No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (5 page)

“Banana peel.” Doyle is calling from inside my family's trash can.

“No,” I say.

“Tea bag?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, look! Soggy potato skins.”

“Not stinky enough.” I need a megasmelly secret ingredient to finish Isabelle's Smell.

“Wait . . . I think I've got something. . . . Oh, geez.” Doyle stands up. White goop is dripping from his fingers. “This had better be clam chowder, Scab.”

“I guess we should try Mr. Dawber's can.”

“You try it. I've had enough fun going through
your
garbage.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “I've got to walk Oscar.”

I gently nudge Oscar until his eyes open. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. But his sleepy eyes aren't looking at me. They are locked on to Doyle. “I'll walk him,” I say, trying not to sound jealous.

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure? Am I
sure
?

“I'd better come with you.”

How hard can it be to walk a dog? But Oscar is Doyle's dog, so I keep quiet. Doyle snaps Oscar's leash on him and hands it to me. Sweet!

One thing I learn pretty quickly. You don't walk a dog. A dog walks you. Oscar's squatty legs zigzag down the sidewalk. He stops to sniff everything. And I mean
everything
.

“How long does it take to walk him?” I ask.

“About a half hour—”

“That's not so bad.”

“Three times a day.”

“Three times?”

“You get used to it.”

“R-rruff,” says Oscar. I don't think he likes us talking about him.

“We could walk our dogs together, if you had a dog,” says Doyle.

“I'll get one.”

“You always say that.”

“This time, I've got a plan. See, I'm going to save up to buy a dog. Once my mom and dad see
how responsible I am with money, they'll know I'm responsible enough to take care of a pet. They'll
have
to say yes.”

Doyle agrees.

“How much did Oscar cost?” I ask.

“We got him at the shelter in Arlington. I think he was about sixty bucks.”

“Bug spit.”

“How much have you got?”

“I
had
nine dollars and twelve cents in my safe. I had to give it to my sister.” I see his frown. “Don't ask.

“You know what?” Doyle's face brightens. “You ought to get Isabelle to ask for your dog.”

“My sister? Why?”

“You've already tried, like what, eight times this year?”

“Seven,” I lie. It's really nine. “I don't need Isabelle. I can get my own dog.”

Oscar is barking.

“All I'm saying is that your sister could be a big help,” says Doyle. “She's got the smarts. She'll know what to say. Plus, she's really responsible, and you . . .”

I wait for him to finish so I can kick him in the calf.

“Arf, arf.” Oscar is tugging on his leash.

“Wuh-oh,” says Doyle.

A black Doberman is galloping down the sidewalk toward us. Lewis Pigford is stumbling after the dog, trying to hold on to its red leash. “Stop, Dimples! Stop!” Lewis trips. He nearly falls sideways into a big rosebush.

I slap my thigh and laugh. It serves Lewis right. The guy is always picking on some poor kid. And usually that kid is shier, shorter, or younger than Lewis.

Doyle, however, isn't laughing. “Dimples is bad news. Let's get out of here.” He starts walking away.

I gently pull on Oscar's leash to turn him around. But he has seen Dimples too.

“Oscar, let's go,” I say.

He doesn't budge. He just barks faster. And louder. “Arf, arf, arf!” I can't tell if he wants to play with Dimples or fight him. Neither idea is good.

“Oscar, that's a bad idea. That dog will eat you for lunch,” I say, yanking on the leash.

Oscar is too busy barking to listen to reason.

“Scab,” Doyle shouts over his shoulder, “come
on
!”

Dimples is half a block away. He's charging at full speed. Doyle is right. We need to get out of here. But what do you do when you are locked in a tug-of-war with a stubborn wiener dog? “Doyle!” I cry. “Help!”

My best friend is beside me. He scoops Oscar up in his arms. He unhooks the leash. “Run, Scab! RUN!”

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I pick up my feet
and stay on Doyle's heels. Suddenly I am skidding chin first across the sidewalk. Concrete is ripping into my chin and palms. “Owwwww!”

I skid to a stop and roll over. Oscar's leash is wrapped around my knees. It's tangled in a knot. The more I grab, the tighter the knot gets. Dimples is barreling down on me. His red leash is flying free. Where is Lewis? What happened to Lewis? My fingers can't seem to do anything right. I can't get loose!

Woof! Woof! WOOF!
The bark thunders in my head. I see black eyes and sharp teeth and globs of drool. And they're all coming straight for my throat.

“Get up!
Get up!
” yells Doyle.

Kicking wildly, I break free of the leash. I bolt for the maple tree in Mrs. Carbanito's front yard and pull myself up into the V of the trunk. I am clawing bark when I feel Dimples's jaw clamp on to the leg of my jeans. He pulls. I kick. I kick
hard
. I hear the rip of denim. Branches are scratching my face, neck, and arms. I keep jerking my leg with everything I've got, trying to shake the dog loose. On my fourth kick
I feel air. That's it! Dimples has let go! I climb like my life depends on it, which it pretty much does. I don't look down until I am a good fifteen feet off the ground.

Woof!
Dimples is jumping up on the trunk.
Woof! Woof!

Each bark sends a bolt of fear through me. Standing on a thick branch, I hug the trunk. My arms are scraped up. My knees are shaking. My mouth feels weird. Sort of wet. Blood?

Dimples circles the tree. He looks up at me hungrily. He growls. After a few tense minutes of glaring and growling, he trots away. Just like that, he trots away. Like I am a toy he's tired of playing with.

I close my eyes. I don't move. Not for a long, long time.

“Scab?” Doyle's voice floats up to me. “You okay?”

“I'm all right.” I don't sound like me. I sound like Isabelle.

“You coming down?”

I take my time getting out of the tree 'cause my hands are sore and my legs are still noodles. There's a big hole in the back right leg of my jeans.

“You cut your chin up good,” says Doyle. He's holding out a couple of plastic grocery bags to catch the blood.

“I'm okay,” I say. I wipe my face on the bottom of my T-shirt.

Doyle is still trying to hand me the bags.

“Really, I'm fine.”

He shakes them. “They aren't for you.”

I don't get it.

“You wanted to walk him.” My best friend nods toward his dog. Oscar is pooping in the middle of Mrs. Carbanito's orange pansies. He's parking a couple of steamy ones beside a spinning plastic rooster.

I stare at Doyle. He doesn't expect
me
to—

“Pick it up,” he says. “It's the law.”

He does!

Oscar is done. I, however, am still staring at Doyle.

Doyle sighs. “Do you want a dog or don't you?”

I am beginning to wonder. Even so, I snatch the bags from him.

“Use the first bag like a glove to grab the poop and put it in the second bag,” instructs my best friend. “Then put the first bag inside the second bag and tie it up tight.”