Dodger and Me Read Free Page A

left eye. It was also talking to me. “Hey, bud,” said the blue, patch-eyed chimp, “do you think I could maybe get a hand here? I’m sure this looks like a whole barrel of laughs to you but, dude, it’s hard to squeeze through this little spouty thing.”
    Another thing my mom always tells me is that I should never talk to strangers. And no matter who else I’d ever met, this blue, one-eyed, chimp-in-a-teapot guy was stranger than all of
them. In fact, he was so alarming I almost found myself wishing I had taken that ride home with Lizzie.
    Almost.
    I didn’t know how to handle this situation, exactly, but my mom also always tells me I should be polite and helpful, even though it’s hard to be polite and helpful if you’re supposed to be afraid of everybody you meet. So I made my wobbly legs move until I was right in front of the chimp and reached a hand out to him. He grabbed on with one warm, rough, slimy hand and I pulled kind of gently. He looked at me like I was a wimp, which is of course true, and said, “Come on, dude, I don’t have all day. I’ve been cramped up in this bottle long enough, and I’m pretty sure I’m sitting in a pile of cold, ketchupy french fries. So PULL!”
    I pulled as hard as I could, and there was a popping noise, accompanied by a big smoky flash. The chimp let go of my hand, and I went tumbling backwards onto my butt. Then he stepped forward out of the smoke, and for the first time I could see all of him. He was about four feet tall
and was wearing nothing but the eye patch and the world’s loudest pair of orange-and-white surfer shorts. He held his hand out to me. “Sorry about that, bud, my grip must have slipped a little—I think there’s some special sauce on my fingers.” He stopped and licked his thumb. “Oh, dude, it is special sauce—OLD special sauce. Yuck!”
    Great. If there’s one thing worse than grabbing the hand of a scary, blue pirate-chimp, it’s grabbing the mystery-sauce-coated hand of a scary, blue pirate-chimp. But he must have seen the disgusted look on my face, because he switched hands. This hand was dry, and he yanked me right up with no effort at all. “Hi,” he said, “you must be Willie. I’m Dodger.”
    â€œUm, uh, hi,” I replied. “How do you—”
    â€œHow do I know your name? Because, dude, I’ve been waiting for you to come and pick up my lamp.” He grinned at me as he started picking what looked like little clumps of chicken nugget out of his fur and licking them off of his fingers.
    â€œLamp? You mean that little teapot thing? But
I didn’t pick up the teapot; I picked up a fast-food bag.”
    â€œI know. That was a pretty smart disguise, don’t you think? Three different kids passed through here just this morning, but not one of them even came close to picking up a soggy piece of litter. That’s because you’re the special one. You’re the one who cares. You’re the one who will be my new best friend!”
    Okay, I was unpopular. But was I so amazingly unpopular that I needed a magical blue chimp for a best friend? Quite possibly. “Me? Are you sure you have the right kid?”
    â€œIf you’re Willie Ryan, of Seven Lamplighter Lane, I have the right kid. And I have been waiting for you here for, like, a really long time.”
    â€œUh, how long? Because that bag couldn’t have been in the water for very long, or it would have fallen apart. Wouldn’t it?”
    He thought this over for a while as he stretched his long arms up over his head and twisted his waist back and forth. “I’m, uh, not really so good with time, dude. There’s no clock in my lamp. But let’s put it this way: I’ve waited ten thousand fries
for you. I’ve waited nine hundred bags of ketchup. I’ve waited, like, fourteen Shamrock Shakes for you. So how long is