No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (15 page)

I hate the fifth grade. The fifth grade hates me.

I hate the fifth grade. The fifth grade

hates me. I hate the fifth

grade. Everyone

hates me.

The red words are bleeding into one another. I slam my sister's notebook shut. I wish I hadn't read it. No, that's not it. I wish the words she'd written weren't true. But they are. Something inside me knows they are.

What if I was wrong? What if getting moved up a
grade
has
been a challenge for Isabelle? Not for her brain, I mean, but for her mind. And for her heart. Everything is starting to make sense now: my sister playing alone, my sister eating alone, my sister riding the bus alone. Isabelle is stuck. She's trapped between the fourth grade she left behind and the fifth grade that won't let her in. Doyle and I are puzzle pieces. We fit perfectly. But Isabelle doesn't fit anymore with anyone. And what do I do? I come along with my stupid sister repellant and make everything worse.

I clutch Isabelle's notebook to my chest. Black zombie eyes are watching me in the rearview mirror. “Tough year,” says Ms. Rigormortis.

This time, I nod.

N
o, Mom. I'm not going—”

“Isabelle, you have to go back to school sometime.”

“Why? So Lewis and his friends can call me Smelly Isabelly? No, thanks.”

I poke my head into my sister's room. “Pretend Lewis is me, and zing him the way you're always zinging me—”

I get beaned in the head with a butterfly pillow.

“Like that.”

“Don't talk to me, Pilobolus,” yells Isabelle. “Tell him not to talk to me, Mom.”

“Isabelle Catherine, you have exactly fifteen
minutes to get dressed and be downstairs,” says our mom. “I'm driving the two of you to school. Scab, is your essay ready?”

“Yep.”

She turns to my sister. “Fifteen minutes.”

In the car Isabelle draws a droopy flower in the steam on her window. She chews her lips the way she does when she is trying to keep from crying.

“Isabelle, I—”

“Don't talk to me.”

“I know what
Pilo
—”

“You don't know anything.” My sister covers her ears with her hands. Her window flower fades away.

At school I go to the office. I have to give Mr. Huckabee my essay on responsibility. Mrs. Lipwart tells me to sit in the chair outside his office. I start kicking the leg of the chair. I snap my fingers while kicking the leg. I whistle while snapping my fingers while—

“Scab McNally!”

I stop.

“How long you in for?” Doyle is beside me.

I wave my paper. “Just dropping off.” I look him over. “You?”

“It's my turn to read the morning bulletin.”

“Oh.”

Doyle shoves his hands in his pockets.

I go back to lightly kicking the leg of the chair.

He digs his toe into the corner of a broken tile.

This is crazy. “Doyle,” I burst out. “I'm sorry I didn't give you your fair share of money. I'm sorry I said all that stuff. I'm sorry—”

“Me, too.” He cuts me off.

We both take a deep breath and grin. I put out my hand. He puts out his. We do our secret handshake. End of fight. Neither one of us likes fighting. Our longest argument lasted seven days, three hours, and ten minutes. I forget what it was about. I only remember it lasted forever.

“Too bad about your spray,” says Doyle. “Maybe your next invention will—”

“My parents shut down my lab.”

“For good?”

“Nah, but long enough. Two weeks.”

Doyle winces. “Sorry.”

“The worst part is . . .” I swallow hard. I can't say it out loud. I can't.

Mrs. Lipwart is waving a piece of paper. “Mr. Ferguson, the bell is about to ring.”

My best friend starts to shuffle away. He spins. “Scab, you want to walk Oscar with me after school?”

“Okay.” I smile.

It's good to have someone who knows you from the bones out.

Doyle takes the bulletin from Mrs. Lipwart. He goes into the tiny TV studio next to the copy room. It has a small window. I can see him adjusting the video camera. Everything at River Rock stops for the morning news announcements. Maybe I should join the AV club. Imagine having everybody's attention all at once. Wouldn't it be cool to have every single teacher and every single student listening to every single word you say—

I bolt up. I've got an idea.

Doyle is clipping on his microphone. The first bell rings.

My hands are sweaty. My heart speeds up.

If I'm going to do this, I have to do it now. When Mrs. Lipwart answers the phone, I slide my essay under Mr. Huckabee's door. I sure hope he understands. If not, I'll be scraping Milk Duds off the bottoms of desks until I go to middle school.

She's worth it.