Free No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) by Trudi Trueit

CHAPTER
1
This Chapter Has Nothing to Do with My Pants
    I ’m kicking the leg of the chair outside the vice principal’s office. I’m snapping my fingers while kicking the leg of the chair outside the vice principal’s office. I’m sounding like a whistling firecracker while snapping my fingers while—
    â€œScab McNally!”
    I stop. Then I start again. This time I kick lightly so Mrs. Lipwart doesn’t bark at me. That’s not her real name. But who can remember her real name with that pink, knobby thing on her top lip? Whenever Mrs. Lipwart gets mad, the knob changes color. I can make it turn purple.
    BEWARE!
    M RS. BRACKEN FIRES SPIT rockets at you through her front teeth. Three-two-one, blastoff!
    Mr. Corbett’s onion-ring dragon breath will melt off your eyebrows.
    Whatever the cafeteria served for lunch yesterday is still stuck in Mr. Bell’s beard today.
    Ms. Jablinski has only one eyebrow—the left one; see Mr. Corbett.
    â€œPssst!”
    My best friend, Doyle Ferguson, is outside in the hall. I knew he wouldn’t forget me. We’re both in Miss Sweetandsour’s fourth-grade class. That’s not her real name either. It’s just Miss Sweeten. But she can turn sour in a flash if you flick a gooey snotball at Cloey Zittle.
Ka-zing!
    Doyle edges closer. “How—?”
    â€œWart!”
    He drops. When Mrs. Lipwart goes into the copy room, I wave him in. Doyle crawls toward me. Helooks like a lizard in his green jacket. “How long you in for?” he asks.
    â€œDon’t know yet. Are you coming over today if I’m not—?” I pretend to choke myself.
    â€œCan’t. We’re taking Oscar for his shots.”
    My throat tightens for real. Oscar is his new wiener dog. I’ve wanted a dog my whole life. But every time I ask, and I ask a lot, my parents say the same thing.
    â€œSomeday, Squiggle Bear,” says my mom, “when you’re older.”
    â€œSomeday,” says my dad, “when you show you can be responsible for a pet.”
    I’ll be ten in two months and nine days. That’s double digits! How much more responsible can I get? By the way, you did
not
hear my mom call me Squiggle Bear.
    â€œYou could come with us to the vet,” offers Doyle.
    SCAB’S TIP #19
    W HEN FLICKING A SNOT -ball, twist your wrist for turbo speed and maximum sticking power!
    I nod toward the vice principal’s door. “What if I’m—?”
    â€œYou won’t. You’ll get out of it.”
    He’s right. I’ll wriggle my way out of trouble. I always do. Doyle knows me from the bones out. And I know him from the bones out too. We met at summer day camp when we were seven. I got 148 mosquito bites in four days at camp. We counted them. The best part is that 148 red, oozing, swollen bites equals 148 scabs—scabs that you
have
to scratch and pick at until you peel off every last brown crusty covering. Oh, yeah! After that, Doyle started calling me Scab, and the nickname stuck. That’s another reason why he’s my best friend. If it weren’t for him, people would be calling me by my real name! Sorry, my real name is top secret. You’ll have to get special clearance if you want to know it.
    â€œDoyle Ferguson!”
    Bug spit! The lip knob has caught us. “Get back to the lunchroom this instant,” snaps Mrs. Lipwart, “unless you’d like to join Mr. McNally here.”
    Doyle spins on his stomach and squirms outof the office. Mrs. Lipwart starts stapling papers.
Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.
I go back to softly kicking the leg of the chair outside the vice principal’s office. Mr. Huckabee likes to make you wait. He thinks the longer you wait, the more scared you’ll be whenhe calls you in. Not me. I don’t scare easily.
    TOP SECRET:
SCAB’S REAL NAME!
    A RE YOU A TEACHER? ACCESS DENIED .
    Are you a doctor? Access denied.
    Are you an adult? Access