Waylon! Even More Awesome, Volume 2 Page 6

  When the cruiser turned into the dark alley, Waylon and Baxter gasped. They’d left the flashlight on, and the dogloo glowed a soft, snowy blue, with sharper light sparkling through the chinks between the blocks.

  Baxter pulled his father down the path behind the Dumpster. “We made this,” he said, spreading his arms over Eddy’s home. “Every bit of it. Waylon and I.”

  In the glow from the dogloo’s entrance, Baxter shone with pride.

  Officer Boylen whistled softly. “Whoa. This is amazing,” he admitted. “What a thing! I can see your police officer training has really paid off, Baxter. This certainly shows Perseverance. And the Ability to Work as a Team.” He put a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders and beamed down at them. “Maybe you two could pull off this dog thing, after all. Mind if I look inside?”

  As Waylon’s dad crawled into the dogloo, Waylon and Baxter exchanged looks, their fingers crossed in bulky gloves. Officer Boylen was going to be impressed. He would see that they deserved their dog. And he’d go to Springfield and bring Dumpster Eddy back.

  “See the water dish?” Baxter called into the tunnel. “A dog needs fresh water. We’ve got that covered.”

  “And the bed,” Waylon added. “It’s nice and warm.”

  There was no answer. In a minute, Officer Boylen backed out of the dogloo. In one hand was the yellow-striped pad. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s heated,” Baxter explained. “See? We can really take care of him. Tell him about the science, Waylon.”

  “A dog’s temperature is one hundred and two degrees,” Waylon said. “And snow is great insulation. This will be plenty to keep him warm. Plus we’ll be hugging him. Hugging has been shown to improve the immune system, too.” Waylon held his breath.

  Officer Boylen raised the heating pad. “This is great. Where did you get it, boys?”

  “Baby Goods,” Baxter said. “Also, we’re going to get some dog vitamins and—”

  “Looks expensive,” Officer Boylen cut off his son with a curious expression. “I thought you said you spent all your money on food and a leash and a license.”

  Waylon gulped.

  Baxter shot Waylon a look and then pointed to the dogloo. “Um…did you see that flashlight in there, Dad? We’re going to teach Eddy how to turn it on. He’s really smart—”

  “How did you pay for it?” Officer Boylen’s face looked worried now. “How did you buy something this expensive if you spent all your money?”

  Both boys looked over at Clementine’s building, then down at their boots.

  Officer Boylen crouched in front of them. “Just tell me. Did you boys buy this?”

  “Um…yes?” Waylon said, while he felt his head shake no. His body froze, except for his hands, which floated to perfect Rogatory Position. “Actually…we…no.”

  Baxter stomped on his foot. Waylon’s mouth snapped shut.

  Officer Boylen stood up and turned to Baxter. “Get in the cruiser, son,” he said.

  Waylon got to school early on Tuesday morning after a night of no sleep, worrying about Eddy in Springfield and Baxter at home with his father. “What happened?” he asked, the minute Baxter showed up.

  Baxter tossed his coat into his locker. He jutted his chin. “I didn’t rat on Clementine.”

  “But what happened?”

  “He kept asking how I got it,” Baxter said, his face in his locker, “and I kept not telling. After a while, my dad figured I stole it. I had to let him.”

  “So what did he do, Baxter?”

  “He told me I had to return it. And I did—I put it at Clementine’s back door this morning.”

  Waylon grabbed Baxter’s shoulder and turned him around. “Did. He. Punish. You?”

  At that, Baxter’s face crumpled. He grabbed his gut as if someone had kicked him. “He called the chief,” he whispered. “He told him, ‘My son isn’t police material. Cancel the ceremony.’”

  Baxter’s shoulders shook as he walked into the classroom.

  Waylon had never seen a person look so heartbroken. Which he didn’t understand. It wasn’t as if anyone was actually going to let a ten-year-old be a real police officer. It was just a certificate that named him a junior—

  Waylon stopped.

  What if…What if Baxter felt the same way about becoming a junior officer for Chief Santos as he himself felt about becoming a junior correspondent for Neil deGrasse Tyson?

  What if it had been Waylon’s dad who had asked where they’d gotten the heating pad, and Waylon who had chosen not to rat on Clementine? And what if his dad had called up Neil deGrasse Tyson and said, My son’s not junior-correspondent material?

  Just imagining that, Waylon felt all the strength leave his body, as if there were drains in his heels.

  Could that be how horrible Baxter was feeling right now? He didn’t know. But he knew what he had to do.

  When the dismissal bell rang, Waylon was the first out the door. He ran all the way to the police station.

  Inside the lobby, he straightened up and drew a deep breath.

  The station looked different this afternoon. The ceiling seemed extra high. The walls were lined with the portraits of past police chiefs who all seemed to be glaring down at him.

  He walked to the dispatcher. “Is Chief Santos here?” Was it possible he’d just squeaked? He knew from The Science of Being Human that the vocal cords tightened when a person was nervous, and he certainly was nervous now.

  “He’s in his office. Go on in.”

  Waylon did.

  Inside, he started talking before he could chicken out. “Baxter didn’t steal it. We borrowed that heating pad from a friend, but the friend made us blood-swear not to tell, because the friend was afraid her mother would get all mad that their baby’s heating pad had fleas or something. So Baxter didn’t. Which showed good Police Officer Traits.”

  The chief leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Good Police Officer Traits?”

  “Baxter was Protecting a Source,” Waylon explained. “And he Had a Partner’s Back—mine—by Respecting my Different and Unique Ability not to lie. I can’t, so Baxter knew that I’d tell about Clementine—I mean our friend—and then I wouldn’t be Protecting a Source. So he was also showing Good Moral Judgment in Community Matters.”

  The chief cocked his head. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  Waylon explained about helping Baxter study for the test. “Plus, police stuff is all he ever talks about. That kid is obsessed.”

  Chief Santos closed his eyes and nodded. Then he swiveled around in his chair. When he spun back, he picked up his pen and pointed it at Waylon. “I think you’re right. I’ll talk with Baxter’s father, see how he feels. Maybe we’ll hold that ceremony tomorrow afternoon after all.”

  The chief made a mark on his desk calendar. Then he looked up. “And how about you? Seems you were part of this case. Is there anything the department can do for you in appreciation?”

  Waylon knew that he should say something cheerful—like, Wow, sure, Chief! Could I try on some handcuffs?

  But he couldn’t do it. He only wanted one thing, and that one thing was gone forever. “No,” he said and started for the door.

  “Come on,” the chief prodded. “There must be something the station can offer?”

  Waylon turned around. “Dumpster Eddy.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but what did it matter? “I just wanted our dog.”

  “I’m sorry, son,” the chief said.

  From the look on his face, Waylon knew he meant it. But it didn’t help.

  When he left the station, Waylon planned to go home. But his legs trudged right past his condo building as if they had a mind of their own.

  Alien Hand Syndrome was one of his favorite Bizarre Conditions from The Science of Being Human, and Waylon was always on the lookout for another body part that could suddenly go rogue. But he knew it wasn’t Alien Leg Syndrome he had. He knew where his legs were taking him, and he knew why.r />
  When he reached the alley, he stopped beside the Dumpster.

  He didn’t know if he could bear seeing all the things in the igloo that would remind him of Eddy. But at the same time, the igloo was the only place he could be this afternoon.

  He crawled in. “Hey!”

  “Hey!” Baxter looked as shocked as Waylon felt.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Baxter tossed his arms up. “I have no idea. I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t.”

  Waylon settled himself next to Eddy’s bed. “Me neither.”

  Baxter got up and pushed off the top snow block. “What should we do with this place?” He poked his head through the opening and looked around. “We could knock off the roof and have a snowball fort. We could have some great fights.”

  “Epic,” Waylon agreed with a sigh.

  Baxter sat back down. “Or we could smash it.”

  Waylon shrugged. “Sure. Sledgehammers. All that snow flying.”

  They were silent for a minute. Then Waylon tugged his wallet free and slid out a picture: Waylon and Baxter, with Eddy between them. It seemed like years ago that Meg had taken it for them. He propped it up on the dog bed. “Or we can just hang out here,” he said. “Remembering Eddy.”

  Baxter picked up the photo. “Best dog ever. I wish he were here.”

  Waylon sighed. “Me too. But…your dad was right. Eddy deserves a real home. Maybe he’ll get adopted.”

  Baxter nodded. “He had some bald patches. He should have a place that’s warm. With furniture to jump on. And floors, to keep his paws dry. And people around—Eddy loves people.” Baxter’s face grew worried. “But not criminals. Not someone who wants Eddy to be a lookout dog.”

  Waylon gazed up at the circle of sky. It was purple now, and a single star gleamed. “This has been the worst day of my life,” he said.

  But Baxter was already gone.

  As Waylon hung up his stuff in the hall, he stopped. He sniffed. The air smelled like…air. “Dad?” he called.

  His father came into the hall. He wasn’t wearing the apron he’d had on for a week.

  “You heard?” Waylon asked. “About your screenplay?”

  Mr. Zakowski nodded. “It didn’t sell. They thought that not enough happened in the plot.”

  Waylon patted his father’s arm. “Are you okay?”

  Mr. Zakowski looked surprised. “Of course. It just means another revision. I’ll get started tonight. Your mom will be home around six. Pick out a couple of pizzas from the freezer.”

  After dinner, Waylon holed up in his room—he hadn’t told his family about the plan to own Eddy, so now he had to be alone with his sadness about it not happening.

  He did his homework, and then he got into bed with his book of famous scientists’ biographies. Usually, reading them inspired him. But tonight, it seemed everyone he thumbed to had had a dog: Einstein had his Chico, Darwin had his Polly, and the Leakeys had five dalmatians. He put the book down.

  The only not-terrible thing about this terrible day was how happy his father was going to be when he found out that Waylon had helped him with his screenplay. Waylon lay back and imagined how it might go.

  His father would drag himself into his studio and open his too-boring screenplay. A look of stunned gratitude would spread over his face when he got to the parts Waylon had improved. This stuff’s amazing! he’d think. How will I ever thank my son?

  Waylon hoped he was still awake when this happened. He could sure use a lift.

  And then he heard it: his father’s writing studio door opened and closed. He heard typing for a little while, and then…nothing.

  Waylon sat up. He switched on his lamp.

  He heard the studio door open again. Steps coming down the hall. A knock, and then his father stood in his bedroom doorway, the screenplay in his hands, just as Waylon had imagined.

  But something was wrong with the picture.

  The look of stunned gratitude Waylon had imagined lighting up his father’s face was missing.

  Mr. Zakowski sat at the end of Waylon’s bed, frowning. He tapped his screenplay and raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about this?”

  Waylon knew what those raised eyebrows meant. “No, it’s not the same thing at all,” he said.

  Mr. Zakowski’s eyebrows elevatored up his forehead.

  “Okay,” Waylon admitted, “maybe a meteor crash is a little bit like Charlie’s green slime. But—”

  Mr. Zakowski’s eyebrows shot to the top floor.

  “Okay, okay. It’s the same thing. But Dad, you need something to happen in your screenplay!”

  “So everyone seems to think. But Waylon, you can’t change someone’s work. Charlie can’t change yours, you can’t change his, and you can’t rewrite my script. I’ll take other people’s help, but the co in collaboration means together.”

  Waylon knew that. There were a lot of co words in science: correlation, cohesion, coenzyme. “I get it,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Look. I don’t think the meteor is going to fit in, but the deep freeze afterward might be a good idea. Which reminds me: How did that dog like your igloo?”

  Waylon flopped back, his arms over his head. “He never saw it. They sent him away too early.”

  “Too early? Too early for what?”

  Waylon’s stomach started to roll as he tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t incriminate anyone.

  But then he sat up. What did it matter anymore?

  He told his father everything.

  From the first time he and Baxter had busted Eddy out to yesterday’s attempt, and all the times in between. All the not-exactly-illegal-but-probably-not-okay things he’d been hiding from his parents since September.

  When he finished, he held his breath. Mr. Zakowski didn’t look angry, but he was quiet for a really long time.

  “I wish you’d told us,” he said at last.

  “I couldn’t. It was Baxter’s secret, too.”

  “Still. No more secrets from now on. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Mr. Zakowski patted Waylon’s foot and then stood up. “You know, maybe it wasn’t so much that Baxter was a criminal that was bothering you. Maybe it was that what you were doing together made you feel like you were one. It’s like in a screenplay: often, the very thing the main character doesn’t like about someone is exactly what he’s trying to avoid admitting about himself.”

  Usually Waylon stopped listening when his father got all writery. Writery stuff never made any sense. But this idea kind of did.

  “Maybe,” he agreed.

  “Well, maybe now that you don’t feel like you’re doing something wrong, you and Baxter can be friends.”

  Waylon gave him a thumbs-up. Maybe they could.

  Or maybe they already were.

  Wednesday morning, Waylon went up to Charlie in the Pit. “We should try again,” he said.

  Charlie looked up warily.

  “Look, there’s no water on Pluto, and even if Char-Lon brought some, it wouldn’t make slime, because it would evaporate immediately. But oil wouldn’t. So what if we gave Char-Lon some oil, and he spilled that?”

  Charlie brightened. “I could work with that. Holy Kooka-Moly—can the oil be green?”

  “Let’s meet this weekend and research it. Together. The co in Cosmo-Quest means together.”

  Charlie went into 4B smacking his forehead. Waylon was about to follow, but Baxter came in then. He was wearing a clip-on tie, and he smelled like aftershave.

  “So your dad said okay?” Waylon asked. “You’re getting the certificate?”

  Baxter grinned. “The ceremony’s today. I heard what you did. Thanks. The chief says he wants you there, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Four o’clock. Will you come?”

  Waylon thought about it. Being in the station that would never hold Eddy again would hurt. But Baxter looked really hopeful. “Sure, I’ll be there.”


  Six or seven police officers, including Baxter’s father, were already in the chief’s office, patting Baxter on the back, when Waylon walked in.

  Chief Santos called everyone to order. Waylon edged to the back, where he couldn’t see out the door. Because just beyond that glass door was the dispatcher’s desk. And beyond that, the stray-animals lockup.

  Where Eddy wasn’t.

  Even when Waylon heard someone come in and stand next to him, he kept his eyes locked on the front.

  Chief Santos told everyone how hard Baxter had studied and that he’d gotten As on his written exams. He said that Baxter had run the obstacle course faster than anyone on the squad. Then Baxter recited the Officer’s Code, and didn’t get a single word wrong. Through it all, Sergeant Boylen stood beside his son, looking as if he could pop.

  Waylon closed his eyes and imagined his own mother with that look on her face on the day he was named junior correspondent on Neil deGrasse Tyson’s show. His father would be proud, too, of course. But his mother, being a scientist, would really understand.

  When Waylon opened his eyes again, the ceremony was ending. The chief pinned a badge on Baxter’s shirt and handed him a framed certificate.

  Then Baxter headed toward the back of the room. Waylon stuck out his fist for a bump, but Baxter walked past him. “Thanks for coming,” he said to the person beside Waylon.

  Waylon spun around.

  There stood Mrs. Rice. Mrs. Principal-of-the-Whole-School Rice!

  “Congratulations, young man,” she said. “I knew you could do it. You are officially detention-free.”

  Waylon was so shocked, he just stared as she shook Baxter’s hand and then left the station.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” said Baxter, tugging Waylon into the lobby.

  “Hold on.”

  Baxter and Waylon turned back.

  The chief had followed them. He nodded toward Waylon. “Didn’t seem right to leave you out.” Then he walked over to the lockup door and rapped three times.