But it wasn’t just them. All the dogs stopped and stared, except for Buttercup, who continued yapping and leaping. I have to hand it to those dog-toy people. I guess they earn those diplomas. Dogs love Mr. Chatterbox.
But the quiet felt even scarier than the growling. The air was thick with tension. Something bad was going to happen. I took two steps toward my house.
Dodger and Precious continued staring at Oscar and Mr. Chatterbox. Their eyes growing wider, their mouths expanding. Drool dripped off Dodger’s fangs. All the dogs except Buttercup gaped: eleven dogs, one toy. Oscar dropped the toy and stepped back. I think he realized he was in deep trouble. When the monkey hit the ground, it made a soft eeep.
That did it. Dodger rushed forward. So did Precious. So did the poodle, the boxer, and most of the other dogs. Some of the owners were so surprised they released their leashes. Suddenly, we had half a dozen runaway dogs. But they weren’t running away. They were headed straight for Mr. Chatterbox.
I guess this is how people must act the day after Thanksgiving, when they go to all those early Christmas sales and start fighting over the last mega-robot toy. Six dogs pounced on poor Mr. Chatterbox at pretty much the exact same moment. Even Buttercup got in on the action as poor Mrs. Linkletter shrieked, “Come back to Mama!”
The poor stuffed monkey’s screams were now screams of agony, as pieces of face, fur, and arms were ripped to shreds by a horde of frenzied dogs. Two dogs played tug-of-war with a leg. Another dog ate Mr. Chatterbox’s head and then threw it up.
I didn’t want to watch, but it was like a traffic accident. I sort of had to look, even though it was horrible.
Owners grabbed leashes and desperately yanked their pets away from the melee. Dodger’s owner’s eyes were blinking a hundred times a second as he finally pulled his Doberman away. With no toy left to rip apart, the dogs lost interest.
Luckily, no one was injured. Not including Mr. Chatterbox, of course. He had basically disintegrated into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Who wants to play dog games?” I asked, waving the Frisbee.
Apparently, no one. That was the end of the party. The owners marched off with their dogs, angry, as if it was all my fault. “You oughta call Otto!” I said, trying to pass out my business cards, but no one wanted anything to do with them, or me. Dodger’s owner even tossed my card back at me!
Mrs. Linkletter walked away angry, too, and I’m pretty sure Buttercup stopped yapping just long enough to snarl at me. But how was I supposed to know that Mr. Chatterbox would be so popular?
Just as bad, almost everyone grabbed their money back from the jar. Two of Mom’s soup bowls had broken in half, and the rest were covered in dog spit. She was going to kill me. And I’d have to add the cost of replacing them in my notepad. I sat on my front lawn, my head in my hands, a piece of Mr. Chatterbox’s arm on the ground next to me.
I looked up at the house. Lexi watched from her bedroom window. When she spotted me noticing her, she closed the blinds. But not before I saw what I think was a smirk on her lips.
I picked up the bowls and started to clean up. The war would end in less than two weeks, and my brilliant ideas were causing more harm than good. Meanwhile, Lexi was probably going online right this very moment to pick out cat clothes to buy for Fluffernutter.
My list of things I owed Mom was getting pretty long, so I didn’t want to use any more of her printer toner unless I really, really had to. Luckily, students can use the color printer in the main office at school for free. You’re only supposed to print a single copy of something, but no one watches you. About a month ago, I made a hundred copies of a picture instead of one copy, just by accidentally pressing a couple of zeros. So when I printed my dog walking fliers, no one noticed I made thirty-six copies. It also helped that I made copies at the end of the day when everyone just wanted to go home.
I think those office people got more excited about the school bell than us kids did.
Armed with my pile of color fliers, I went to get my backpack out of my locker. Like always, I tried to avoid staring at those stupid Lexi tutoring signs on the walls. But I still peeked, just a little. And I immediately noticed something different about them. I stopped, frozen. It was a horrifying sight, a vision I thought might creep into my brain and give me spine-chilling nightmares for weeks on end.
I stared at a wall of glitter. But they weren’t Lexi’s tutoring signs on the walls. These were new. A dozen giant poster boards lined the hallway, each screaming the message: VOTE FOR SMOTE! CARLY SMOTE FOR STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT. I didn’t have anything against Carly. I knew who she was, sort of. But I stared at the caked-on glitter, the fancy lettering, the immaculately detailed picture of a goat. DON’T BE A GOAT, VOTE FOR SMOTE. That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but the goat picture was pretty impressive.
There was only one person who could have made these posters.
Lexi.
As I plodded down the hall, gasping, gaping at every sign, I heard voices from around the corner. I recognized the evil voice of Lexi. I stopped, listening. I wasn’t eavesdropping, though. It’s never okay to eavesdrop. I was spying. There’s a big difference.
“The signs are really good,” said a boy’s voice.
“Thanks,” answered Lexi. “They were a lot of work.”
“How much is she paying you?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
“I’ll double it. I need signs like those.”
“I don’t know. I promised Carly I’d help her out,” said Lexi.
“I’ll triple the price!”
“You have yourself a deal.”
As the sounds of their footsteps faded away, I stood in my spot, fuming. Sign making! That must have been the new moneymaking idea Lexi mentioned at dinner.
I looked down at my thirty-six pathetic, copy-paper-sized fliers. I had a little time before my first dog walking appointment. I hurried back to the office to make more copies.
Malcolm stopped over at my house in between dog walking jobs. He’d bragged at lunch about his soccer juggling, and I’d bet him ten dollars I could beat him blindfolded. I was the soccer star, not him. And I could use all the extra cash I could get.
I was in a good mood despite the Dog Party Debacle, because we got our Civil War tests back and I got a D. Which means I didn’t flunk! But after class Mrs. Swift asked me if anything was wrong and said I needed to bring my grades up or she would call my mother.
Calling Mom would not be good. I assured my teacher everything was perfect, and I’d do better next time. And was she absolutely, unquestionably sure Abraham Lincoln didn’t live at the Gettysburg Address?
She said she was absolutely sure.
“Watch this fancy dribbling,” I boomed to Malcolm in my backyard. I bounced the ball on my left knee, my right knee, and then it hit my chin and bounced away.
“Impressive,” jeered Malcolm. He then kneed the ball back and forth, and from one foot to the other. He juggled. And juggled. And juggled. Up and down and over and back. “You owe me ten dollars.”
I shook my head. “I said I could beat you blindfolded. But we don’t have a blindfold, so I guess we’ll never know.” Saved by a technicality.
“You could close your eyes.”
“Not the same thing at all.”
Malcolm still juggled. He kicked it off his foot and then back to his knee, and then performed a nice fake wave with one foot before spinning it up with the other. I never should have taught him that move.
“Show-off,” I spat. “I can beat you with two legs tied behind my back, you know,” I crowed, trying to act confident. But I didn’t feel confident at all.
“How is that even possible?” he asked. “Really. Both your legs tied behind you? What would you kick with?”
“Okay, well, maybe not both legs, then,” I admitted. “One leg. I can beat you with one leg tied behind my back.”
“Still impossible. What are you going to stand on when you kick?”
“Wel
l, I can still beat you with nothing tied.”
“I think your brain is tied,” laughed Malcolm. This entire time he still juggled. The ball never hit the ground, and it was really annoying.
I knew it wasn’t his fault he was better than me at everything these days. Well, maybe it was his fault. He could miss a few soccer kicks at practice to make me feel better. Or at least one. He didn’t have to be so much of a show-off. And maybe if he helped me more, I’d have more money and I wouldn’t be almost flunking classes.
I walked over and shoved him. The ball bounced away.
“What did you do that for?”
I shrugged. “I have to go inside and get ready for my next appointment.”
Malcolm checked his watch. “We have a minute.”
“I’m in charge and I say we don’t.”
“You’re in charge of time?” asked Malcolm. “Like Father Time?”
“Exactly,” I grunted. “I am the lord and master of all that is time related. And all things dog-walking related, too. Don’t forget that. My business. You just work for me.”
Malcolm picked up the ball. “You’re getting a little bossy,” he huffed as he followed me inside my house.
“I am the boss,” I snapped. “So what else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Nice?”
“Bosses aren’t nice,” I retorted. “Don’t you watch TV? Bakery bosses. Dance bosses. Restaurant bosses. All mean. That’s the way things get done!”
I stomped upstairs to my room and Malcolm followed. I grabbed the stack of fliers from school and shoved them at him. “Now, I need you to go around town and post these signs up.” After the Dog Party Debacle, I needed more customers. I spoke in my best boss voice: “And get a move on it.”
“I’m the organizer and money guy, not the sign taper.” Malcolm folded his arms and didn’t reach for my fliers.
“You’re what I say you are. I’m in charge, remember?” I thrust the stack at him again, but he didn’t grab it.
“You could at least say please!”
“Bosses never say please or thank you. They just say do this and you’re fired.” I thought Malcolm knew a lot about economics, but apparently he didn’t know how business worked at all. “Or do you want to just go around showing off your soccer moves instead?” I barked.
“What does that mean?”
“You know,” I hissed.
“Well, I’m not putting up your stupid signs.”
“They are not stupid. What does this say?” I demanded. I jabbed the paper with my finger.
Malcolm squinted and read: “‘I’ll walk your dog and clean up, too. Even if he goes number two.’”
Pretty good, huh? But that’s not what I was pointing to. “No. Below it,” I snarled.
Malcolm looked more closely at my flier. “‘You Oughta Call Otto’s Dog Walking Service.’”
“Exactly. Otto. Me. Your name is not here.” I jabbed the page, harder. “We talked about this. This is my business. What I say goes. Does it say, ‘You Oughta Call Otto and his Stupid and Lame Assistant Malcolm’s Dog Walking Service’? No, it doesn’t.”
“I don’t care. I’m still not putting up signs.” He crossed his arms. “And you’re stupid and lame.”
“You’re a mold-faced brain drain,” I replied, crossing my arms, too. Only I crossed mine a little higher.
“You’re an IQ-challenged wombat.”
“You’re an empty-headed vacuum head.”
“You’re a mulch-breathing hamster-eating vomit brain swimming in stink!” You know the worst part of the insult? He didn’t even smile when he said it.
“Well, s-so are you!” I sputtered.
“You know what? I don’t need your stupid twenty percent. Just forget it. I quit.” Malcolm wheeled around and headed toward the door.
“You can’t quit. You’re fired!” I yelled back. “I’d rather keep your half of the money, anyway.”
“Twenty percent is not half!” hollered Malcolm as he reached the front door.
“Says you!”
“No, says the math world!” Malcolm slammed the door behind him.
Who needed a show-off like him anyway? All I needed was a dog. I didn’t want any help, or even a stupid best friend. A dog was man’s best friend. When I won this challenge I’d have my own best friend jumping and licking me. Dogs don’t insult you. And they never, ever, ever quit their jobs.
“You’re late,” barked Coach Drago, looking at his watch. It wasn’t really my fault. Mitzi the German shepherd just wouldn’t go to the bathroom. Some of these dogs are way too choosy about where they poop. You’d think every swatch of lawn was the same. Then when Mitzi finally squatted, I realized I had left my plastic clean-up baggies at home, so we had to run away really fast. No one saw us, but some poor family was going to find a surprise on their lawn.
I felt a little bad, but what was I supposed to do — put it in my pocket?
But at least I showed up to practice. Coach should have been happy to see me, but he didn’t act like it.
“I’ve been busy,” I explained.
“You need to be here. You need to be on time. If you’re not committed to this team, I’ll play kids who are.”
“Yes, Coach. I know, Coach,” I said, frowning so he knew I was serious. “But I have a good reason. Do you like dogs or cats?”
“Cats. Why?”
“Never mind.”
Malcolm frowned at me, but I returned it with an even nastier frown of my own. I’d show him my awesome soccer talents. He’d see I wasn’t the boss of him just in the business world, but on the playing field, too. It was about time I put him in his place.
I joined the line for shooting drills. The team was already practicing them. It was pretty simple: take a pass, one dribble, and shoot.
“Otto! What are you doing!” yelled Coach. My shot bounced meekly to the left, about ten feet away from the goal.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“The bench needs more benchwarmers.”
“Yes, Coach. Sorry, Coach.”
Malcolm was next, and he buried his shot into the top corner of the net. It even had a slight bend. Where did that come from?
“That’s how it’s done,” yelled Coach Drago, clapping. “Nice shot.” Eric Lansing, our midfielder, then ran up, dribbled, and kicked a laser into the back of the net. “Beautiful kick!” shouted our coach.
I stood in line waiting for my next turn. Malcolm was in back of me. “You don’t think Coach would really bench me, do you?” I grumbled.
“I think Coach should play the guys who show up to practice on time.” He turned his back to talk to Kyle Krovitch, completely ignoring me.
Soon it was my turn again. I concentrated as hard as I could. I stared laser beams into that ball. Then I stutter-stepped and kicked more mightily than anyone had ever kicked a ball before in the world’s history of soccer kicking. I imagined the ball ripping through the net, leaving Malcolm’s and Coach Drago’s mouths open in awed wonder.
I missed the ball completely. I waved my arms like a chicken, a particularly clumsy chicken, before toppling over and landing on my butt.
Coach Drago didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t smiling, either. I didn’t even look at Malcolm. I’m pretty that sure he, on the other hand, smiled broadly.
I sat at the kitchen table after dinner. Lexi was in her room, which is where she had been all afternoon, with her door closed. She was probably making signs that very moment.
The downstairs was dark except for the light over my head, shining down on the math worksheets in front of me. I needed to catch up on my schoolwork, but my eyes were heavy and the numbers on the pages kept blurring together. Maybe if I had listened in class I would know what I was supposed to do, but I found the day went by much faster if I doodled dog pictures. I was getting pretty good at them. If we had a dog doodling test at school, I’d probably get an A.
But here, at the kitchen table, I just wanted to sleep. Dog walking. Soccer p
ractice. It was all exhausting.
I stood up, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of horseradish. I dipped my finger in the jar, and then plunged it in my mouth.
Every nerve in my body jumped up in shocked disgust as the horror of spice-filled yuckiness seeped through my throat. I grabbed a glass and filled it with water. But even after gulping it down, and a second glass, too, the terrible taste still coated my tongue in such sheer, bold thickness that I worried the pungent horseradish flavor might last forever.
But it did wake me up. Mission accomplished.
Mom drinks coffee to wake herself up, but I should tell her about the horseradish trick.
I finished one side of the first math worksheet, although I’m not sure the answers were exactly right. I didn’t completely understand this radius concept. But at least there were answers on the page.
I turned the worksheet over to begin side two. I didn’t want to think about how many more worksheets I still had to get through tonight. And I still needed to do my assigned reading in language arts.
The horseradish taste faded away after a few minutes, and so did my wakefulness.
I don’t remember my dream exactly, but I do remember a cat yelling at me about being late, and Coach Drago purring on my lap. Lexi was laughing, and Malcolm was juggling jars of horseradish with his feet. I’m unsure how long I slept, but when I awoke, I found my head lying on the worksheet and the rest of the house fast asleep. I sighed and took a complete stab in the dark as to the area of a circle.
Lexi didn’t have to worry about her grades; that always came easy for her. She didn’t face the problems I did. She was good at everything. It wasn’t fair.
I blame Dad. And Mom.
But that was just another reason why it was crucial that I won this war. I needed to show her, and Mom, and I guess even myself, that I was better than Lexi at something important.
I sighed and turned my attention once again to the worksheets, trying to remember what the difference was between a circumference and a diameter. I had no idea. Maybe I would remember after I took another nap on the kitchen table. A big yawn crept out of my mouth.
The Pet War Page 12
