No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online Page B

where the accident would take place.
    “I’ll work the remote control!”
    “No, I’ll work the remote control!”
    “QUI-ET!!”
    Mr. Fogelman ended my brief reign as the loudest yeller in the gym. His voice was a foghorn.
    “I don’t want to hear another word of this,” the director said sternly. “We will begin our play where Zack Paris began his book. And that’s final.”
    “But Mr. Fogelman!” protested Trudi. “You told us that a play belongs to its actors.”
    “Yes,” the teacher replied. “ This play. But the kind of changes you’re talking about make it some other play.”
    “Yeah! A better one!” exclaimed Vito earnestly.
    And the babble started up again.
    “Mr. Fogelman’s right!” Nathaniel pleaded into the ruckus. “Let’s listen to our director!”
    Forget it. The gym was pandemonium. Big, affable Vito was waving his arms and howling. Trudi’s high-pitched, strident voice rang out like a policeman’s whistle. Everton Wu, a tiny, shy fifth-grade stagehand, was right in Mr. Fogelman’s face, registering his protest.
    But Mr. Fogelman hadn’t gotten a real play produced in New York by letting himself be pushed around. He put up with the shouting for a while, and then he laid down the law.
    “All right, people, listen up,” the teacher commanded. “This is our play, and this is how it’s going to be performed. If anybody is unwilling to do that, let me know, and I’ll begin looking for your replacement.”
    In all the time Trudi and I had been friends (forever), I’d never seen her so angry.
    I begged her to be reasonable. “The first rule of drama is to listen to the director. The director is like the president of the play.”
    “That’s not true!” Her response was bitter. “If you don’t like the president, you can vote him out of office. But nobody ever voted for Mr. Fogelman!”

Enter…
MR. FOGELMAN
    MEMO: Talk to Coach Wrigley
    It was two weeks ago that I approached the coach in the faculty room. I felt he should hear it from me that it didn’t look like Wallace would be writing his review anytime soon.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Wallace is a pretty straight kid. Stubborn.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it.”
    The coach poured himself another coffee. “What exactly has he done?”
    “He’s pulled a smart-aleck routine over my book review project,” I explained. “I thought an afternoon of detention might make my point. Now I’m getting dirty looks from students in the hall. I ordered a pizza last night, and when I gave my name, the girl on the phone said, ‘You’d better let Wallace Wallace come back to the Giants.’”
    Wrigley handed me a cup. “Bedford had never won anything before. Now that they’re champions, they expect to compete every year. Believe me, I’m feeling the heat because we’re losing.”
    “What do you do about it?” I asked.
    “I don’t order any pizzas, that’s for sure.”
    I sat down on the couch. “And Wallace is such a good player that my detention puts you in last place?”
    “Nah!” He shook his head. “If Wallace could make the difference for the Giants, I’d be all over you to give the kid a break.”
    “But everybody says—” I began.
    “Trust me. Our lousy season has nothing to do with Wallace Wallace.”
    I liked Coach Wrigley. I was glad there were no hard feelings between us. I stood up. “One last thing. You know Wallace. How long do you think it’ll take before he sees it my way?”
    Wrigley pointed ominously out the small window. “That parking lot is paved with the bones of teachers who are still waiting for Wallace to see it their way.”
    MEMO: Stay the course. Don’t panic.
    Maybe I should have listened to the coach’s warning. But how could I have predicted what Wallace would do to our play? I can barely describe it! I tried, to my wife, Jane, and I wound up sounding like a fool:
    “Well, at first everybody loved him because he was a football star. Then they hated him because he