Waylon! Even More Awesome, Volume 2

by Sara Pennypacker

  “Of course not. Cats are desert animals,” Waylon told her, remembering a Miracles of the Natural World episode he’d seen. “Did you know they come from Egypt?”

  “I know that,” Clementine said. “The Egyptians used to embalm them into tiny mummies when they died.”

  “Well, did you know that the scientific term for a hair ball is bezoar?” Waylon asked.

  Clementine frowned. “No, I didn’t. Did you know that most male cats are left-pawed?”

  “Nope,” Waylon admitted. “Did you know that the world’s most expensive coffee comes from Indonesia? Wild cats there eat the coffee berries and poop them out. Apparently it makes the coffee delicious.”

  “Seriously?” Clementine asked.

  Waylon crossed his heart.

  Clementine’s eyes widened. She plopped her brother onto the sled and grabbed the handle. “I have to go,” she called over her shoulder as she ran off. “My dad’s making coffee.”

  Nobody bothered them for the rest of the morning, and the dogloo grew quickly. Nearing the top, they used the smaller blocks and the rows grew smaller, too, until there was only a pizza-size space left in the roof.

  “Do we leave it open?” Baxter asked.

  “Not always. Too much heat would escape,” Waylon explained. “The last block fits in like a cork: wider at the top, so it doesn’t fall in.”

  Baxter and Waylon rolled a big snowball, packed it down tight, and then shaved off the sides. Together they lifted it into place.

  Then they stepped back. Just a few hours before, there had been nothing on the ground behind the Dumpster. Now there was a whole doghouse made of snow, perfectly round and smooth and gleaming white.

  “I don’t know,” Baxter said, rubbing his chin. “Something’s missing.”

  “No,” Waylon said. “I researched it. We did everything right. The only thing left is the tunnel entrance.”

  Baxter shook his head slowly, studying the igloo. “It’s too blank or something.”

  “It’s made of snow,” Waylon said. “You can’t get blanker than that. Let’s make the entrance.”

  The tunnel was short, and since they were experienced igloo builders now, it wasn’t long before they placed the final blocks.

  Baxter stood back and squinted. “I still think it’s missing something, but I can’t figure out what.” He stacked the coolers and water jugs onto the sled. “Did your dad sell his screenplay?”

  Waylon shook his head. “No. But he will. It’s a thramedy. That’s a thriller, a drama, and a comedy all in one. It’s going to be a blockbuster.”

  “Cool! What’s it about?”

  “Uh…actually…”

  “Don’t worry,” Baxter said from the corner of his mouth, “I won’t tell.”

  “It’s not that. It’s that…I haven’t read it.”

  “What? How come?”

  Waylon picked up his shovel. “I don’t know,” he said, surprised to find that he really didn’t. “Let’s clear a path to the alley.”

  Just then, Clementine appeared again. She blocked their way until they looked up.

  “My mother is a really big fan of fresh air,” she said, shaking her head dramatically. “She drags my poor baby sister outside every day, no matter what. And Summer doesn’t even have any hair yet—just a little fuzz! This winter’s gotten so cold, my dad bought a heating pad for—”

  “Your mother leaves a baby outside in winter?” Waylon asked. “She should at least build her an igloo.”

  “I might have to turn her in,” Baxter warned. “That might be a jailable offense.”

  “Of course not!” Clementine cried. “You guys aren’t listening. My dad bought a heating pad for her stroller. You could—”

  “Great.” Baxter cut her off. “That’s super-great for your sister, but so what?” He started shoveling again.

  “Sorry, Clementine,” Waylon said. “We still have work to do.”

  Clementine rolled her eyes. “Boys!” she muttered.

  Waylon leaned on his shovel and watched her stomp away to her building. He could tell she wished the snow wasn’t muffling her stomping—she looked pretty mad. Which he didn’t understand. “Girls,” he muttered.

  “Girls,” Baxter echoed. “Back to work.”

  But before they’d cleared another dozen feet, Clementine returned.

  She held out a yellow-striped flannel pad about the size of a cookie sheet. “Feel it. Both of you,” she ordered. “It’s warm. It’s for outside. It runs on a battery. For outside heating!”

  Waylon and Baxter dropped their shovels as it dawned on them.

  “This will be perfect!” Baxter shouted.

  “Thanks, Clementine!” Waylon reached for the pad.

  Clementine yanked it away. “You can’t have it, of course! I just told you, it’s for my sister!”

  Waylon and Baxter looked at each other and shook their heads. They picked up their shovels again.

  “You guys are missing the point!”

  When they looked up, Clementine shook the stroller pad at them. “If my dad could buy one, so could you.”

  All evening, Waylon found himself wondering about what Baxter had asked. Why had he never read his father’s screenplay?

  After dinner, he knocked on his sister’s door.

  “Entre!” ordered a bored voice from inside.

  Waylon’s sister was the opposite of Waylon. Whereas Waylon had known from the day he was born who he was—a scientist—Charlotte was a tryer-onner. Last year she’d tried on a new name, Neon, a new wardrobe of tattered all-black clothes, and an attitude to match. This semester she was taking French, so she’d been trying on a French twist to her personality.

  “Entre!” she called again, and Waylon stepped inside.

  “Neon, have you read Collision Course?”

  Neon pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned as though the thoughts she was thinking were so deep they hurt. “Non,” she admitted at last.

  Waylon cut his eyes in the direction of their father’s studio.

  “Oui,” Neon agreed, rising from her chair. “Perhaps it is ze time.”

  They found their father at his desk. He closed his email. “No news,” he reported.

  “Dad, could we read it?” Waylon asked. “Your screenplay?”

  Mr. Zakowski looked pleased. “Well, sure,” he said. “It’s pretty grown-up stuff, but I think you two can handle it.” He lifted a stack of papers and handed it over. He stood up. “I’m running the lights at the Rep tonight,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Waylon and Neon flopped onto the floor, the stack between them. As they read the first page, Waylon noticed how silent the room was.

  Page after page, the silence grew deeper.

  Waylon stole a glance at his sister. “Something big is going to happen soon,” he predicted, trying to sound certain. “It’s a thramedy, remember?”

  Neon nodded hopefully.

  More reading. More not-laughing, more not-gasping-in-suspense, more…silence.

  Waylon held up a page. “There’s kissing on this one,” he said. It sounded lame, even to his own ears, as if he were apologizing.

  “Actually,” Neon said, looking more closely, “there’s just some talking about kissing. And then some talking about not kissing.”

  After a few minutes, Waylon pointed. “Duke gets up out of his chair here. See? He jumps up from his chair.”

  “Oh, oui,” Neon agreed. Then she tapped the bottom of the page. “Duke sits back down again,” she read.

  An hour later, Waylon stretched. “Neon, nothing happens in this thing.”

  Just then, Mr. Zakowski stuck his head in the door. “Well, guys? What do you think?” he asked with a smile, spreading his hands over the papers on the floor.

  Neon tugged her beret over one eye. “I think I have to go to bed. Au revoir,” she said, slinking out of the room.

  Mr. Zakowski turned to Waylon.

  “Um…I think you forgot
to give us the pages with the good parts, Dad. The parts with stuff happening.”

  “What do you mean? That screenplay is packed with stuff happening.”

  “No, I mean interesting stuff. Isn’t this supposed to be a thriller?”

  “It is.” Mr. Zakowski bent over and rifled through the pages. “Here, listen to this line: Stand aside. Let me fulfill my destiny! Now that’s called thrilling, Waylon!”

  “No, Dad! That’s called talking. Things exploding are thrilling. The title is Collision Course—where are the collisions?”

  “The title is about destiny, Waylon. People’s destinies, on a collision course with each other.”

  Waylon felt the air leave his body. Or maybe it was hope, gasping au revoir.

  Sunday morning, the world looked fresh and hopeful again, frosted with an inch of new snow during the night.

  Waylon met Baxter in front of Baby Goods. Baxter pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and handed it over. Waylon emptied his wallet and counted everything. “Fifty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

  Baxter whistled. “A fortune,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “Eddy deserves it.” He reached for the door.

  “Wait,” Waylon said. “What if someone asks why two kids are buying a stroller pad?”

  Baxter shrugged. “So what if they do?”

  Waylon hung his head. “I’ll wreck everything. I’ll blurt out that it’s for a dog. And next thing you know, I’ll spill the beans about how we’re busting Eddy out, and we’ll probably both end up in jail.”

  Baxter stared at Waylon. “Why would you do that?”

  Waylon pulled Baxter out of the doorway. “I have this book, The Science of Being Human. The Body Language chapter lists the things people do when they’re lying.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Well, there’s…Opposite Nodding,” Waylon said. “Like, if you say no and that’s a lie, you’ll automatically nod your head yes.”

  “Huh. Well, don’t do that.” Baxter stepped up to the door again.

  Waylon grabbed his coat sleeve. “Also, there’s Freezing. People who are lying tend to not move, like an animal frozen in fear. And there’s Rogatory Position—that’s speaking with your palms up.” Waylon turned his hands over. “See? It’s as if I’m praying for you to believe me. Dead giveaway.”

  “So this is great,” Baxter said. “You know all the things not to do. Let’s go in.”

  Waylon shook his head. “Knowing all this stuff works the opposite way for me. If I even think about lying, somehow I start doing all these things. Plus I feel sick.”

  Baxter grabbed the door handle. “Fine. You stay outside. I’ll go buy it.”

  Waylon handed over the wallet, but as soon as Baxter disappeared, he realized he didn’t want to be left behind. He wanted to be part of everything to do with Dumpster Eddy, especially the important things, like keeping him warm.

  He hurried inside and caught up with Baxter. “I’ll let you do all the talking,” he promised.

  They found the heating pad on the third aisle. Yellow and white stripes, looking warm even in its plastic wrap. Below it was a price tag: $74.99.

  Baxter patted his pockets, as if maybe he’d left some money behind, and shook his head. Waylon took the wallet and counted their money again. He shook his head, too.

  Baxter picked up the pad. “Remember, you don’t say a word,” he side-mouthed as they reached the checkout.

  The woman behind the counter looked like the kind of grandmother you saw in picture books. The kind who sat in rocking chairs knitting and called you dearie. Waylon thought this was a good sign.

  Baxter thumped the heating pad onto the counter. “This one’s too much money,” he said. “Do you have one that’s less? Like, fifty-eight dollars and fifty cents?”

  The grandmothery lady made a sad face. “That’s our only model, I’m afraid. It’s very popular.”

  Baxter sighed and left to put the heating pad back.

  “Well, I think I’ve seen everything now!” The grandmothery woman leaned over the counter to smile at Waylon. “Two fine young gentlemen, wanting to buy their baby brother or sister a nice cuddly heating pad. What’s your little one’s name?”

  Waylon’s throat went dry. “Ah…we call him Dumpster Eddy.”

  “Dumpster Eddy? Oh…well, how old is he?”

  Waylon knew he should lie. But he felt his stomach lurching and his body freezing and his palms floating into Rogatory Position, so he stuck with the truth. “We don’t really know. He’s about this high.” He forced his palm down to Eddy height. “When his ears are perked up.”

  The grandmothery lady looked confused. “Well, I’ll bet he’s cute. Do you have a picture?”

  Waylon did. Before he could pull out his wallet, Baxter tore up the aisle and stomped on his foot.

  “He is cute,” Baxter said. “Big brown eyes. We have to go now.” He grabbed Waylon’s sleeve and dragged him outside. “You really can’t lie!” he said, shaking his head. “So, wait. You never told your parents about busting out Eddy, did you? That was a secret.”

  “No. But it’s just because they never asked.”

  “Lucky thing,” Baxter said.

  Except Waylon didn’t feel lucky. He turned away. And right across the street was something that actually did make him feel lucky. “A pet-supply store!”

  When the traffic light turned green, he and Baxter hurried across. Inside, everything smelled like owning a pet. It smelled like happiness. Waylon and Baxter wandered the aisles for half an hour, weighing their options.

  The problem was money. Fifty-eight dollars and fifty cents wasn’t a fortune after all.

  “Just the basics,” Waylon said. “Just what he really, really needs.”

  When they brought their cart to the checkout, it held a shiny red collar, a retractable leash, and a case of dog food. Waylon dumped their money on the counter.

  “Want a name tag for that collar? Only a buck.” The cashier pointed to a bowl of round white disks. “You slip it onto the collar. Next to the license tag.”

  “His license tag?” Waylon asked.

  “That they gave you when you got his license.”

  Waylon and Baxter looked at each other. Then they looked at the floor. “Um, we’re getting our dog tomorrow,” Waylon said.

  “Well then, tomorrow you’ll need to get a license. Go to City Hall, next to the police station. Twenty bucks.”

  “Do we have to?” Baxter asked.

  The cashier nodded. “It’s the law. Besides, you’ll want to. If your dog ever gets lost, whoever finds him can call the phone number on his tag.”

  Twenty dollars for a license. Waylon and Baxter surveyed the cart. They needed the food. They ran their hands over the fancy red collar and the leash that would let Eddy run farther. The twenty-dollar collar and the twenty-dollar leash.

  The cashier sighed. “Cut off the end of a belt you don’t wear anymore. Poke a few extra holes in it. There’s your collar. You need that license.”

  “Thanks, mister.” Waylon slipped a twenty back into in his wallet. The cashier packed the leash and the dog food into a bag, then dropped in a rawhide chew with a wink.

  Waylon and Baxter hurried to the dogloo to stash the new stuff. They stacked the cans in a pile, with the rawhide chew on top. Waylon was about to tuck the leash under the bed when Baxter stopped him. “Let’s go visit Eddy together today and try it out.”

  For a minute, Waylon felt the urge to say, No, we should save all this stuff for tomorrow, when we own him for sure. But then he realized that was silly. “Okay,” he said instead. Because what harm could it possibly do?

  When they walked into the lockup, Eddy went crazy, as usual. Baxter opened his pen, and Eddy rocketed between the boys, ramping up and down their chests like a skateboarder to slurp their chins.

  Dumpster Eddy didn’t whine once, Waylon noticed, then pushed the thought away.

  Sure-Not-Meg came out of his office then. “That d
og has been going crazy since noon.” He held out the beat-up collar and ratty leash.

  Waylon took the collar but left the leash. He held up the new one, smiling with pride.

  “You bought him a leash?”

  Waylon nodded. “It’s retractable. Eddy can run pretty far on it.”

  “You bought an expensive leash like that for a mutt you don’t own?”

  Waylon froze.

  “For a mutt who’s leaving in two days?”

  Baxter slipped the collar over Eddy’s neck and snapped on the leash. “We’ll have him back at six,” he called, dragging Waylon to the door.

  Outside, the boys looked at each other. “Do you think he suspects?” Waylon whispered. “I think he suspects.”

  “Maybe. Don’t worry. We’ll get Eddy out tomorrow, and then it won’t matter what he suspects, because we’ll own him. With a license.”

  Baxter was right. But the anxious feeling didn’t leave Waylon as they walked to the park. Baxter looked worried, too.

  Eddy, at least, was delirious. He practically danced down the street, stopping to say hello to anyone who gave him the slightest opportunity, and prancing right into Boston Common as if he owned the whole thing.

  Waylon had never seen a dog so happy. It made him feel happy, too. But also a little sad.

  “What’s wrong?” Baxter asked.

  “Nothing. Well…it’s just…I think Eddy likes you more than he likes me,” Waylon admitted.

  “That’s nuts. Why do you think that?”

  “When I have him, he has a good time, sure. But not like this. He whines a lot, as if something’s bothering him. Today—no whining.”

  “Huh,” Baxter said. “I’ve noticed that, too, when I take him out. He’s always sniffing around and whimpering, as if he’s lost something.”

  “Really? He does that with you, too?” And suddenly Waylon understood. “He’s like Willy and Lilly!” he cried.

  “What?”

  “Willy and Lilly’s mom and dad got divorced in the summer. They wanted the weekends to be ‘one parent, one kid’ time, but Lilly and Willy didn’t. So they act all whiny unless both parents take them out together. Eddy is like them: if one of us takes him out without the other, he’s not happy. You and I are like Willy and Lilly’s parents.”