No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online

almost like keeping a journal or a diary.”
    She looked unconvinced. “Do you mail them?”
    “Well—yeah,” I admitted.
    She was shocked. “Rachel, how could you? Julia Roberts is going to think that Wallace is some kind of gangster!”
    “Trudi, I know you like him,” I said patiently. “But after all he’s done to us, how can you take his side?”
    “Because he’s a gifted playwright,” she said stubbornly. “Not to mention adorable, a football hero, and someone who could get us invited to all the coolest parties!”
    Trudi seemed to think there was this ultra-hip “scene” out there, where rock stars, the rich and famous, and the beautiful people (but not Trudi Davis) hung out together. Oh, I’m sure it existed somewhere, but definitely not at the Bedford 7-Eleven. And I doubt you could could join it by dating a middle-school football player, even the celebrated Wallace Wallace.
    I was so upset, I couldn’t enjoy the evening out my dad planned for the whole family in honor of Mom’s birthday. We were driving into New York to see a real Broadway play. I’d been excited for weeks because the theater is my whole life. (Now, thanks to Old Shep, My Pal , I got a queasy feeling in my stomach every time I heard the word “play.”)
    My brother didn’t make things any easier. “Why do we have to go to a dumb old play?” he whined for most of the hour-long drive. “I hate plays.”
    “You love the theater,” my mother said in surprise. “Remember how much you enjoyed Cats ?”
    “That was before a stupid play ruined the Giants,” Dylan growled, “and stuck Wallace Wallace on detention.”
    There it was. Wallace Wallace was following me to New York (courtesy of Dylan).
    “Your hero is on detention because of his own big mouth,” I said sourly. “And if Nathaniel Spitzner had his way, he’d be on death row.”
    My father was astonished. “You know Wallace Wallace? What’s he like?”

    “Wallace,” Vito called the next day at rehearsal, “this speech doesn’t sound natural to me.”
    Mr. Fogelman stepped in. “We’ve changed that part.”
    “I can’t get into my character’s mind,” Vito insisted.
    That made Nathaniel wince. “Two weeks ago, you tried out for this role to make up for an F in art. Now, suddenly, you have to get inside Morry Lamont’s head?”
    But Wallace was already climbing up the stairs to the stage. My back teeth were clenched so tight that I could feel the tension headache coming on. These were the moments I had come to dread the most. Fix this! Cut that! And nobody seemed to be able to stop him.
    Wallace took Vito’s script. “Let me see.”
    “No way,” the director persisted. “You’ve already rewritten this speech. Every single word. All ten lines.”
    “Well, that’s the whole problem,” Wallace explained. “It’s too long. Nobody does this much talking without something else going on.”
    “Like what?” Mr. Fogelman demanded.
    “Something real people do,” Wallace said thoughtfully. He reached around and pulled the yo-yo out of Vito’s back pocket.
    “Here.” Wallace popped it into his hand. “Try playing with this when you give that speech. Be distracted. You’re talking, but at the same time you’re ‘rocking the cradle.’”
    The strangest feeling began to come over me. My ears burned, then roared. I started fidgeting because I couldn’t keep my feet still.
    “Now, just one minute!” ordered Mr. Fogelman. “There are no yo-yos in Old Shep, My Pal. ”
    “It’s just something for the audience to watch,” Wallace insisted. “I mean, this whole play is nothing but a bunch of knuckleheads standing around talking.”
    My script slipped out of my clammy hands and hit the gym floor.
    “That’s not true!” Mr. Fogelman countered angrily. “They’re nursing Old Shep!”
    “And where’s Old Shep?” the creep argued. “You’ve got a basket with a blanket in it. This is a dog play with no dog.”
    I was going to faint, or die,