Free No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman

“Harold Schwartzbaum.”
    Now, Spanish is not my best subject, but I knew Harold Schwartzbaum was not the verb to dance . “What about him?”
    “He’s the one who’s been doing all those things to the play,” she murmured urgently.
    I was skeptical. “How do you figure that?”
    “On the day of the big pepper bomb, Wendy Pappas saw him sneeze in class.”
    I laughed. “Harold Schwartzbaum is allergic to everything. I’ve never seen him when he didn’t have a Kleenex attached to his face.”
    “Not only that,” Trudi went on, “but when he heard about ‘ Old Shep, Dead Mutt ,’ Wendy says he laughed.”
    “Wendy should find herself a better hobby than spying on Harold Schwartzbaum,” I shot back. “Half the school laughed. You laughed.”
    “Yeah, but I know I didn’t do it,” she reasoned.
    “Look,” I cut her off. “Everybody knows who’s doing it. It’s your precious Wallace Wallace.”
    Trudi looked at me like I had just accused the Easter Bunny of armed robbery. She folded her arms in defiance. “Then how come Wallace is trying to find out who’s doing it?”
    “Why? Because Parker Schmidt says he’s an undercover agent?” I exclaimed. “That guy thinks Star Wars is a documentary! If you believe the Standard , you’re a chump!”
    “ You’re the chump!” she snapped. “Wallace isn’t against the play! He’s helping the play!”
    “Wallace is weird,” I retorted. I personally had no problem picturing him pretending to work on the play every afternoon, and sneaking into school the next morning to torpedo it. (And it wasn’t because he was a complex character. He was just plain rotten.)
    But for the good of the drama club, I kept quiet about Wallace. It wasn’t easy, but I acted just as thrilled as everybody else to have Laszlo Tamas on a moped. The serious actress in me appreciated that our cast was so pumped up; my common sense told me that our new opening scene was bizarre with a capital B.
    But when you’ve been friends with someone since third grade, it’s hard to shake them. So it was automatic for me to plunk my tray down next to Trudi at lunch that day. I was already well established on the bench before I realized who else was sitting at the table. It was my (dis)honor to be dining with Wallace Wallace.
    “Oh, it’s you,” we both chorused. I was still a little embarrassed around him after my meltdown.
    “Laszlo’s the greatest,” raved Trudi, exercising her world-renowned sucking-up muscle. “I’m going to teach him a new cool English word every day. Today’s is MTV.”
    Wallace raised an eyebrow. “What’s tomorrow’s—HBO?”
    So help me, I was just about to say the same thing. But coming from him, it sounded rude and insulting.
    “Don’t laugh with your mouth full,” I mumbled at Trudi, who was yukking it up like a hyena. To her, whatever Wallace said was witty and perfect.
    There was a thump as Rory Piper, a pint-sized seventh grader, vaulted the bench, landing expertly in the seat opposite Wallace.
    “Nice shot,” Wallace commented.
    “You should see it on Rollerblades.” Rory grinned.
    Everything about Rory happened at double-speed: the way he ate, the way he moved, and especially the way he talked. “I hear you guys have got some pretty amazing things happening with the school play.”
    I was impressed. Usually nobody cared about the drama department. “Well,” I began modestly, “we’ve been working with Mr. Fogelman—”
    Rory waved a hand in my face. “Hang on a sec, Rachel, I’m talking to Wallace here.” He turned his back on me. “Laszlo says you guys are working up a monster opening to Old Shep, My Pal. You think there’s a part for me in there?”
    “Of course not,” I said peevishly. “The play was cast weeks ago.”
    But Wallace was taking this dumb request seriously. “What did you have in mind?” he asked Rory.
    “Rollerblading, man!” cried Rory. “I rule! You send me out on the stage to work a little magic.