No More Dead Dogs

Copyright © 2000 by Gordon Korman

All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

ISBN 978-1-4231-4120-4

Visit
www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

For M. Jerry Weiss,
who has been encouraging me to write about
Rick-isms since the eternal equinox

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Cast of characters

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Wallace Wallace

“Gimme an A or I Won’t Play!”

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Trudi Davis

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Mr. Fogelman

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Wallace Wallace, Secret Agent

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Mr. Fogelman

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Trudi Davis

Loverboy Football Hero Follows His Heart

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Mr. Fogelman

Enter…Rachel Turner

Enter…Trudi Davis

Enter…Wallace Wallace

Enter…Rachel Turner

Cast of characters

The football players:

The drama club:

The adults:

And featuring:

And special guests the
Dead Mangoes

Old Shep appears courtesy of Zack Paris Enterprises, XK-9

The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance you may find to actual persons or dogs, living or dead, proves that you have a lot of strange friends.

Enter…
WALLACE WALLACE

W
hen my dad was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, he once rescued eight Navy SEALs who were stranded behind enemy lines. He flew back using only his left hand, because the right one had taken a bullet. With the chopper on fire, and running on an empty tank and just gas fumes, he managed to outmaneuver a squadron of MiG fighters and make it safely home to base.

That was my favorite story when I was small. It was also a total pack of lies. The bullet “scar” on Dad’s arm was really left over from a big infected pimple. And by the time I was old enough to do the math, I realized that when the war ended in Vietnam, my father was fourteen.

I was pretty clueless, like little kids can be. I thought my parents had a great relationship. The only thing they ever fought about was lying. And even then the arguments were short: Mom wanted the truth, and Dad wouldn’t recognize it if it danced up and bit him on the nose.

But even though I didn’t really understand what was going on, I guess it percolated down to me somehow. The more Dad lied, the more I told the truth.

My earliest memory is of my mother complaining that the laundry had shrunk her new pants.

“Your pants didn’t get smaller, Mommy,” I assured her. “Your butt got bigger.”

Little kids get away with that kind of stuff, so she laughed it off.

But she wasn’t laughing three years later when the next-door neighbor asked my opinion of her light and fluffy cake.

I thought it over. “It tastes like vacuum cleaner fuzz. And the icing reminds me of antifreeze.”

“Wally, how could you
say
such a thing?” my mother wailed when we got home.

“Mom,” I asked, “did Dad really miss my birthday party because he had to visit a sick friend?”

It didn’t matter that she didn’t answer. I had already seen the hotel bill on my father’s night table. The Desert Inn, Las Vegas.

I was more stuck on the truth than ever. For me, honesty wasn’t just the best policy; it was the only one.

I told my soon-to-be ex–piano teacher that her fingernails reminded me of velociraptor claws. The cook at summer camp I informed that his pork chop could double as a bulletproof vest. My cousin Melinda’s clarinet playing I described as “somebody strangling a duck.”

“Must you be so—you know—colorful?” my mother moaned.

“When it’s the truth,” I said firmly.

“But the Abernathys are so proud of their new house! Did you have to announce that it’s built on a slant?”

“It
is
! I dropped my yo-yo, and it rolled all the way to the kitchen.”

“Wally,” she pleaded, “how can I make you understand—”

I used to wonder if things would have been different if I’d had the guts to tell my dad that he didn’t have to be a war hero or an astronaut or a CIA agent. It was enough for me that he was my dad.

I almost did it once. I was so close! But before I could get my mouth open, he said, “Wally, have I ever told you about the time I led a crew that put out oil well fires?”

Oil well fires.

So I gave up, and, eventually, so did Mom. I was in fifth grade when they got their divorce. By then, I wouldn’t have told a lie at gunpoint.

That’s why I never once complained about the black eye I got for telling Buzz Bolitsky he had the IQ of a Ring Ding. You won’t see me crying over the fact that I haven’t received a birthday present from Uncle Ted for two years. The fact is, Uncle Ted’s toupee really
did
look like a small animal had crawled up onto his head and died there. If he didn’t want the truth, he shouldn’t have said those fateful words: “Do you notice anything different about me?”

So when Mr. Fogelman had us write book reviews in eighth-grade English, I wasn’t trying to be rude or disrespectful or even smart-alecky. I gave Fogelman what I give everybody—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth:

Mr. Fogelman scanned the few lines, and glared at me, face flaming in anger. “This isn’t what I assigned!”

I should say that I had nothing against Mr. Fogelman at that moment. He was okay—the kind of young teacher who tries to be “one of the guys,” but everything he does only shows how out of it he is. I just wanted to set the record straight.

“Yes, it is,” I told him. “The assignment sheet said to give our honest opinion, write what was our favorite part and character, and make a recommendation. It’s all there.”

“
Old Shep, My Pal
is a timeless classic!” roared the teacher. “It won the Gunhold Award! It was my favorite book growing up. Everybody loves it.” He turned to the rest of the class. “Right?”

The reaction was a murmur of mixed reviews.

“It was okay, I guess.”

“Not too bad.”

“Why did it have to be so sad?”

“Exactly!” Fogelman pounced on the comment. “It
was
sad. What a heartbreaking surprise ending!”

“I wasn’t surprised,” I said. “I knew Old Shep was going to die before I started page one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the teacher snapped. “How?”

I shrugged. “Because the dog always dies. Go to the library and pick out a book with an award sticker and a dog on the cover. Trust me, that dog is going down.”

“Not true!” stormed Mr. Fogelman.

“Well,” I challenged, “what happened to Old Yeller?”

“Oh, all right,” the teacher admitted. “So Old Yeller died.”

“What about Sounder?” piped up Joey Quick.

“And Bristle Face,” added Mike “Feather” Wrigley, one of my football teammates.

“Don’t forget
Where the Red Fern Grows
,” I put in. “The double whammy—
two
dogs die in that one.”

“You’ve made your point,” growled Mr. Fogelman. “And now I’m going to make mine. I expect a proper review. And you’re going to give it to me—during detention!”

“Nice grab, Wallace!”

I caught the short pass, and turned upfield.

WHAM!

Steve Cavanaugh hit me at hip level, and I saw stars. It was a clean tackle—totally legal—but it was pretty hard for practice. This had less to do with Cavanaugh’s toughness than it did with the fact that we used to be best friends.

“Steve, are you crazy?”

Cavanaugh’s body was yanked off of me, and the face of Rick Falconi, our quarterback, took its place in my field of vision.

“Wallace, are you okay? Speak to me!”

I pushed him away and jumped up. “I’m fine, Rick. It was a legal hit.”

Rick looked daggers at Cavanaugh. “You
idiot
! You could’ve injured our best player. Why’d you have to nail him?”

Cavanaugh pulled off his helmet, and down cascaded the longest, blondest hair at Bedford Middle School. “What did you want me to do? Give him a pedicure?”