plays?

D
ODGER:
Yeah, Rodger just polished up a few lines here and there. ’Cause old Willers would be all like, “Romeo, ah, Romeo, what’s up with your name?” And Rodger would go, “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” Or Willers would go, “The path of true love was always kind of … uh, bumpy.” So Rodger would be all, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” Or Willers would say, “To exist or not so much? Because I’m wondering.” So Rodger would go, “To be or not to—”

(Insert crashing and splashing sounds here) Whoopsie.
That’s
going to leave a mark. Anyway—

M
E:
Wait a minute!

L
IZZIE:
Yes, Willers?

M
E:
I don’t want to be called—

D
ODGER:
Hmm … maybe if I juggled just one blue crayon and this piggy bank it would—

(Insert crashing sound here)

L
IZZIE:
Dodger, now look what you’ve done! Willers, could you get a—

M
E:
Don’t call me Willers!

L
IZZIE:
Could you just be a dear and get some paper towels, please? Before my ceiling is stained forever?

(I run downstairs, get the paper towels, and run back up.)

L
IZZIE
and D
ODGER
together: Thanks, Willers!

M
E:
(
Sigh.
) By the way, did I tell you guys my dad ordered me to go on a quest?

L
IZZIE:
A quest? What kind of quest? Do you need to find an ancient treasure?

D
ODGER:
Fight a dragon?

L
IZZIE:
(fluttering her eyebrows) Win the hand of a beautiful young maiden?

M
E:
(blushing) No, nothing like that. I just have to change the world.

D
ODGER:
Well, if that’s all … why don’t you just, like, help a little kid cross the street?

L
IZZIE:
Or build a house for a starving family in India?

D
ODGER:
Or get the student council to do something really important?

M
E:
Like what?

D
ODGER:
Dude, I don’t know. But I’m not the kid they elected president—you are.

M
E:
Well, I guess maybe we could come up with something. Like a bake sale. Or a charity bingo game. Or—

L
IZZIE:
I’VE GOT IT!

M
E:
Got it? Got what?

L
IZZIE:
You’ll see, Willers. You’ll see!

D
ODGER:
Hey, look! I can totally juggle these four crayons and this can of spray paint!

(Insert crashing, spraying sounds here) Well, except for the paint.
How
many colors were supposed to be on this map again?

F
OR THE NEXT WEEK,
I bugged Lizzie to tell me what her big plan was. She wouldn’t crack, though. She just kept telling me I’d find out at the next student council meeting. By the time the meeting rolled around, I was just dying to know what she was thinking. I called the student council to order by banging this wooden hammer thing called a gavel on the table—which, truthfully, is the most fun part of being the president.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling really wild, I even bang it twice.

Anyway, as soon as the meeting started, Lizzie took over. That happens a lot. She raised her hand, and when I called on her, she said, “Attention, everyone! I have a big announcement to make.”

Mrs. Starsky, our teacher and advisor, said, “What is it, Lizzie? I’m always excited to hear your ideas. They’re so new and fresh!”

My archenemy, James Beeks, who had run against me for president and lost, muttered to his friend Craig Flynn, “Of course her ideas are new—until this year, nobody was dumb enough to vote for her.” I gave him a dirty look. Technically, he and Craig shouldn’t even have been on the council, but Beeks had convinced Mrs. Starsky that with a new president and vice president, the group needed a couple of experienced fifth graders around to provide “balance.” So far, all Beeks had provided was obnoxious comments.

Lizzie said, “You know how the student council does something to help the community every year?”

Mrs. Starsky beamed at Lizzie and said, “Of course. You know my motto: Think globally, act locally!”

“Uh, right. Anyway, this year I think we should do something different … something to help the environment right here in our town.”

A little first-grade girl raised her hand and said, “Hey, we could make it rain more! My dad’s a farmer, and he says we need more rain!”

A second-grade boy turned to her and said, “How are we supposed to make it rain? Duh!”

A kindergarten boy said, “I know! Maybe we could save some fur seals! My mom says they’re almost a stink!”

Mrs. Starsky said, “That’s a sweet idea, Tyler. But I think your mother means ‘extinct.’ That’s the word for when all the members of a species have died.”

The little boy said, “Because they smell so bad?”

Mrs. Starsky shook her head and replied, “No, being extinct has nothing to do with smelling bad.”

“But,” Tyler fired back, “everything that’s dead smells bad!”

Lizzie interrupted by saying, “Thank you for sharing your idea—and your interesting logic—with us, Tyler. Unfortunately, though, Mrs. Starsky is right: We need to act locally. And there aren’t any fur seals around here, are there?”

“Oh, no,” Tyler said. “We’re too late! They’re already a stink!”

Lizzie put her head in her hands. Mrs. Starsky asked, “Do we have any other ideas for helping our
local
environment?”

A second grader raised his hand and said, “Mrs. Starsky, Mrs. Starsky! I just lost a tooth!”

Honestly, the next time somebody tries to get me to run for student council, I might just join the circus instead. The kid ran to the water fountain while Beeks snickered, “Wow, Willie and Lizzie sure do know how to run a smooth meeting—
not!
”

Lizzie sat straight up, glared at Beeks, and said, “That’s it! Time for a field trip, everyone! Grab your coats and follow me!”

Everyone looked totally confused, but they put on their jackets, and when Lizzie started walking out of the classroom, the whole student council trooped along behind her. I looked at Mrs. Starsky, who raised an eyebrow as if to say,
What’s this all about?
I shrugged, because honestly, I had no idea.

Meanwhile, Tyler had started crying over the imaginary dead fur seals of our little town, the tooth kid was running around trying to gross everyone out with his bloody molar, and Beeks was smirking. I heard him say, “
This
ought to be good!”

I was kind of thinking the same thing.

Lizzie marched out the front door of the school, turned right, and cut diagonally through the playground. We passed the slides where Lizzie and I had eavesdropped on Beeks and Flynn, and the baseball field where I had almost saved my team’s fall season. Then we reached the sidewalk that runs along the edge of the woods. Mrs. Starsky said, “Lizzie, I’m afraid I have to ask you where we’re going. I’m not supposed to be taking you off school grounds without signed permission slips, and—”

Lizzie stopped walking so suddenly that I banged right into her. “That’s okay, Mrs. Starsky. We’re here!”

I spat out a strand of Lizzie’s hair and said, “What do you mean, we’re here?”

“Yeah,” Beeks said. “What are you talking about?”

Lizzie pointed to a sign attached to a wooden spike in the ground. All the sign had on it was a phone number and two words:

I gulped. Jeepers. Our woods were for sale? Dodger’s magical home? The Field of Dreams? See, these woods are kind of enchanted. If you have a certain kind of vision, and a certain kind of strange luck, you can find a field in the middle of the woods where everything is blue and nearly anything can happen. Dodger kind of hangs out there when he’s not in his lamp or following me around. Long story.

This was so not good.

Lizzie said, “
This
is what I’m talking about. These lovely woods—the only green space for miles around—are for sale. And do you know what happens when a forest gets sold?”

Beeks said, “Somebody makes some money?”