Free No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman Page B

feet.
    All at once, there was a roar of machinery. From the wings Laszlo Tamas sped onto the scene, mounted on his moped, which had been decorated to look like a Harley. He wore hockey headgear instead of a motorcycle helmet, but you could see the pure concentration through the face guard as he aimed his front tire at Old Shep.
    Thump!
    The stuffed animal went one way, the toy car went another. The bump sent Laszlo’s helmet flying. It ricocheted softly off the curtain, and plopped into the butterfly net. Laszlo kept riding straight down the stairs, and came to a screeching halt under the near basketball net.
    The cast and crew leaped to their feet in a standing ovation. My confusion almost tore me in two. Yes, I know, I’d come here to blast this dogcatcher thing out of the water. But a true actress couldn’t help but recognize great theater. This was pure entertainment. I looked to Mr. Fogelman for guidance. Surely a real professional writer would know what to do.
    Our director’s expression was unreadable. Then he began to clap, slowly at first, but with growing enthusiasm.
    Everton Wu ran out from the wings, triumphantly waving the remote control for Old Shep. “It was amazing!” he howled.
    Instantly, he was set upon by his fellow stagehands with backslaps of congratulations.
    Flushed with victory, Rory took a Rollerblading suicide leap off the side of the stage into the arms of a wildly celebrating Laszlo.
    Naturally, Trudi was the first person to gush all over Wallace. Right in front of everybody, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a humongous kiss on his smarmy cheek. I was humiliated on her (idiotic) behalf.
    My disgust was interrupted by Vito’s voice: “Wait a minute! It isn’t fair!”
    Nathaniel jumped all over this. “Right! Right!” he cried. “You bet it isn’t fair! Vito and I object! Tell them, Vito!”
    “How come Rory gets to have all the fun?” Vito demanded. “I want to be on Rollerblades, too.”
    The color drained out of Nathaniel’s face. “What?”
    “Yeah!” Trudi shrieked. “All the Lamont kids should be on Rollerblades for the first scene! Wallace, can we do it?”
    “We’ll try it at tomorrow’s rehearsal,” Wallace agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he looked at Mr. Fogelman. “Okay?”
    “Thank you for asking,” the director said with sarcastic politeness. He thought it over. “If you people can Rollerblade around the stage without bumping into one another and breaking your necks, I suppose it’s worth a try.”
    Nathaniel was sputtering with rage and dismay. “But—but—I’ve never been on Rollerblades!”
    “Yo, man, this is your lucky day,” Rory assured him. “Because I am a one-man clinic on wheels! Step right up, and I’ll have you hot-dogging in no time!”
    “But I don’t want to hot-dog!” Nathaniel wailed.

Enter…
MR. FOGELMAN
    MEMO: A director must never lose control of his play.
    I didn’t actually see the moment when Wallace officially took over Old Shep, My Pal. Oh, it definitely happened. But I must have been in the bathroom, or adjusting a spotlight, or bickering with Wallace over his book review.
    It didn’t really sink in until that Friday morning. When I passed Trudi Davis in the hall, she called out, “Way to go, Mr. Fogelman! You’ve done it again!”
    In my mind, I went over everything I’d accomplished so far that day. I woke up, had breakfast, walked the dog, drove to school. I stopped and filled the car up with gas, but that hardly seemed worth a “Way to go!”
    In my mailbox at the office I found a note on the subject, whatever it was: Great idea! Can’t wait for the next rehearsal!—Everton.
    On the way to third period it happened again. As I fought the usual class-change crowd, Vito was waving and cheering. “You’re aces, Mr. Fogelman!”
    “Why?” I cried in frustration.
    As I stood fuming, Laszlo Tamas walked up and shook my hand.
    “Laszlo, wait!” I yelled at his back. “Please tell me what’s