No More Dead Dogs Read Online Free PDF

actors. None of you should ever be shy if you have suggestions.”
    Trudi’s hand shot up. “I’ve got a bunch of lines I hate, too. Can I get Wallace to fix them up?”
    This time, Mr. Fogelman’s smile didn’t really come off that well. “Uh—”
    But Trudi was already waving her script under Wallace’s nose. “See here where I have to say, ‘Sweet little doggie, we shall nurse you back to health’? Pretty lame, huh?”
    “It stinks,” Wallace agreed.
    “So?” Trudi prompted. “What should I say instead?”
    Wallace looked to Mr. Fogelman for permission.
    This time our director’s vein was bulging even more than usual. “Go ahead,” he muttered.
    Wallace turned back to Trudi. “Try ‘Easy, pup, you’re going to be just fine.’”
    “That’s great!” shrieked Trudi, writing it onto her script. “Now, how about here on page seven—”
    “That’s enough rewriting for one day,” Mr. Fogelman decided.

    “Rachel,” my mom called. “Go get Dylan for dinner.”
    I stuffed my letter into a drawer to finish later. “Aw,” I groaned, “he doesn’t even listen to you. What makes you think he’d listen to me?”
    “Because if he doesn’t, his chamber of horrors is going out the window, and he’s going with it.”
    She wasn’t kidding about the chamber of horrors. It was written right on his bedroom door, in letters dripping with blood. I hated going in there. Sweet little Dylan always had plenty of (sick) surprises for intruders, like a spider the size of a dinner plate, a true-to-life plastic skeleton that would wish you “Good evening” if you got too close, and fake trailing cobwebs (or maybe they were real. Dylan wasn’t much of a housekeeper).
    I knocked tentatively on the TOXIC WASTE sign. “Dylan. Dinner.”
    “Come on in, Rach.”
    I shuddered. “Do I have to?”
    The door opened, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. Actually, the chamber of horrors wasn’t so bad this time. There was a lot of football stuff amid the mummies, vampire bats, and boa constrictors. In the place of honor on the night table (beside the disembodied hand) sat an eight-by-ten photograph from last year’s championship. It was Wallace Wallace, the hero, flying through the air, his body parallel to the ground, diving onto the ball for the winning touchdown. That stupid picture was displayed in every dry cleaner and doughnut shop in Bedford, even now, almost a year later.
    I delivered my message. “Dinner’s ready.”
    “Did you talk to Mr. Fogelman?” Dylan asked eagerly.
    “I talk to him every day,” I replied, purposely misunderstanding.
    “You know what I mean,” he insisted. “About getting Wallace off detention.”
    I sighed. “It’s not up to me, Dylan. Wallace Wallace belongs on detention. Detention was invented for people like him.”
    “Well, couldn’t you get him, like, a suspended sentence? Or a delay until after football season?”
    I rolled my eyes. “If Wallace wanted to be back on the team, he could do it in two seconds. He won’t write his paper. He doesn’t even try anymore. He’s stopped bringing a pen to the gym. He’s too busy bugging people, anyway.”
    Dylan stuck out his jaw. “How?”
    “By interrupting our rehearsals.”
    “What do you mean interrupting?” he persisted.
    I swallowed hard, trying to be fair. “He makes—suggestions.”
    He stared. “What kind of suggestions?”
    “On how to make the play better.”

Enter…
TRUDI DAVIS
    W hen I saw the yellow Post-it note, It’s here , stuck to the door of my locker, I headed straight for the library. Mrs. McConville was so cool. She always let me be the first to read the new issue of Teen Dazzle magazine, even before it got catalogued into the computer.
    I sat down at a research table and flipped through the pictures of clothes I couldn’t afford and makeup my parents wouldn’t let me wear. The Quiz of the Month caught my eye. It was called “Is the Perfect Boyfriend Right Under Your Very