My Dog's a Scaredy-Cat by Henry Winkler Read Free Book Online Page B

hall of my apartment, “is figure out where to build it.”
    â€œI think it should go right in the middle of the living room,” Ashley said.
    â€œNo good, Ashweena,” I answered. “It needs to be in the corner. That way, we already have two walls built.”
    â€œGood thinking, dude,” Frankie said. “I always knew you could use your head for other things than to hold up your Mets hat, which as I’ve said many times, I don’t approve of anyway.”
    In case I haven’t told you before, Frankie is a major Yankees fan and I’m a Mets guy, but in spite of that, we’ve stayed best friends. That should tell you something about how much we get along in every other area, because I love the Mets and he loves the Yankees. I mean love love, as in how we feel about pizza and monster movies and silver Lamborghinis.
    â€œI say we put it in the corner by the fireplace,” I suggested. “We’ll use blankets to cover up the two windows there and sheets to make walls. It’s got to be pitch-black inside.”
    â€œSo now we go ahead and put up a haunted house?” Frankie asked. “Just like that?”
    â€œWhy not?” I said, rolling up my sleeves to get to work.
    â€œUh, Zip, there’s a little word called parents.”
    â€œAnd another little word called grounded,” Ashley added.
    Oh, that again. Can someone please tell me why parents are in the way of so many fun things?
    I looked over at the green desk. The note Papa Pete had left for my dad was gone. To me, that meant that my dad had seen it. And he hadn’t left a note saying no. These were both very good signs.
    â€œYou guys wait here,” I told Frankie and Ashley. “I’ll get permission.”
    I tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom, where my dad was taking a nap in his green chair. He loves afternoon naps. He calls them power naps. They power him right into Jeopardy , so he can answer every question on history, geography, sports, science, and anything else involving a number or a fact. He is really smart. One thing is for sure, I certainly didn’t get my brain from him.
    I stood there for a minute, wondering if I should wake him to ask permission to build the haunted house. What if he said no? That was totally unacceptable. Besides, I told myself, he looked so peaceful, asleep in his chair. And it would really be a shame to wake him up. Never wake a sleeping parent unless there’s blood or fire or a broken television involved. That’s what I say.
    I went back into the living room.
    â€œLet’s build!” I said.
    â€œDid your dad say okay?” Ashley asked.
    â€œLet me put it this way: He didn’t say not okay. And that’s good enough for me.”
    First, I grabbed the coatrack that we keep in the entry hall by the front door and dragged it into the living room. Then I unplugged the pole lamp that’s next to the couch and pulled it into the middle of the floor.
    â€œThese will be great tent poles for the walls,” I announced. “We’ll drape sheets over them and attach the other end of the sheets to the walls with thumbtacks.”
    â€œProblem Number One,” Ashley said. “Something tells me your parents won’t be thrilled with us leaving holes in the wall.”
    â€œProblem solved. I’ll patch up the holes afterward.”
    â€œRight. You’ll do that when I change my name to Bernice,” Frankie said with a laugh. “Face it, Zip. No way you’re ever going to patch up these walls and not leave a complete mess.”
    â€œI’ll go get some duct tape,” Ashley offered. “My dad has tons of it in the bottom drawer where he keeps hammers and rope. He calls it his tool drawer, but I call it his throw-everything-inhere-when-you-don’t-know-where-else-it-goes drawer.”
    â€œBring his fishing pole, too,” I hollered after her. “And some rope.” I wasn’t