Free No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman Page A

Forget the rest, ’cause I’m the best!”
    I must have looked like I was about to choke on my sandwich, because Trudi offered me her water glass. “Listen, Rory,” I managed between gulps, “there isn’t any Rollerblading in Old Shep, My Pal. ”
    “But I’m awesome !” he insisted.
    Wallace looked thoughtful. “Laszlo’s pretty good on the moped, but the scene needs something more. Maybe we should put Rory onstage to chase Old Shep in front of the motorcycle. I’ve always wondered why that stupid mutt ran out in the middle of the road. It’ll make more sense if someone’s after him.” He frowned. “Who chases a dog?”
    “A dogcatcher!” Trudi jumped in.
    I thought I was going to die. “ What dogcatcher?”
    “The Rollerblading dogcatcher.” Wallace was getting excited. “With Rory doing his thing around the Lamonts, the moving toy dog, and Laszlo on the moped, it could be pretty spectacular.”
    “It’s perfect,” Trudi applauded.
    Rory was just as impressed. “Man, I am in ! I’ll see you at rehearsal this afternoon. And Wallace, dude, get ready to be amazed, because I’m bringing my ’blades!”
    I chomped down hard on my tongue (ouch). It wasn’t my job to tell them that none of this was going to happen. That was why we had a director.

    When the bell rang at three-thirty, I raced down to Mr. Fogelman’s office to talk to him before rehearsal. I was so upset that I just started babbling even before I barged through his half-open door.
    “Mr. Fogelman, I don’t know how to tell you this—”
    I froze. The director was on his hands and knees in the midst of a mountain of crumpled-up paper towels, scrubbing at a stack of colored folders.
    He looked up at me. “Somebody poured pancake syrup in my filing cabinet!”
    I dropped to my knees, grabbed a towel, and did what I could to help. “Do you think it’s another attack on the play?”
    “You bet I do,” the teacher said in annoyance. “Look at this—the only files that are damaged are the ones on Old Shep, My Pal. ”
    It was a mess. Syrup and paper don’t mix. Poor Mr. Fogelman’s notes were glued together, and soaked through with the sticky slime. In no time, I was in it up to the elbows, and little bits of paper were starting to stick to me. I’d always loved maple syrup until I saw what it could do to a script. (Yuck!)
    “Did he break into your office?” I asked.
    “Did who break into my office?”
    Who? Everybody knew it was Wallace Wallace. But I said, “You know—the person who did this.”
    We stared at each other. He didn’t speak, and neither did I.
    “I keep my door unlocked,” he said finally. He added, “But we don’t know who did this. Even if we think we do, we don’t.”
    All this talking (or not talking) about Wallace reminded me why I’d come to see our director in the first place.
    “Mr. Fogelman, I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got some more bad news. You’ll never believe what’s going to happen at rehearsal!”
    The Wallace vein in his forehead throbbed as I explained that Old Shep, My Pal now starred Rory Piper as the Rollerblading dogcatcher.
    “We’ll see about this!” he roared, cleaning his sticky hands with a Wet-Nap.
    He stormed out into the hall, taking steps so large that I had to jog along beside him. Down the corridor, around the bend, and into the gym he swooped like an avenging angel.
    Suddenly, I pulled up short, and beside me, Mr. Fogelman did the same. We stared.
    Rory Piper was Rollerblading, and he was amazing to behold. He streaked across the stage, his feet just a blur, executing jumps and spins and funky dance steps. In his hands he brandished a large butterfly net, which he waved at Old Shep. Yes, the dog was there, too, mounted on a remote-control car, “running” around the road, narrowly avoiding the dogcatcher’s swooping net. It was so crazy, and yet it was almost graceful, like a ballet. Rory moved on the Rollerblades as if they were extensions of his