No More Dead Dogs Read Free Page B

have managed on my own, Wally. You don’t have to call in the entire team every time a fuse needs changing.”
    I shrugged. “I like to do my share.”
    She whistled through her teeth, which was the signal that she had something on her mind. I waited.
    “I’ve been mulling over this problem of yours at school,” she began finally. “I think I’ve come up with a solution.”
    “Me, too,” I replied. “What if there’s an earthquake this weekend, and a giant crack opens up, and Fogelman falls in?”
    Mom pretended to consider this. “Not bad. But just in case that doesn’t happen, why not try it my way?”
    “I’m not going to lie.” It was an old song I’d been singing all my life, and she was used to it.
    “You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “Just write a serious paper on exactly why you think Old Shep, My Pal isn’t any good. No wisecracks, no sarcasm, just a simple, solid essay. It’s the man’s favorite book, Wally. If you insult it, you’re making fun of him.”
    “Anybody who likes that waste of toilet paper deserves to be made fun of,” I observed.
    “That’s exactly the attitude that’s been getting you in trouble,” she reminded me.
    I sighed.
    I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped into the locker room on Saturday. The usual pregame chatter died all at once, like someone had pulled the plug.
    I tossed my duffel onto the bench. “What is this, Joe’s Funeral Parlor?”
    Feather put a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. “Listen, Wallace, before my dad sees you—”
    Too late. Coach Wrigley rounded the corner, eyes shooting sparks. “Hello and good-bye, Wallace. Get out of my locker room.”
    Honestly, I thought he was joking. “What are you talking about, Coach?”
    “Detention is what I’m talking about!” roared Wrigley. “You’re still on it!”
    “Not on Saturday.”
    The coach shook his head. “School rules. If you’re on detention, you can’t play on a team, join a club, or go on a field trip—even on weekends.”
    Did you know that a school has more power than the government? I mean, it was Saturday , not even a school day! How could Fogelman have this much control over my life? I was so stunned that all I could manage was a very feeble “No kidding.”
    And if you think I was upset—
    “Hey!” Rick was framed in the doorway. He dropped his helmet with a clatter. “Detention was yesterday!”
    Cavanaugh shook his head. “This is terrible, Jackass Jackass.” And when nobody was looking, the rat winked at me. I was the only one in the locker room who knew how much my ex–best friend was enjoying this.
    “It stinks, Dad,” put in Feather. “Fogelman’s got it in for Wallace.”
    “That’s Mr. Fogelman to you, pal,” his father corrected him.
    “But can’t you talk to him?” Feather pleaded. “Get him to go easy. It’s out of Wallace’s hands.”
    “Wallace’s hands aren’t the problem,” Wrigley snarled at me. “It’s his mouth that keeps getting him into trouble.”
    “I can’t believe we painted your garage door for nothing!” Rick complained. “How can we try out my new trick play if you’re not even in the game?”
    “The flea-flicker?” I managed, still in shock.
    “This one’s even better,” he assured me. “Check it out: You take the handoff, but instead of running, you look for me to go deep. Then you hit me for the surprise touchdown.”
    “That’s why you became a quarterback,” I pointed out. “You couldn’t catch a cold.”
    “Well, we’ll never know now , will we?” Rick seethed.
    The coach put a friendly arm around my shoulder. “I’ve got some advice for you, kid. A lot of people think football is played on the field.”
    “You mean it isn’t?” What was he talking about?
    “Look around you. Feather’s on an all-celery diet to slim down and speed up. Wilkerson sleeps with a football to learn to hang on to it. Falconi’s trying to memorize the playbook so he doesn’t have to invent