No More Dead Dogs (9 page)

Laszlo suffocated me with another emotional hug. “It’s my honor to work with Wallace Wallace!”

“I don’t like it,” Rick said ominously. “I smell a fish in here somewhere.”

“You don’t smell a fish,” I reassured him. “There’s nothing to smell.”

“Right,” agreed Laszlo. “I’ll see you at our rehearsal, Wallace.”

As Laszlo got back in the van, I could see Rick and Feather watching him—and me—with narrowed eyes.

Enter…
RACHEL TURNER

I was in Spanish class, conjugating, when Trudi leaned over and whispered, “Harold Schwartzbaum.”

Now, Spanish is not my best subject, but I knew
Harold Schwartzbaum
was not the verb
to dance
. “What about him?”

“He’s the one who’s been doing all those things to the play,” she murmured urgently.

I was skeptical. “How do you figure that?”

“On the day of the big pepper bomb, Wendy Pappas saw him sneeze in class.”

I laughed. “Harold Schwartzbaum is allergic to everything. I’ve never seen him when he didn’t have a Kleenex attached to his face.”

“Not only that,” Trudi went on, “but when he heard about ‘
Old Shep, Dead Mutt
,’ Wendy says he laughed.”

“Wendy should find herself a better hobby than spying on Harold Schwartzbaum,” I shot back. “Half the school laughed.
You
laughed.”

“Yeah, but I know I didn’t do it,” she reasoned.

“Look,” I cut her off. “Everybody knows who’s doing it. It’s your precious Wallace Wallace.”

Trudi looked at me like I had just accused the Easter Bunny of armed robbery. She folded her arms in defiance. “Then how come Wallace is trying to find out who’s doing it?”

“Why? Because Parker Schmidt says he’s an undercover agent?” I exclaimed. “That guy thinks
Star Wars
is a documentary! If you believe the
Standard
, you’re a chump!”

“
You’re
the chump!” she snapped. “Wallace isn’t against the play! He’s helping the play!”

“Wallace is weird,” I retorted. I personally had no problem picturing him pretending to work on the play every afternoon, and sneaking into school the next morning to torpedo it. (And it wasn’t because he was a complex character. He was just plain rotten.)

But for the good of the drama club, I kept quiet about Wallace. It wasn’t easy, but I acted just as thrilled as everybody else to have Laszlo Tamas on a moped. The serious actress in me appreciated that our cast was so pumped up; my common sense told me that our new opening scene was bizarre with a capital B.

But when you’ve been friends with someone since third grade, it’s hard to shake them. So it was automatic for me to plunk my tray down next to Trudi at lunch that day. I was already well established on the bench before I realized who else was sitting at the table. It was my (dis)honor to be dining with Wallace Wallace.

“Oh, it’s you,” we both chorused. I was still a little embarrassed around him after my meltdown.

“Laszlo’s the greatest,” raved Trudi, exercising her world-renowned sucking-up muscle. “I’m going to teach him a new cool English word every day. Today’s is MTV.”

Wallace raised an eyebrow. “What’s tomorrow’s—HBO?”

So help me, I was just about to say the same thing. But coming from him, it sounded rude and insulting.

“Don’t laugh with your mouth full,” I mumbled at Trudi, who was yukking it up like a hyena. To her, whatever Wallace said was witty and perfect.

There was a thump as Rory Piper, a pint-sized seventh grader, vaulted the bench, landing expertly in the seat opposite Wallace.

“Nice shot,” Wallace commented.

“You should see it on Rollerblades.” Rory grinned.

Everything about Rory happened at double-speed: the way he ate, the way he moved, and especially the way he talked. “I hear you guys have got some pretty amazing things happening with the school play.”

I was impressed. Usually nobody cared about the drama department. “Well,” I began modestly, “we’ve been working with Mr. Fogelman—”

Rory waved a hand in my face. “Hang on a sec, Rachel, I’m talking to Wallace here.” He turned his back on me. “Laszlo says you guys are working up a monster opening to
Old Shep, My Pal.
You think there’s a part for me in there?”

“Of course not,” I said peevishly. “The play was cast weeks ago.”

But Wallace was taking this dumb request seriously. “What did you have in mind?” he asked Rory.

“Rollerblading, man!” cried Rory. “I rule! You send me out on the stage to work a little magic. Forget the rest, ’cause I’m the best!”

I must have looked like I was about to choke on my sandwich, because Trudi offered me her water glass. “Listen, Rory,” I managed between gulps, “there isn’t any Rollerblading in
Old Shep, My Pal.
”

“But I’m
awesome
!” he insisted.

Wallace looked thoughtful. “Laszlo’s pretty good on the moped, but the scene needs something more. Maybe we should put Rory onstage to chase Old Shep in front of the motorcycle. I’ve always wondered why that stupid mutt ran out in the middle of the road. It’ll make more sense if someone’s after him.” He frowned. “Who chases a dog?”

“A dogcatcher!” Trudi jumped in.

I thought I was going to die. “
What
dogcatcher?”

“The Rollerblading dogcatcher.” Wallace was getting excited. “With Rory doing his thing around the Lamonts, the moving toy dog, and Laszlo on the moped, it could be pretty spectacular.”

“It’s perfect,” Trudi applauded.

Rory was just as impressed. “Man, I am
in
! I’ll see you at rehearsal this afternoon. And Wallace, dude, get ready to be amazed, because I’m bringing my ’blades!”

I chomped down hard on my tongue (ouch). It wasn’t my job to tell them that none of this was going to happen. That was why we had a director.

When the bell rang at three-thirty, I raced down to Mr. Fogelman’s office to talk to him before rehearsal. I was so upset that I just started babbling even before I barged through his half-open door.

“Mr. Fogelman, I don’t know how to tell you this—”

I froze. The director was on his hands and knees in the midst of a mountain of crumpled-up paper towels, scrubbing at a stack of colored folders.

He looked up at me. “Somebody poured pancake syrup in my filing cabinet!”

I dropped to my knees, grabbed a towel, and did what I could to help. “Do you think it’s another attack on the play?”

“You bet I do,” the teacher said in annoyance. “Look at this—the only files that are damaged are the ones on
Old Shep, My Pal.
”

It was a mess. Syrup and paper don’t mix. Poor Mr. Fogelman’s notes were glued together, and soaked through with the sticky slime. In no time, I was in it up to the elbows, and little bits of paper were starting to stick to me. I’d always loved maple syrup until I saw what it could do to a script. (Yuck!)

“Did he break into your office?” I asked.

“Did who break into my office?”

Who? Everybody knew it was Wallace Wallace. But I said, “You know—the person who did this.”

We stared at each other. He didn’t speak, and neither did I.

“I keep my door unlocked,” he said finally. He added, “But we don’t know who did this. Even if we think we do, we don’t.”

All this talking (or not talking) about Wallace reminded me why I’d come to see our director in the first place.

“Mr. Fogelman, I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got some more bad news. You’ll never believe what’s going to happen at rehearsal!”

The Wallace vein in his forehead throbbed as I explained that
Old Shep, My Pal
now starred Rory Piper as the Rollerblading dogcatcher.

“We’ll see about this!” he roared, cleaning his sticky hands with a Wet-Nap.

He stormed out into the hall, taking steps so large that I had to jog along beside him. Down the corridor, around the bend, and into the gym he swooped like an avenging angel.

Suddenly, I pulled up short, and beside me, Mr. Fogelman did the same. We stared.

Rory Piper was Rollerblading, and he was amazing to behold. He streaked across the stage, his feet just a blur, executing jumps and spins and funky dance steps. In his hands he brandished a large butterfly net, which he waved at Old Shep. Yes, the dog was there, too, mounted on a remote-control car, “running” around the road, narrowly avoiding the dogcatcher’s swooping net. It was so crazy, and yet it was almost graceful, like a ballet. Rory moved on the Rollerblades as if they were extensions of his feet.

All at once, there was a roar of machinery. From the wings Laszlo Tamas sped onto the scene, mounted on his moped, which had been decorated to look like a Harley. He wore hockey headgear instead of a motorcycle helmet, but you could see the pure concentration through the face guard as he aimed his front tire at Old Shep.

Thump!

The stuffed animal went one way, the toy car went another. The bump sent Laszlo’s helmet flying. It ricocheted softly off the curtain, and plopped into the butterfly net. Laszlo kept riding straight down the stairs, and came to a screeching halt under the near basketball net.

The cast and crew leaped to their feet in a standing ovation. My confusion almost tore me in two. Yes, I know, I’d come here to blast this dogcatcher thing out of the water. But a true actress couldn’t help but recognize great theater. This was pure entertainment. I looked to Mr. Fogelman for guidance. Surely a real professional writer would know what to do.

Our director’s expression was unreadable. Then he began to clap, slowly at first, but with growing enthusiasm.

Everton Wu ran out from the wings, triumphantly waving the remote control for Old Shep. “It was amazing!” he howled.

Instantly, he was set upon by his fellow stagehands with backslaps of congratulations.

Flushed with victory, Rory took a Rollerblading suicide leap off the side of the stage into the arms of a wildly celebrating Laszlo.

Naturally, Trudi was the first person to gush all over Wallace. Right in front of everybody, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a humongous kiss on his smarmy cheek. I was humiliated on her (idiotic) behalf.

My disgust was interrupted by Vito’s voice: “Wait a minute! It isn’t fair!”

Nathaniel jumped all over this. “Right! Right!” he cried. “You bet it isn’t fair! Vito and I object! Tell them, Vito!”

“How come Rory gets to have all the fun?” Vito demanded. “I want to be on Rollerblades, too.”

The color drained out of Nathaniel’s face. “What?”

“Yeah!” Trudi shrieked. “All the Lamont kids should be on Rollerblades for the first scene! Wallace, can we do it?”

“We’ll try it at tomorrow’s rehearsal,” Wallace agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he looked at Mr. Fogelman. “Okay?”

“Thank you for asking,” the director said with sarcastic politeness. He thought it over. “If you people can Rollerblade around the stage without bumping into one another and breaking your necks, I suppose it’s worth a try.”

Nathaniel was sputtering with rage and dismay. “But—but—I’ve never been on Rollerblades!”

“Yo, man, this is your lucky day,” Rory assured him. “Because I am a one-man clinic on wheels! Step right up, and I’ll have you hot-dogging in no time!”

“But I don’t want to hot-dog!” Nathaniel wailed.