The Last Dog on Earth (2 page)

Logan, on the other hand, had messy brown hair and a crooked smile (which most people never saw). People said he looked like his mother. Why, he wasn't sure. Mom was a middle-aged woman. How could he possibly look like her? He and Mom were both skinny, though, and they had blue eyes, which was probably what people were talking about.

As far as school went, he hated it and skipped whenever he could. And when it came to sports, he was decent at minigolf, but not much else. He liked to go hiking. But you couldn't
beat
anybody at hiking.

In other words, he didn't rate so high on the perfection scale.

So it was natural that his mother and stepfather would want him to hang out with Devon Wallace. They were hoping that some of Devon's perfection would rub off on him. Unfortunately, Mom and Robert missed what every single other adult also seemed to miss about Devon—namely, that he was an ass.

He was the worst kind of ass, too: a mean one. When adults weren't around, Devon spent all his time bragging or picking on other kids—especially if they were younger. He treated Logan as if he were an idiot because Logan didn't get good grades. As if grades had anything to do with how smart you really were.

It figured, though. The lamest people always made it their business to get good grades. Then they made it their business to find
out what kind of grades everybody else got and make fun of them if they did badly.

“… and I'm sure Devon has a great time with Otis,” Robert was saying. “Labradors are the best dogs on earth.”

Logan couldn't believe it. Robert was
still
yammering on about the Wallaces' dog. He hadn't stopped since they'd pulled out of the driveway. He'd barely even taken a breath.

“Not all Labradors,” Mom said.

Robert scowled at her. “What do you mean?” “It's just … remember what I told you about Michelle Thompson? You know, my friend from Redmont?”

“No,” Robert said. “What about her?”

Mom sighed. “Last week, her son was playing with their new Lab. And the dog attacked him. The poor kid needed twelve stitches. Apparently she even had to hire somebody to come … well, to come take care of the dog.”

Robert snorted. “The kid probably provoked it. I had a Lab growing up. They're the best dogs on earth,” he repeated, as if saying it twice somehow made it more true.

Mom sighed again, then shrugged. “You're probably right.”

“Of course I'm right,” Robert said. “Anyway, playing with a dog is a lot less dangerous than sitting alone in your room all day, playing with broken household appliances.” His dark eyes met Logan's in the rearview mirror. “Speaking of which, what's in that bag?”

Logan blinked. “Huh?”

Robert glared at him. “Hello? Earth to Logan? Anybody home? I want to know what's in your backpack.”

“Nothing,” Logan said.

“It can't be
nothing.
I can see that
something's
in it.”

“Robert,” Mom said. “Please. Keep your eyes on the road.”

“I just want to know what kind of trouble your son's got in that bag,” Robert said.

“Nothing,” Logan repeated. He wasn't lying. Not technically. There was a very good chance that the device in the bag beside him—his latest invention, the Logan Moore Master Remote Control, or LMMRC—wouldn't work. If something didn't work, it didn't count. Therefore, it meant nothing. It
was
nothing.

Robert's eyes kept flashing to the mirror. “It's trouble, isn't it?”

“Actually, it's supposed to stop trouble,” Logan said. The LMMRC was big enough that even Robert would have a hard time losing it.

“Don't be smart,” Robert snapped.

As the All-Knowing Dictator of Everything, Robert loved dishing out important-sounding commands—most of which began with the word
don't.
His favorite: “Don't turn this into a production, Logan.”

“It's a master remote control,” Logan explained reluctantly. “I made it from that old model airplane control panel.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second here,” Robert said, grimacing. “You mean the model airplane control panel we got you for Christmas? Logan, did you break that?”

“Um, well …,” Logan said. “I, uh, changed it a little.”

Robert laughed. He turned to Logan's mom. “You hear that? He
changed
it a little. Translation: There's another seventy bucks down the toilet. Remind me about this when December rolls around.”

“Robert,” Mom said tersely. “Please. Watch the road.”

“It was mine,” Logan muttered. “Why can't I do what I want with my own stuff ?” He'd never asked for the model airplane,
anyway. Robert had bought it because
he
wanted it. Because he'd had one when he was growing up.

“You know what your problem is, Logan?” Robert said. “You're ungrateful. You don't appreciate anything I try to do for you—”

“Please,” Mom begged. “Both of you! Let's not get into it now. We're almost to the barbecue.”

“I'm telling you, Marianne,” Robert said, as if Logan weren't there. “The kid needs to shape up. He's heading for trouble. I still say we should have sent him to that camp, like Powell said. They'd have taught him some discipline. Some respect.”

“Maybe next year,” Logan's mother murmured. “When he's older.”

Logan could feel the muscles in his neck tightening. He turned his head and stared out the window. “That camp” was the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys. It had been founded by an ex-marine and was supposed to whip kids into shape by treating them like soldiers in a boot camp. Or prisoners. Logan had looked it up online. The picture showed a bunch of barrackslike huts surrounded by a tall cyclone fence with razor wire at the top.
That
was where Robert wanted to send him.

Nice
, he thought.

Robert turned onto the Wallaces' block and pulled up to the curb. The barbecue was already in full swing. The street was jammed with cars. Logan could hear the faint strains of music from behind the Wallaces' big, perfect, beautiful house—the kind of cheesy light rock music that only adults who lived in big, perfect, beautiful houses seemed to listen to. There were bright balloons hanging from the tree on the Wallaces' wide front lawn and a hand-painted sign:

COME AROUND BACK! NO PARTY POOPERS ALLOWED!

“You know what?” Logan said. “Maybe I should just wait in the car. I don't think I'm allowed inside.”

“What in God's name are you talking about?” Robert demanded.

But Logan didn't feel like explaining. Because if he did, Robert would get angry. He'd probably have a heart attack. And that would be great at first, because Robert would clutch at his chest and choke out, “Help me! Help me!” … but then he would grab Logan's neck in a final horror-movie moment and strangle him, and they would stare at each other, eyes bulging, until they both died—because the most fiendish horror-movie villains always manage to get in one last terrible crime before they get killed.

Which wouldn't be so great.

So Logan just shrugged.

Robert turned off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. He leaned over the seat and looked Logan in the eye.

“Don't turn this into a production, Logan,” he said.

The Wallaces' Summer Kickoff Barbecue was even worse than Logan had expected.

Fortunately, nobody in the backyard even really noticed that he was there. The adults were all standing in little clusters by the pool, slurping beer and laughing. Devon Wallace was bullying every single kid into playing Ping-Pong with him, even the eight-year-olds. Robert sat on a folding lawn chair next to the gas grill, where Mr. Wallace was flipping burgers in an apron and a white chef 's hat. Judging from the way Robert was looking at Mr. Wallace, you'd think the guy had just discovered the cure for cancer.

Logan wasn't surprised. It was all part of Robert's act. He had this annoying habit of pretending to be interested in whatever Mr. Wallace had to say, no matter how boring it was. Mr. Wallace could be talking about cleaning his pool or some other garbage that would make most normal people want to take a nap, but Robert would just sit there with this
look
on his face … and Logan couldn't help wondering if he'd spent hours in the mirror practicing it—the
concerned
look, the
serious
look: eyes focused, forehead wrinkled, as if to say, “Oh, yes, I completely understand why cleaning your pool is such an important subject, and I have some important opinions of my own!”

Then speak up!
Logan always wanted to tell him.
We're all very curious!

It was obvious why Robert tried so hard. Mr. Wallace had everything Robert wanted: a lot of money, a big house, a swimming pool, and a perfect son. So Robert probably figured that if he listened carefully enough (or at least pretended to listen), he'd discover the key to getting all those things himself. It was pretty sad, if you really thought about it.

Well, actually it wasn't
that
sad, because it was sort of funny, in a way. The thing was, Robert would always get bored with Mr. Wallace after about five minutes and start stuffing his face with food. Then he'd get bored with
that.
Back and forth, back and forth. That was the general pattern of the Summer Kickoff Barbecue. Mostly Logan just stood off to the side and watched Robert at work: pigging out, phony-baloney, pigging out, phony-baloney….

“I thought Outward Bound was for troublemakers,” Robert was saying. He grabbed an open bag of potato chips from the table beside him and stuffed some into his mouth.

Mr. Wallace shook his head. “Not at all. It teaches valuable life skills. Teamwork. Survival. Self-motivation.” He laughed. “Not like Devon needs to learn that kind of thing. I'm sure he'll be running the whole program by the end of it.”

“Going was all Devon's idea?” Robert asked.

“Yes, it was,” Mr. Wallace said proudly. He stopped flipping burgers for a moment and glanced at Robert. “You know, you might want to think about something like Outward Bound for Logan.”

Robert grimaced. “We
have
thought about it,” he said. “Actually, Logan's guidance counselor recommended one of those special boot camps. You know, for troubled kids.”

Uh-oh.
As quickly as he could, Logan ducked behind some bushes at the edge of the patio. He didn't want to hear anything
more about his guidance counselor, Mr. Powell. During the past year, the school had made him have “sessions” with Mr. Powell twice a week. Mr. Powell would sit there and try to get Logan to explain why he cut school so often and didn't make any effort in his classes, and Logan would sit there and not answer. Wasn't it obvious?

“Boot camp would be perfect for a nonverbal type like you,” Mr. Powell had told him.

A nonverbal type.
Logan couldn't believe people actually talked like that.
It's not that I'm nonverbal
, he'd almost said.
It's just that I have nothing to say to
you.

Whatever. School was out for the summer. He wouldn't have to see Mr. Powell again until September. Besides, right now he had more important things to worry about, like testing the Logan Moore Master Remote Control.

He bent down and slung his backpack off his shoulders, then gingerly removed the LMMRC. A smile spread across his face. Even if the thing didn't work, at least it
looked
cool. It was heavy and black—about the size of a shoe box—with two long silver antennae sticking out from the front of it in a V shape, like an insect's head. Come to think of it, the big dial in the middle was sort of like a nose. And the big red button could be a pimple. Or a wart. Yeah … in fact, the whole device looked more like the face of some freakish, prehistoric bug than like a souped-up remote control. Which made sense, in a way. There was an electronic brain inside. A brain with telepathic powers.

If
it worked. But Logan was pretty sure—

Something brushed up against his legs. He swiveled around and found himself nose to nose with a chocolate brown Labrador.

Otis.
Logan frowned.

The dog was panting. Logan could smell his breath. It wasn't very pleasant.

“Shoo, boy,” Logan whispered. He stood up straight. “Go on. Shoo. Get out of here—”

“Hey, Logan! What are you doing?”

Logan's shoulders sagged. Just his luck: Devon Wallace was coming his way.

Devon was all sweaty from Ping-Pong, but every blond hair was still perfectly in place. He sneered at the LMMRC.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked.