No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (16 page)

See that red light on the camera?” asks Doyle. “When it goes on, you're on.”

“Got it.” I sound like a frog. I'm thirsty. And I really gotta pee. I hop up and down. I
am
a frog.

The red light blinks. I stare at it.

“Scab? You're on!”

“Oh . . . hi, everybody out there at River Rock. Um . . . I'm . . . uh . . . Snab McScally—I mean, Scab McSnally. Oh, bug spit! You all know me. I'm Scab. Uh . . . I'd like to say I'm sorry for stinking up the school last week. I'm even sorrier—is that a word? My sister would know. She's the person I'm sorrier to, if that's a word. Izzy, you were right. I am a
Pilobolus
. That's a fungus that grows on cow poop, everyone. I read all about it in a science book I checked out of the library. See, it shoots out these tiny spores and they fly like little rockets right over the cows. They blast off at something like thirty-five miles per hour and can scatter something like eight feet. Wicked, huh?”

Doyle is making a circle in the air with his finger. I don't know what that means, so I just keep going. “Anyway, I'm really sorry to everyone, especially Isabelle, for being such a
Pilobolus
. And I guess that's pretty much all I wanted to say, so . . . uh, I guess I'll just say
off wiener sand
. That means ‘good-bye' in German, right, Isabelle? Oh, and Miss Sweeten, it looks like I'm going to be tardy again. . . . Are we still on the air?”

A lunch tray lands across from me. A sesame-seed bun slips off the top of a sloppy joe sandwich.

“It's pronounced ‘owf vee-der-zay-in,' you fruit bat, not ‘off wiener sand.'”

Not exactly what I was going for, but at least my sister is talking to me.

Isabelle slides into the seat next to Doyle. “I can't believe you let him go on TV like that.”

Doyle shrugs as if to say, “It seemed like a good idea.”

Isabelle takes a cautious look around the cafeteria. “Kids are
never
going to stop teasing me now.”

Sitting next to me, Will jumps in. “He was only trying—”

“I know, I know.” Isabelle's eyes look red and tired.

I don't know what to say. I have made things worse again. Bug spit!

“Isabelle?”

I turn my neck. Jenna Lucas and Libby Miles are standing behind me. Posing, is more like it. The fifth graders in Isabelle's class want to be models. How do I know this? Because they are always putting on fashion shows at recess. They pretend the courtyard is a runway. They line up and strut around the square like supermodels. You may hurl chunks now.

“Are you okay?” Jenna is asking my sister.

“Uh . . . yeah.” Isabelle is covering her mouth as she tries to swallow a bite of sloppy joe.

“You poor, poor thing,” sighs Jenna. She gives me a frosty look. “It's bad enough that you made that nasty spray, but then to go on TV and embarrass your sister all over again. . . .”

“I didn't mean—”

“The nightmare that is Scab continues.” Libby pops her gum.

“Brothers are such a pain,” says Jenna. “I have two of them, so I know what you're going through.”

“We should sell our brothers to the zoo or the circus or something,” adds Libby. I chuckle at her joke. But she isn't laughing.

“Tell me about it,” my sister mutters under her breath. “It's all right,” she says to the girls. “I'll be all right.”

“You are an absolute rainbow,” says Jenna. “Isn't she a rainbow, Libby?”

CRACKING THE GIRL CODE

Libby nods, folding another stick of gum into her mouth. Boy, can that girl chew cud. “Scab, you're lucky to have such a nice sister.”

“I know,” I say seriously. I smile at Isabelle.

My sister's lips turn up at the corners. Just a sliver. But it's enough.

“If it had been me,” Libby spits, “I would have turned you into onion rings at exactly eight fifty-five this morning.” Still, no laughter. I slowly scoot myself and my lunch tray the other way.

Libby whispers something to Jenna, who whispers something back. They go back and forth a few times, before Jenna says, “Let's just ask Isabelle and see—”

“Ask me what?” my sister chimes in.

Is that spit on the side of her mouth? Is my sister drooling?

Libby stops chomping. “I know this is probably not your thing, but . . . I mean, we were thinking that if you weren't busy helping Mr. Corbett tutor the slow kids at recess that maybe you'd like to . . .”

Isabelle leans forward. “Yes?”

Yep, that's slobber, all right.

“Do you want to be in our fashion show?” blurts out Jenna. “You're probably not even into clothes—”

“Are you kidding?” she squeals. “I love clothes.”

“You do? Really?”

Clearly, Jenna is surprised that Isabelle would have room in that superpowered brain of hers for something so totally stupid. Never fear. She does.

Isabelle's head has turned to rubber. It's bouncing all over the place. “Really. I love modeling, too. I watch all the modeling reality shows on TV.”

Jenna strikes a new pose. “Fa-bu. You're in the show. Meet us at the courtyard when the bell rings.”

“I can't make it,” I say, waggling my fingers. “I'm having my nails done. Then I'm going to be a rainbow. Will and Doyle, do you want to be rainbows too?”

Doyle burps.

“I'd rather be a butterfly,” says Will.

Our laughter is interrupted by the whack of Libby's backpack strap against my neck. The sting sends goose bumps up my arms.

“We're going to go remind Perri and Kayla,” says Jenna. “So we'll see you in about twenty minutes?”

Isabelle's mouth breaks into a full grin. “Fa-bu.”
Suddenly Libby is very close to my left ear. I smell watermelon. She cracks her gum. It echoes through my skull. I shiver. “Tomorrow,” she hisses, “she's eating with us. Got it?”

“Got it.” I rub the rising welt on the back of my neck. I'm not scared of much in this world, except swimming where I can't touch the bottom, automatic sliding doors, and food that's folded. You may now add one more thing to that list: Libby Miles, Boy Hater.

The girls walk away practicing their runway strut. It's enough to make a guy lose his lunch. But Isabelle is happy. I know because she doesn't lose that goofy grin even after I cram two carrot sticks up my nose and try to blow them out.

“Wuh-oh,” says Doyle.

Isabelle and I follow his gaze. Lewis Pigford is dancing this way.

“Wuh-oh,” I say.

“Let's go,” says Doyle. Isabelle, Will, and I start throwing stuff on our trays. But it's too late.

Lewis is already singing. “Hey, hey, what's that smell?”

Isabelle is shrinking behind her sloppy joe and salad.

“Hey, hey, it's Isabelle!” Lewis has got his arms up in the air and is swinging his hips like a belly dancer.

“Cut it out, Lewis,” I say. “Izzy, don't pay any attention to him.”

“I'm fine,” croaks Isabelle. But her hair is in her eyes and the smile is gone. Isabelle tosses her napkin on her tray. “I'd better get ready for the fashion show—”

“Smelly Isabelly. Smelly Isabelly . . .”

My sister untangles herself from the bench. She stands up.

I try again. “Don't go, Izzy—”

“Smelly Isabelly. Smelly Isabelly.”

Isabelle grabs her tray.

“Izzy, you shouldn't let him—”

“Smelly Isa—”

“Smell this, Lewis.” My sister swings around. She pushes her tray straight into Lewis Pigford's chest. Lewis freezes. Kids gasp. The tray falls to the floor with a ear-splitting clatter. The room goes deathly still. Lewis's light blue T-shirt is now a sliding collage of gooey hamburger meat, barbecue sauce, and bits of lettuce and tomato.

Is that ranch dressing or blue cheese on his neck? Hard to tell. Lewis's jaw drops. His arms hang in the air. His hip is still jutted out to one side, mid–hula dance. He can't believe it. None of us can. This is Isabelle. Straight-A+, teacher's pet, spelling bee champ, first-chair violin Isabelle. I have never been prouder.