No More Dead Dogs Read Free

would be a great advertisement for our play. But I wasn’t about to let him make fun of us.
    “Mr. Fogelman is a real professional writer, you know. He even had a play produced in New York once.”
    “If he’s the next Shakespeare,” Wallace challenged, “how come he’s teaching middle school in Bedford?”
    I stared at him. “That’s rude!”
    “No it isn’t.” He looked me squarely in the eye again. “It’s the truth.”
    “Rachel,” called Mr. Fogelman, “we’re starting.” To Wallace he added, “You can go when you’ve written a proper review of Old Shep, My Pal. Prove to me you’ve read the book at least.”
    I joined the cast in the circle of chairs. Trudi grabbed my arm, digging her painted fingernails into my wrist. “What’s he like?”
    “He’s like a guy serving detention,” I replied, “and he isn’t really thrilled to be here.”
    “Yeah, but did he say anything about me?”
    “That’s warning sign number two,” I whispered back.
    She giggled. You couldn’t insult Trudi Davis. She had a hide like a rhinoceros.
    There was no feeling quite like the first day of rehearsal. To take simple words on paper and bring them to life was a fantastic challenge. It was like the birth of a new baby (I’m only guessing here).
    Of course, you can’t have a performance on the first day. You have a staged reading. We all gathered in a circle with our scripts, and went through the entire play with each actor saying his (or her) lines. Okay, some of the cast was fooling around a little. There was a lot of laughing when Leticia Ogden choked on her gum, and when Vito Brundia read “What can this dog do?” as “What is this, dog-doo ?” Even Mr. Fogelman had a pretty good laugh at Vito’s expense. That’s part of the fun of drama.
    The only person who found no humor in the situation was Wallace Wallace. Mr. Fogelman stuck him right in our circle, hoping our reading would inspire his book report (Mr. Fogelman dreams in Technicolor). In fact, as the reading went on, I paid less and less attention to my part, and began concentrating on the paper in front of Wallace, who was right next to me.
    This is what he wrote:

    “Pssst!” I hissed. “Cross that out!”
    He grinned at me (nice teeth for a football player).
    I pointed to the last line. “That’s not a review. That’s mean.”
    “But true.” He gave me the teeth again.
    “No, it’s not—”
    “Rachel,” came Mr. Fogelman’s voice.
    I looked up to find that I was the center of attention.
    Trudi kicked me under my chair. “It’s your line!” she whispered.
    I grabbed my script and began flipping pages, but I was hopelessly lost.
    I’m not a tattletale, but this was all Wallace’s fault (sort of).
    “It’s because of him,” I accused. “He’s writing a terrible review.” I caught a wild-eyed look from Wallace, like he couldn’t believe I was ratting him out.
    Mr. Fogelman’s brow clouded up like a thunderhead. He stomped over and scanned the paper.
    “This is unacceptable!” He frowned. “It’s not a review; it’s a plot summary, and not a very nice one at that.”
    “It proves I read the book,” Wallace pointed out.
    “You read the words but not the meaning ,” Mr. Fogelman insisted passionately. “The rich themes, the wonderful characters—”
    “I hated the characters, Mr. Fogelman.”
    “You’d better be careful,” warned the director. He indicated the cast (us) with a sweep of his hand. “I’ll have you know you’re talking to Corey, Lori, Morry, and Tori right here.”
    “I’m Tori,” Trudi piped up. “Awesome touchdown last year. Is that a real Giants Windbreaker? I’ve never seen one of these up close before.” She stuck her elbow in my face and reached over to brush his arm. “Ooh, nice material.”
    Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Give me a break!”
    Wallace looked earnestly around the circle. “I’ve got nothing against you guys. I just didn’t like the book, okay?” He stood up.