No More Dead Dogs (12 page)

“Dylan, don’t!” I pleaded. “You love this stuff!”

“Get out of here, Rachel!” he warned. “I don’t want anything to do with you! You’re part of the play that brainwashed Wallace Wallace!”

I rushed over and slammed his window shut. “To be brainwashed, first you have to have a brain!”

But he was really upset. “It’s not funny! At least when he was on detention, he had no choice! Now he doesn’t even
want
to be a Giant, thanks to your rotten stinking play and your rotten stinking friend!”

“You think
I’m
thrilled about it?” I countered. “I was so happy when I thought we were rid of that jock! Now we’re stuck with him forever! So if you want to feel sorry for somebody, try me!”

In a way, it was the closest I’d ever been with my little brother. It tore him up that Wallace was off football and on drama, and I was just as upset about exactly the same thing.

The next morning when we got to school, I wasn’t surprised to find that someone had written
FEMME FATALE
on Trudi’s locker in Magic Marker. The part that blew me away was that Wallace Wallace was there, armed with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing it off.

He looked at Trudi, and I stepped protectively between them. “Don’t you dare yell at her!”

He shrugged as he looked at us. “Sorry. My fault.”

I was bug-eyed. Of all the things I’d expected, this was dead last on the list. “
Your
fault?”

He shifted uncomfortably and continued to address Trudi. “It’s Porker Zit. The guy’s got it in for me, for some reason. And you got caught in the crossfire.”

“Oh, hey, no problem,” Trudi said graciously. “Sticks and stones, right?”

He finished the cleanup, mumbled, “See you guys at rehearsal,” and rushed away.

Trudi turned to me. “There’s something totally, like, deep between me and Wallace,” she insisted.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah? What?”

“Well, if you could just say it, it wouldn’t be deep, would it?”

(Sheesh!)

Hanging out with Trudi that day was like accompanying a movie star on a stroll through Beverly Hills. Kids in the hall stopped and stared at her. Pointing fingers followed us like compass needles. Whispered conversations swirled around us as we passed by.

“That’s her! That’s Wallace’s girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend? She’s his fiancée.”

“He gave up football for her!”

One fifth grader exclaimed to his friend, “Hey, look! That’s Wallace Wallace’s leading lady!”

I grabbed the poor kid by his collar, and shouted right into his face, “Wallace Wallace isn’t an actor! He isn’t even
in
the play! But if he was, his leading lady wouldn’t be
her
! It would be me!”

Trudi looked at me with such shock that I got all flustered. “Well, my part is bigger than yours, and I’m going to be a real actress one day, and why does everybody think Wallace is the toast of Broadway just because he used to wear cleats?”

“Calm down,” Trudi soothed. “You can’t blame people for being interested. The greatest Giant ever just threw it all away; rehearsals are locked up tight; loud music is blasting from the gym—we’re the hottest ticket at school!”

I snorted. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

She threw her arms wide. “What’s not to love? Before all this, we were a couple of nothing seventh graders. Now we’re in on the biggest thing since Wallace’s touchdown. Eighth graders talk to us! Do you realize that if Wallace had a party tonight, we’d probably be invited?”

I made a face. “If Wallace invited me to his house to pick up my ten-million-dollar check from Publishers Clearing House, I wouldn’t go.”

Trudi looked impatient. “You’re the one who always complains that nobody cares about the drama club. Well, now
everybody
cares. And our play is shaping up into a monster hit! Life is good, Rachel! Enjoy it!”

When I heard that Wallace was changing the role of the vet, by turning all her dialogue into rap, I rushed right over to Mr. Fogelman’s office to offer some sympathy and moral support.

My head was spinning as I walked. Now, instead of “Your beloved pet has expired,” Leticia’s lines went more like:

“Go shop for a canary, or a turtle, or a frog.

’Cause you no longer own a dog.”

I suppose that was a jock’s idea of poignant and beautiful.

I tapped on the door of the teacher’s office, and walked in. “Mr. Fogelman, I’m so sor—” The astonishing sight and sound within that room stopped me dead in my tracks.

The three Dead Mangoes were draped in various poses around the cramped quarters. The Quick brothers were strumming madly on their unplugged guitars. That awful Void person slouched all over the desk, drumming on the blotter, and using the IN/OUT tray as cymbals. Most amazing of all, Mr. Fogelman was perched on an overturned wastebasket. All his concentration was aimed at the small electric keyboard that rested on his knees. They were
jamming
!

And it was great! The best thing about it was Mr. Fogelman. The Wallace vein was nowhere to be seen as his fingers danced over the keys. He looked as young and carefree as Joey. With a sweep of his hand, he brought their song to a close.

I clapped as loud as I could. “That was fantastic, Mr. Fogelman! I didn’t know you could play!”

He seemed kind of embarrassed to be caught in the act. “Oh, you know, I was in a band in college. I’m not very good anymore.”

“Are you kidding?” crowed Joey, punctuating it with a power chord. “You’re
awesome
! You’re going to be the ultimate Dead Mango!”

Mr. Fogelman laughed gently. “Thanks for that, Joe, but I’m not really free to join your band. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a job.”

“No, he means for the play!” Owen explained. “We need your keyboard to get a really big sound for
Old Shep, My Pal.
”

“That would be fun,” Mr. Fogelman admitted, “but it’s impossible. I’m the director.”

The Void raised both hands to part the curtain of hair away from his eyes. “
You’re
the director?” He frowned. “I thought that guy Wallace was the director.”

“No,” I said sarcastically. “He’s in charge of everything else in the world.”

Mr. Fogelman laughed. And I thought to myself, if the Dead Mangoes could put our director in a good mood (even when the W word was mentioned), then they were well worth having in the play.

“Come on, Mr. Fogelman,” Joey pleaded. “Without you we’re just fantastic.
With
you, we’d be, like, out of control, ballistic, steamroller, wow!”

Suddenly, I blurted, “You should do it, Mr. Fogelman! Wal—
other people
can look after staging and cues.” (I’d almost said…well, you know.)

I could practically see our director’s brain working as he talked himself into it. Finally, he sighed. “The play has changed so much; I guess it can change a little more. Boys, you’ve got yourself another Mango.”

The Bedford fall fair was that weekend. Trudi and I had been going as long as we’d been friends. Yeah, sure, we were getting a little old for the games and the rides. But it was still fun, with the best junk food on earth. My favorite part was the show tent, which really appealed to the actress in me.

“Let’s go early like last year,” I urged as we walked to homeroom.

“Go where?” asked Trudi airily.

(Earth to Trudi…) “Hello! The fair is Saturday.”

“The fair?” she repeated. “We’ve got no time for that. Wallace is raking leaves on Saturday!”

I stared at her. “And I should care about this because…?” I prompted.

“We can’t let him do all that work by himself,” Trudi reasoned. “It’s a big yard. And his dad doesn’t live with them, you know.”

“You don’t live with them either,” I reminded her.

I didn’t care that my dizzy friend was starting to believe Parker Schmidt’s article. Anybody with eyes could see how she laughed at Wallace’s jokes, hung around his locker, and even invited him to a cast party at her house (one guest: him. He stayed about forty-five seconds). No, what bothered me was that she was blowing me off, breaking our tradition, to do some jock’s yard work!

All day I simmered just below boiling. I looked longingly at the posters advertising this year’s fair as the biggest we’d ever had. I must have overheard twenty people from our play alone making plans to meet bright and early Saturday morning:

“Be at my house by eight-thirty. My mom’s giving us a lift.”

“We’ll meet at the Main Street bus.”

“Don’t be late. There’s so much to do.”

I thought it over. Why should I miss the fair because Trudi had gone crazy? I had other friends at this school.

I approached Leticia. “Hey, is it all right if I tag along with you guys on Saturday?”

“Sure!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm. “The more the merrier. Don’t forget to bring your rake.”

My
rake
?!

Enter…
WALLACE WALLACE

I
was a Giant again, in my usual spot on the bench. The halftime show was going on in the middle of the game. It was “Old Shep, My Pal,” starring Nathaniel Spitzner on Rollerblades, with musical guests Mr. Fogelman and the Dead Mangoes.

Rick took the snap, and whipped the ball over to Laszlo, who took off on his moped, mud kicking up behind the spinning wheels. But Everton Wu was a wizard with his remote control, and the stuffed dog made a beautiful tackle.

I was about to jump on the fumble when marbles and pepper and pancake syrup started raining down on the field. It was another attack on the play! My loyal wife Trudi had the culprit in a headlock. He wore a Giants’ uniform with a question mark where the number should be. His face was hidden by a cheerleader’s megaphone.

“Wallace!”

I knew that voice! Was it Rick? Feather? Kevin? Cavanaugh?

I pushed away the megaphone to reveal the face of…

“Wally!”

My mother was calling me from downstairs.

“I couldn’t see who it was!” I roared out loud.

“Wally, come down. Your friends are here.”

I sat up in bed. “Rick?” I asked hopefully. “Feather?” I couldn’t believe those guys were talking to me again after I’d quit the team.

I ripped open the curtains to see whose bike was here. I gawked.

It wasn’t Rick or Feather, but it seemed like everybody else I knew. Most of the cast and crew of
Old Shep, My Pal
was swarming over my yard, raking.

Laszlo stood guard over an enormous pile of leaves. Vito held open green garbage bags while Rory and Leticia were in charge of stuffing. They were so organized down there that they even had a twist-tie specialist, Everton, who was also responsible for piling the full bundles by the curb. It was like the Giants times a hundred. But I’d always
invited
the team. I hadn’t invited anybody for today.

I threw on some clothes, and raced downstairs. It was really nice of everyone, but I was mortified. I mean, the job was half done before I even opened my eyes to start the day.

Trudi was there to greet me as I burst out the side door. “Hi, Wallace! Guess what we’re doing!”

Like I wouldn’t notice forty people slaving on my lawn. “But why are you here? How did everybody know I was raking today?”

She looked mystified. “You told me.”

“
I
told you?” But then I remembered. Ever since that moron Parker Schmidt reported that Trudi was the love of my life, she’d been trying to bamboozle me into acting like it was true. When she hit me up to take her to the fall fair, I was stuck. I couldn’t lie, so I made up my mind to rake leaves, and used it as an excuse.

My mother sidled over. “Thanks a lot, Wally, for letting me know you were expecting company.”

“I didn’t know anybody was coming!” I whispered. “I’m as surprised as you are!”

She pushed a pitcher and a stack of paper cups into my hands. “See that everyone gets juice. I’ll go in and throw together a few thousand sandwiches.” The look she left me with pretty plainly said that for what this was going to cost us in food, we could have hired Lorenzo of Beverly Hills, Leaf-Raker to the Stars.

Feeling stupid and more than a little ashamed, I became the drink guy. These drama nerds—my
fellow
drama nerds; I was one of them now—they acted like I was doing them a favor by allowing them to work their fingers to the bone in my yard.

“It’s the least we can do to thank you for making our play so fantastic,” Vito said emotionally.

I have to admit that it felt good to be appreciated. The appreciation level from my former teammates on the Giants had dropped to zero. I glanced around the yard at my rakers and baggers. I definitely wasn’t friendless. I’d just made the switch to a different type of friend. While the Giants had all been pretty much the same type of personality, the drama club provided an unbelievable variety. Just in my backyard, I had a piece of work like the Void raking shoulder to shoulder with happy-go-lucky fifth grader Everton Wu. Or a hot dog like Rory working alongside a serious, straitlaced girl like Rachel.

Rachel? I did a double take. It was Rachel, all right. She hated my guts. Why would she come over to do my yard work?

I went up and offered her a glass of apple juice.