Waylon! Even More Awesome, Volume 2 Read online

  “No, we’re not,” Baxter scoffed. “We aren’t married!”

  Waylon rolled his eyes. “I know that! But still, that’s what Eddy’s doing. He wants us to take him out together.”

  Just then, Dumpster Eddy shot past them in a spray of snow. He ran just to the end of his twenty-five-foot line, then spun in midair and shot back in the other direction.

  “Genius dog,” Baxter said. “He’s already figured how to get the longest dash.”

  Waylon watched for a while. It was great to see Eddy run like that. But it worried him, too. “When we’re at school, he’ll leave the igloo and go running.”

  “I know. We’ll worry about him being in traffic. And being cold, too.”

  “And getting wet when it rains.”

  And then they were quiet. Keeping a dog in an igloo wasn’t perfect. It was just the best they could do.

  When Waylon got home, his mother was vacuuming the living room, and the rest of the family was in the kitchen, doing their weekend chores. Waylon took out the trash, then came back and put a new liner in the can.

  Mr. Zakowski picked up a clutter of papers on the counter. “Look, you had mail yesterday, Charlotte,” he said, holding out an envelope. “You didn’t open it.”

  Waylon didn’t know why his father looked surprised. Neon didn’t do much of anything these days except lock herself in her room and work furiously on what she called her Oeuvre, which was some sort of performance masterpiece Waylon didn’t understand, no matter how many times Neon explained it.

  “You didn’t open it,” Waylon’s dad said again. “It’s from the Beantown Repertory Theater.”

  Neon rolled her eyes. “What is ze point?” she muttered. But after she’d unloaded the dishwasher, she picked up the envelope, slit the seal, and began to read.

  The bored look evaporated. Her eyes bugged open. “I won!” she said. “Third prize! In the New Voices in Boston Theater contest.”

  “I didn’t know you’d entered that,” Mr. Zakowski said.

  Neon shook her head. “I didn’t. Mrs. Tobasco entered me.”

  “Mrs. Tobasco?” Mrs. Zakowski asked, coming into the kitchen and shutting off the vacuum. “Your algebra teacher?”

  Neon nodded, still looking dazed. “She caught me working on my Oeuvre in class last month. When she handed it back, she gave me two choices: detention for the rest of the year, or let her submit it to the contest. So, obviously, I let her.”

  “What’s the prize?” Waylon asked. “Is it seventy-five dollars?”

  Neon read the letter again. “‘Pleased to inform…’ blah, blah, blah…blah, blah, ‘fresh vision…’ Oh, here it is! ‘We have arranged for the theater to be available for a production of your entry.’ One night in the middle of June. For the week before, I can use the theater for rehearsals and making scenery.”

  Both parents hugged their daughter hard. “A real performance at the Beantown Rep!” Mr. Zakowski cried. “I’m so proud of you!”

  Mr. Zakowski looked as happy as if he’d won the prize himself. But later, in his room, Waylon wondered: At the exact time he was waiting to hear if his own writing would ever be performed in front of an audience, his kid gets this prize. Did he feel a little bit jealous?

  Waylon sat up. His father was running the lights again tonight. He wouldn’t be home for another hour. That gave Waylon just enough time to do what needed to be done. He climbed out of bed and padded down the hall and into his father’s writing room.

  “Science!” Waylon growled Monday morning in the Pit.

  “Humor!” Charlie growled back, and then left.

  “What was that about?” Baxter asked, coming in.

  Waylon took Cosmo-Quest out of his backpack and handed it over. “It’s a comic book Charlie and I are working on. Were working on. Until Charlie wrecked it.”

  Baxter opened the booklet. He flipped through a few pages, chuckling. He laughed out loud. “It’s good,” he said. “So what’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is Charlie changed the science when he put in the jokes. It’s ruined.”

  Baxter looked at the comic again. “But without these jokes, it’s just a guy stepping onto a planet.”

  “Technically, Pluto hasn’t been considered a planet since 2006,” Waylon corrected him. “It’s a dwarf—”

  “I don’t care,” Baxter interrupted. “Without those jokes, you might as well call it Cosmo-Snooze.”

  “Fine,” Waylon grumbled. “I’ll put in some jokes myself. I’m not going to let Charlie touch it again.”

  “Well, can you be funny?” Baxter asked.

  “Of course! How about this: Two atoms are walking down the street. One says, ‘Uh-oh, I think I lost an electron.’ The second atom says, ‘Are you sure?’ And the first atom says, ‘I’m positive!’”

  Baxter looked at Waylon blankly. The bell rang. Baxter still stared.

  “That’s funny,” Waylon explained. “When an atom loses an electron, it becomes positive. So what do you think?”

  “I think you should Demonstrate the Ability to Work on a Team with People of Various Backgrounds, Beliefs, and Opinions,” Baxter said. “You need to Respect the Different and Unique Skills of Charlie. Because you’re not funny.”

  The second bell rang and Mrs. Fernman herded them into the classroom.

  Waylon took his seat. Of course he was funny. Maybe that hadn’t been his best joke, but he had lots of others.

  Anyway, he wasn’t going to let Cosmo-Quest ruin this day. Later this afternoon, he and Baxter were going to spring Dumpster Eddy for the final time. They were going to own a dog. Not just any dog, but the best dog in the world.

  The clock always tortured Waylon on days he was waiting to see Eddy, but this morning was worse than ever. The second hand dragged as though it were slogging through tar, the minute hand moved like a centipede with concrete shoes, and the hour hand seemed nailed in place.

  Time, Einstein had explained, was relative. But he had been talking about factors like distance and velocity. This phenomenon, Waylon thought, was something else. When Mrs. Fernman turned her back, Waylon drew out his notebook. Harness dog-love powers to slow time, he wrote.

  Finally, the minute hand gave its last lurch to noon, and twenty-nine kids clattered up and into the lunch line. Waylon bumped his way toward the back. “Okay, get this,” he said when he got to Baxter. “What do you call a planet that’s off its orbit?”

  Just then, Principal Rice came to the door. She crooked her finger at Baxter.

  He threw up his hands, but he followed her out.

  In the lunchroom, Waylon dropped his tray next to Clementine’s. “Do you think I’m funny?” he asked.

  “You? Funny?” Clementine repeated. “No. But don’t worry—you’re interesting. That’s good, too. So, did you buy one? A heating pad for that dog?”

  Waylon slumped onto the lunch table. He felt his cheek bond to decades of apple juice and meat loaf crust, but he didn’t care. It was supposed to get really cold tonight.

  “No,” he admitted. “It costs seventy-five dollars. We’re going to save our allowances. Maybe in a month.” He sat up. “It’s the only thing we don’t have. We got him everything else.”

  He watched as Clementine stuck her straw into her milk and blew up a bubble storm. “Poor dog,” she said at last, shaking her head. “That’s a lo-o-o-o-ng, c-o-o-o-o-ld time.”

  Waylon pushed away his tray. None of the food on his plate was going to make it past the lump that had grown in his throat.

  Baxter’s final police test was right after school Monday afternoon. He met Waylon at the dogloo afterward, grinning.

  “You passed?” Waylon asked.

  “Aced every section. I’m getting my certificate Wednesday afternoon. In a ceremony.” He pulled a can opener from his pack and placed it beside the case of food. Then he filled the water dish from his thermos.

  Waylon pushed the laundry basket bed to the far edge. “I read that dogs like to feel protected when th
ey sleep,” he explained. He fluffed the old blanket he’d brought over the bed, then laid his flannel beagle pajamas on top. “And I cut up a belt for a collar—it’s in my pocket.”

  Baxter scooped out a niche in the wall and wedged the flashlight in so it shone down over everything they’d done. “All we need now is the license,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Just as they crawled out, they saw a pair of green boots in the tunnel entrance.

  It was Clementine. She unzipped her jacket, pulled out the yellow-striped stroller pad, and held it out over both her palms.

  Waylon looked up, puzzled.

  “Only at night!” Clementine growled. “My mom only takes Summer out in the afternoons, so I’ll leave it outside every night. See there?” She aimed a shoulder at her building. “That’s the basement door. Put it back there every morning before school.”

  “Okay, okay. Thanks!” Waylon reached for the pad, but Clementine yanked it back.

  “And it better be clean! Put something over it, so it’s not all fleas and dog hair.”

  “Okay, I promise!” Waylon reached again.

  But again Clementine pulled it back. “And it’s only until you can buy your own, so hurry up with getting the money!”

  “Right, we will!” Baxter promised.

  “And one last thing. You can never tell. Anyone.”

  “We won’t.”

  “I mean it. Blood-swear.”

  Waylon said okay to blood-swearing, although he didn’t know what it meant, and finally Clementine handed over the heating pad. Warm in his hands, he could imagine Eddy curling up on it with a smile on his dog-face. “How come you’re doing this for us?” he asked.

  Clementine shook her head. “I’m not doing it for you.”

  “Then how come?”

  Waylon was shocked at what happened next: Clementine’s chin started to quake, and her eyes filled with tears. He knew that everybody cried, from The Science of Being Human, Chapter Seven, “People Plumbing.” But he’d never seen it happen to Clementine, not even when Mrs. Fernman sent her to the principal’s office for something she didn’t do.

  She wiped her face and looked down the alley. “Last winter, my kitten got lost,” she said in a wavery voice. “I worried all the time that he was cold. I don’t want to have to worry the same thing about your dog.” Then she spun around and stomped back to her building.

  Waylon dove into the igloo before Clementine could change her mind. He tucked the pad under the blanket and smoothed it out. Then he spread his pajamas over the top again. He sat back on his heels. Everything was ready now.

  He backed outside and stood next to Baxter. For a minute, they both just took it all in.

  “OAT,” Waylon said after a while.

  “What?” Baxter asked.

  Waylon hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “OAT,” he said. “When I was little, I made up this game called OAT—One Awesome Thing. I made everyone say One Awesome Thing about the day. This dogloo is my OAT today.”

  Baxter reached out to smooth the already smooth wall and smiled. “Yep. I still think something’s missing. But this is One Awesome Thing, all right,” he agreed.

  “There was a second part to OAT,” Waylon went on. “I used to make everyone say And tomorrow’s going to be even more awesome! Every time. And tomorrow is going to be even more awesome. It’s going to be the best day of my life.”

  “Right,” Baxter agreed again. “Tomorrow we’ll have him all day, from the minute we wake up. For good.” He turned toward the alley. “Let’s go make this happen.”

  When Waylon and Baxter tore up to the license office in City Hall, they found the clerk buttoning her coat.

  Waylon slapped the twenty-dollar bill on her desk. “License. For our dog.”

  The clerk wound a scarf around her neck and pointed to a sign. HOURS: 9:00–5:00.

  Waylon shook his head. He pointed to the clock, which read 4:58. He added a “Please?”

  The clerk frowned at the clock and then unwound her scarf. She sat down. “Dog’s name?” she grumbled. “Address?”

  Waylon answered all her questions, and then she opened a drawer and took out a metal tag. She squinted at the numerals embossed on it, then copied them down onto a form. She handed over the tag. “Here’s your license. If you lose it, it’s another three dollars.”

  “We won’t lose it.” Waylon pulled the belt-collar from his pocket and worked the tag onto its buckle.

  They ran the few steps to the station. At the door, Baxter side-mouthed a warning. “Act normal and let me do the talking. You know—the lying thing.”

  Waylon nodded and squeezed the dog tag. Their dog. In two minutes.

  Baxter threw open the doors and they ran in.

  The dispatcher opened the lock and the boys raced down the hall to the middle left-hand cage and skidded to a stop. The sleepy-looking bulldog inside lifted an eyebrow and then rolled over.

  “Where’s Eddy?” Waylon looked up and down the row of cages. He whistled, which set all the dogs barking. None of the barks was Eddy’s.

  “Where’s our dog?” Baxter and Waylon demanded at once. They ran down to the Animal Control officer’s office and banged the door open. “Where’s our dog???”

  Officer Sure-Not-Meg turned around. He pushed aside some papers and sat on his desk. He rocked around, getting comfortable. “The scrawny brown mutt?” he asked. “Oh, he’s gone. I sent him off to the Springfield shelter today.”

  Waylon felt his heart slam against his ribs. Baxter’s eyes bulged.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “He can’t be gone!”

  “Today’s only Monday!”

  “You said Tuesday!”

  Waylon wasn’t sure which things he had yelled and which were Baxter’s. It didn’t matter.

  “I did say Tuesday,” Sure-Not-Meg agreed, leaning back. “But then I did a little research”—he tapped a stack of papers—“and it came to my attention that this dog has been escaping just before he’s supposed to be shipped off. Sometimes on the exact day.” He leaned in so close that Waylon and Baxter could see his scalp turning pink. “Now isn’t that a coincidence.”

  Waylon gulped.

  Baxter spun around. “Come on!” he cried.

  They skidded down the halls. They found Officer Boylen pouring a cup of coffee in the break room.

  “He took Dumpster Eddy!” Baxter cried as they burst in. “The new guy sent him to Springfield!”

  “I heard. Sorry, boys.”

  Baxter threw his hands up. “You have to do something!”

  “I’m sorry. Nothing I can do, son.” Officer Boylen held out a box of muffins. “You guys hungry?”

  Baxter waved the muffins away. “It isn’t fair! He wasn’t supposed to take him until tomorrow!”

  Officer Boylen picked up a newspaper and shook it open. “Life isn’t fair. You know that, son.”

  Waylon always hated it when grown-ups said life isn’t fair. What it really meant was that grown-ups didn’t care enough to fix something they’d messed up. If kids ran the world, it would be fair. Kids would make it fair. Baxter must have been thinking the same thing.

  “You can do something, Dad. Go to the chief.”

  Officer Boylen put down his coffee and folded his paper. He looked from one boy to the other, hard.

  Waylon gulped. He knew Baxter’s dad was a dad. But he was a policeman, too.

  “The dog was taken to the shelter one day early, boys. One day. You want us to go get him just so he can leave again tomorrow? What’s really going on here?”

  Waylon and Baxter exchanged looks.

  “It was my idea,” Waylon started. “Don’t blame Baxter.”

  “It’s my idea, too,” Baxter said. “We’re both doing it.”

  “Doing what?”

  Waylon drew a deep breath. “We’re taking our dog. Forever. We’ve built him a home.”

  “You’ve built him a home? In Boston?”

  Waylon st
raightened up. “An igloo.”

  “An igloo? You mean a snow fort?”

  “An igloo,” Waylon insisted. “Eddy can sleep in it. While it’s winter. We’ll make him something else later.”

  “We bought him a leash and a license and two weeks’ worth of food,” Baxter added. “We spent all the money we had. We’re going to be with him every minute we’re not in school. So you have to get him back! Before it’s too late!”

  “Okay, let’s calm down, boys.” Officer Boylen pointed to the table. “Take a seat.”

  Waylon sat when Baxter did, but the instant he did, his legs shot right back up. Sitting down felt like giving up on Eddy, and he wasn’t doing that.

  Baxter jumped back up, too. “I’ll make the chief get him if you won’t.”

  Officer Boylen grabbed the sides of his head and rocked it. Then he sighed and sat down. “Bringing him back wouldn’t be fair to this dog.” He sighed again. “Boys, a dog needs a home. Safe. This Dumpster Eddy isn’t going to be safe while you’re at school every day.”

  Baxter folded his arms across his chest. “Lots of people have dogs and leave them to go to school or work. Those dogs are fine.”

  “Inside, son. They live inside. Or in pens, in good weather. You’re talking about letting this dog run loose on the streets of Boston all day. I’m sorry, but there are rules against that for a reason. If you care about this dog, you’ve got to want him to have a safe home inside.”

  “But he can be inside,” Waylon tried. “It’s warm and dry in the igloo. We’ll make a door for it and lock Eddy inside while we’re in school if you want.”

  “Just come look at it,” Baxter pleaded. “You’ll see!”

  Officer Boylen glanced at his watch. He sighed once more and stood up. “I’ll drive you guys home. If it will make you happy, we’ll stop to see this igloo on the way.”