No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay)

by Trudi Trueit

  “Scab!”

  Just hearing my name, I grow a whole foot. On the inside.

  “Hey!” Isabelle is waving a hunk of corn bread at me. I am glad to see her. Don’t tell her I said that.

  Isabelle is sitting at the last table in the last row by the window. Normally, she eats with Laura and Kendall, but they are not around. Again. My sister seems to be spending an awful lot of time by herself. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I don’t. She’d only call me a Pilobolus and tell me to mind my own business.

  “You can sit with me until you patch things up with Doyle,” says my sister.

  “How did you know—?” I stop. Stupid question. She is, after all, Super Spy.

  “What’s the fight about?”

  “One of my inventions.”

  “Then it’s a dumb fight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen your inventions. You should tell him you’re sorry.”

  “But I’m not.” I don’t need Doyle or his stupid dog. Mr. Dawber’s sheepdog, Grizwald, lays plenty of dog cookies. I can make Isabelle’s Smell all by myself. And I can sell Isabelle’s Smell all by myself. However, Doyle was right about one thing; to get a dog there is one person’s help I do need. . . .

  I clear my throat. “Isabelle?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to ask Mom and Dad for a dog.”

  “Again?”

  “This time I’ll have sixty dollars.”

  “You do?”

  “I will. But I need your help.”

  WHY DOGS RULE

  Dogs lick your face. Cats lick their butts.

  Dogs want to curl up with you on your bed. Cats want to ralph up a furball on your bed.

  Dogs want to learn tricks. Cats want to sleep.

  Dogs love you. Cats love you if you’ve got a can of tuna.

  “I’m not loaning you—”

  “I don’t want money.”

  “Then what?”

  “Could you tell Mom and Dad that you want a dog too?”

  She moans. “Scab, I—”

  “You know you want a pet as much as I do. Does it really make a difference if it’s a cat or a dog?”

  My sister picks at her corn bread.

  “All you have to do is help me get them to say yes. I’ll do everything after that. I’ll feed him, play with him, walk him—”

  “You?” She snorts. “You? You, Scab McNally, will scoop poop?”

  “Yep. I’ve already scooped Oscar’s. I’m pretty good at it too.”

  She looks impressed.

  “So will you do it? Please, Izzy? Please?”

  “Hey, hey, what’s that smell?” Lewis Pigford is behind my sister. “Hey, hey,” he calls out, “it’s Isabelle!”

  I slump down. One row over, Henry Mapanoo and a few other bologna heads are laughing it up.

  “He’s been doing that all week,” Isabelle says to me.

  “Your stuff is primo, Scab,” says Lewis. “Primo! It worked great.”

  I keep sliding. My head is now barely visible above the table.

  Isabelle has one eyebrow up.

  Lewis lets out a whoop. He puts a hand to his ear. “Hey, hey, what’s that smell?”

  “Hey, hey,” his friends shout back, “it’s Isabelle!”

  “Smelly Isabelly,” sings Lewis. He dances in a circle and kicks out his legs. “Smelly Isabelly.”

  “I’d better go,” says Isabelle. Her face is a splotchy pink. “I was going to practice my violin anyway.”

  “Wait,” I cry, popping back up. “What about—?”

  “We’ll see,” she says, gathering her stuff on her tray. She gets up. “In case you’re interested, Doyle hasn’t stopped looking at us since you sat down. You should go tell him you’re sorry.”

  “But I’m—”

  “I know, I know, you’re not sorry. But he’s your best friend, Scab. You guys fit together like puzzle pieces. You don’t want to lose that.” She looks past me. I follow her gaze. Ah! There they are. Laura Ling and Kendall Peters are sitting two rows over. Have they been there all this time?

  “Why didn’t you—?” I try to ask her why she didn’t sit with her friends at lunch, but Isabelle is already making her way down the row.

  Lewis is still doing his silly dance. “Bye, Smelly Isabelly. Bye,” he bellows after her. “See ya, Smelly. La, la, la . . . Smelly Isabelly . . . dee, dee, dah . . . Smelly Isabelly . . .”

  I want to tell that prunehead to leave my sister alone. But Lewis Pigford knows too much. He could spoil everything. I am inches from getting a dog. Inches. So Lewis keeps singing and Isabelle keeps walking and I keep silent.

  DOYLE AND SCAB:

  A FRIENDSHIP TIMELINE

  SUMMER AFTER SECOND GRADE: Doyle and I meet at Camp Vashon. I show Doyle how to float on the lake. I teach him how to fart in the water too. Team Daredevil is born. Follow the butt bubbles!

  THIRD GRADE: Doyle and I get put in different classes, but we play and eat together every day.

  SUMMER AFTER THIRD GRADE: Doyle goes to spend the summer with his dad in Dallas. It is the worst three months of my life. Doyle’s, too.

  FOURTH GRADE: We both get Miss Sweeten. Hooray! The Daredevil Boys are together again.

  MIDDLE OF FOURTH GRADE: Our friendship ends. Bummer.

  My stomach hurts. And it’s not from the chili.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The Killer Fart in Room 242

  Have a nice day.” Ms. Rigormortis’s drab voice follows me off the bus.

  “You, too,” I say. I don’t know why I say it.

  I look back. Ms. Rigormortis is smiling. Sort of. She’s wearing a green retainer thingy in her mouth. I guess even zombies want good teeth.

  I hop off the last step. I feel great. No, I feel incredible! In my backpack, I carry three bottles of Isabelle’ Smell. Once I sell these, I will have earned sixty dollars! All I need now is for Isabelle to agree to—

  “Scab?”

  SCAB’S LIST OF DOG NAMES

  Bruiser

  T-Rex

  Scamp

  Otis

  Mad Max

  Black Ninja

  Warning! Super Spy radar has locked on to me again.

  Slowly, slowly, slowly I turn. “Uh, huh?”

  Isabelle catches up to me. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

  “You mean—?”

  “I’ll tell Mom and Dad I want a dog too.”

  Yes!

  My sister points at me. “But you have to feed him.”

  Yes!

  “And you have to walk him.”

  Yes!

  “And I get to name him.”

  NO!

  “Isabelle, you can’t—”

  “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  When it comes down to it, I guess having a dog named Princess Bonbon Fancypaws is better than no dog at all. Right? So I say the only thing I can say. “Take it.”

  ISABELLE’S LIST OF DOG NAMES

  Miss Kiki

  Peaches

  Lady Lollipop

  Cookies- n - Cream

  Precious Puddles

  Kevin

  Isabelle grins. “When do we ask?”

  “Tonight.”

  “You know, Mom and Dad still might say no.”

  “They won’t.” How could they? I’ll have the money and my responsible sister on my side. What could go wrong? It’s going to happen. I am really going to get a dog! I want to jump a mile up into the air. But I don’t. I don’t dare slosh now. Once my sister is gone, I do a victory lap around the monkey bars on my way to the orchestra portable. Sweeeeeeet!

  I am the first one to show up. I am supposed to meet Elliot Parkhurst, Thor Bryant, and a sixth grader named Rocco with a blue streak in his hair. I kick a plastic cup around in a figure eight while I wait for them to show up.

  Brrrrring!

  That’s the first bell. I decide to stay until the second bell. Of course, tha
t means I will be tardy. I start pacing. Before long, I wear a path into the gravel.

  Brrrrring!

  Second bell. Still no sign of the guys. Bug spit!

  I try to sneak into class when Miss Sweetandsour’s back is turned.

  “Scab McNally, you’re late.”

  How does she do that?

  “Put your backpack away and take your seat, please.”

  Doyle lets out a cackle when I pass his desk. He tries to kick me. He misses.

  “You’re such a Pilobolus,” I say. Gently, I place my pack on the bottom shelf. “You probably don’t even know what a Pilobolus is, which makes you a dumb Pilobolus.”

  “You’re the only fungus around here,” he hisses.

  I give him a whopping raspberry. I really let it blow through my lips. I sound like a garbage truck.

  “Quiet, class!” Miss Sweetandsour glares at me. “It’s time for morning announcements.”

  Each day a different student from the audiovisual club gets to read the school bulletin on camera. It’s broadcast to every classroom in the school through closed-circuit television. Doyle is in the AV club. He’s a pretty good reader, too. Miss Sweetandsour turns up the TV. Felice Pryor speaks very softly. She holds the paper in front of her so we can’t see her face. We all lean forward to hear. When the news is over, my teacher says, “Clear off your desks and take out a pencil.”

  SCAB’S TIP #11

  NEVER TAKE A TEST . . .

  first thing in the morning, when you are sleepy.

  before lunch, when you are hungry.

  after lunch, when you are sleepy.

  at the end of the day, when you are hungry.

  On second thought, avoid tests altogether.

  Bug spit with extra sprinkles! We are having a social studies quiz.

  Cloey taps me on the back. She hands me a note. It’s from Elliot.

  Where were you?

  I write:

  Behind the orchestra portable. Where were you?

  He writes back:

  In the bathroom with Thor and some weird kid with blue hair.

  Oops. I forgot to tell them where to meet me. Doyle usually handles that stuff.

  I write:

  Meet me behind the orchestra portable at first recess.

  As I am folding the note, Miss Sweetandsour snatches it away. “You’ll be staying in first recess, Scab.”

  HOW TO EARN BIG

  TEACHER’S-PET POINTS

  Help your teacher collect homework papers.

  Raise your hand first to answer a question (even if you don’t know the answer). Your teacher will almost always call on the kid who is trying to hide under his desk.

  Tell your teacher she looks nice even if she’s wearing the giraffe-print dress that makes your eyes crazy.

  Bring your teacher an apple instead of a garter snake.

  “I can’t. I have to—”

  “It’s not a request.”

  I get a C-minus on my quiz. Miss Sweetandsour asks for a helper to hand out the geography workbooks. I rush to the cabinets in the back of the room. I need mega teacher’s-pet points today.

  “Ouch!” I feel a sharp pain in my side.

  It’s Doyle’s bony elbow. He tries to take the pile of workbooks from me.

  I pull the books toward my chest. “I’m doing it. Back off.”

  “You back off.” Doyle pulls back.

  “I was here first.” I tug again.

  “Teacher picked me.” He tugs again.

  “Doyle Butt Boil.”

  “Go pick yourself, Scab.”

  I yank hard.

  He yanks harder.

  Haven’t I done this before with a certain wiener dog?

  “Hey, guys,” says Will. “Come on, don’t fight.”

  “Nobody’s fighting,” I snarl. “Just tell him to let go.”

  “Me?” snaps Doyle. “You let go.”

  “You first.”

  “No, you.”

  “You.”

  “You!”

  “Okay.” I give him a smirk. Then I let go.

  Doyle teeters on his heels. His arms go up. His rear goes down. Workbooks fly everywhere. Doyle’s mouth forms a giant O a second before he crashes into the shelves. The bottom shelf pops loose. Backpacks, purses, lunches, and hats start tumbling out. Some slip down the shelf like they are riding a water slide. Everything lands on top of Doyle.

  I laugh so hard my stomach nearly explodes. The whole class is laughing too.

  Doyle’s got a yellow mitten on his head. A zebra-print raincoat is attacking his chest. A brown blob wobbles on the front of his jeans. It looks like chocolate pudding. I sure hope that’s what it is.

  “Did you hear that?” says Doyle. He fights off the zebra raincoat.

  I am still howling. I wonder if Will caught that on his camera phone.

  Doyle rolls over. “Wuh-oh, Scab.”

  I see my backpack. It’s squashed flat. I stop laughing. Doyle and I exchange looks. He tries to get up but slips on a silver purse.

  I reach for my backpack. But it’s too late.

  “Ewwwww!” cries Meggie Kornblum. “What’s that smell? Miss Sweeten, something stinks back here.”

  Cloey Zittle points at me. “It’s Scab.”

  I put up my hands. The backpack hits the floor. “It’s not me.”

  “Scab cut an atomic fart!” announces Lewis.

  “That’s powerful thunder!” shouts Henry. “My eyes are stinging.”

  Mine, too. There’s a lump in my throat. I start to cough. Kids are leaping out of their seats. Some are running toward me. Most are running away.

  Miss Sweetandsour is at the intercom. “This is room 242. Uh . . . we have a situation here. Some sort of powerful odor. . . . Yes, yes. . . . Clear the building.”

  “I can’t breathe,” yells somebody.

  “I can’t see,” calls someone else.

  The fire alarm goes off.

  “We’re going outside,” Miss Sweetandsour calls above the shriek of the siren. “Remember how we practiced? Move quickly. Stay calm, students.”

  Nobody is listening. Nobody is staying calm. Books and pencils fall off desks. Feet tromp down the aisles. Kids are crying and choking and screaming.

  “Somebody get my lunch!”

  “Somebody get the hamster!”

  “Miss Sweeten, Lewis is turning green!”

  “Let’s go. . . . Everyone out. . . . Single file,” yells our teacher, waving. “Quickly. Quickly.”

  I can’t move. My feet won’t go!

  Something latches on to my wrist. Through burning eyes I see Doyle’s face. He hasn’t forgotten me. I should have known he wouldn’t. We’re the Daredevil Boys. No matter what, we are a team. Isabelle is right. We fit together like puzzle pieces.

  “Follow me, Scab!” shouts Doyle.

  “Where’s Will?”

  “He’s already out. Let’s go.”

  “We’re going to die,” Cloey screeches in my ear. “Scab’s fart is going to kill us all!”

  CHAPTER

  9

  This Just In . . .

  BREAKING SCAB NEWS

  BY ISABELLE C. MCNALLY

  (RIVER ROCK SPELLING BEE CHAMPION)

  8:37 a.m.: Scab snuck behind the orchestra portable before school again. It was the third time this week he’d done it. I knew he was up to something.

  9:59 a.m.: The school fire alarm went off. A mysterious stink was coming from room 242—Scab’s classroom.

  10:04 a.m.: I caught up with Scab out on the soccer field. He told me he didn’t know a thing about the smell, but he wouldn’t look at me. Something was definitely up.

  10:28 a.m.: Firefighters dressed in white suits and helmets went into our school. The news reporters called them hazmat, which stands for “hazardous materials team.” One of the hazmat guys brought out a black backpack with a silver lightning bolt on the flap—Scab’s!

  10:46 a.m.: I overheard a policeman talking to reporter Naomi Ma
rcus of Channel 7 Action News (I love her). He told her the stink came from a bottle of homemade perfume by some kid named Scar.

  10:47 a.m.: Lewis Pigford told Naomi the kid was actually Scab. He said it wasn’t perfume at all. It’s a sister-repellant spray named after ME! He said Scab was selling the stuff to kids at school. Lewis Pigford is a TAPEWORM! So is my brother.

  10:48 a.m.: Lewis threw up on Naomi’s boots.

  10:55 a.m.: Scab disappeared. Good thing. When I find him, he’s roadkill!

  11:01 a.m.: Mr. Huckabee closed school for the day so the hazmat team could air out the school. He was looking for Scab too. Mr. Huckabee was so mad, his head looked like a shiny, red balloon.

  THIS CONCLUDES SCAB NEWS FOR TODAY. Isabelle Catherine McNally reporting.

  P.S. 12:14 p.m.: Naomi Marcus is on the noon news talking about Isabelle’s Smell.

  P.P.S. My life is over.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Zombie with a Heart

  I climb onto the bus. I fall into the first seat behind the driver. On the way to school Ms. Rigormortis keeps looking at me in her rearview mirror. I wish her black zombie eyes would stare at somebody else. I pick at a rip in the cushion.

  “Where is your sister?” she finally asks in her blah voice. “She hasn’t been on the bus all week.”

  “She’s fine,” I say.

  My sister won’t go to school because she’s afraid everybody will tease her about Isabelle’s Smell. I’ve tried to tell her I am sorry. She won’t let me in her room. She screams through her bedroom door, “Go away, Pilobolus.”

  Ms. Rigormortis is looking at me again. “Tough year,” she says.

  I sigh. “No kidding.”

  “I meant for Isabelle.”

  Isabelle, Isabelle, Isabelle. Everyone is worried about Isabelle. Uncle Ant and Jewel came over and brought my sister a gold heart necklace. My mom made ziti, Isabelle’s favorite food. What about me? I’m the one who has to clean desks every single recess for two weeks. I’m the one who has to write a five-hundred word essay about being a responsible student (I don’t even know five hundred words). I’m the one who had to give back every dime I earned selling Isabelle’s Smell. Worst of all, I’m the one who won’t be getting a dog EVER! So it’s only fair that I should be the one at home now. I should be wolfing down strawberry ripple ice cream. I should be crying into my butterfly pillow—I mean, you know, if I was a girl. You know what I mean.