No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (8 page)

I look at the plastic pitcher filled with brownish gray goo. “Uh . . . I might.”

“I want it back.”

She might change her mind if she knew
what
was in her blender. “Okay,” I say.

“Dinner's ready.”

“In a sec.” I am gluing labels onto bottles of Isabelle's Smell. It's been a busy week. After we
sold the first batch to Will and the guys, Doyle rounded up a bunch of new orders for my sister-repellant spray. It won't be long before I have enough money to buy my dog. At last! I have been thinking. I suppose it couldn't hurt to have Isabelle help me ask our parents for a dog. But how do I get her to do it? If I want chocolate cake, she wants apple pie. If I want to play mini golf, she wants to roller-skate. If I want a dog, she wants a cat. I wish I had a little brother to look up to me instead of a twin sister, who's always looking down on me.

“Scab!” Isabelle is shouting. “Uncle Ant is here.”

I rocket out of my chair.

When it comes to inventing, I take after my uncle Ant. He's a bug exterminator, which is how he got the nickname. Uncle Ant invented a formula to get rid of moles (you know, those tunneling animals that make dirt mounds all over the grass). His special pellets give moles a tummy ache so they go to someone else's yard.

“Scab-o!” My uncle wrestles me to the floor. He sees the cut on my chin. “What's this? Looks like you're living up to your name, kiddo.”

“Scab tangled with the Pigfords' Doberman,” says my dad. He is going through the top drawer of the computer desk.

“I wasn't afraid,” I say, flexing my biceps.

My sister chuckles. “That's not what I heard, Monkey Boy.”

“Eat termites, Isabelle.”

“You first.”

“Actually,” says Uncle Ant, “termites are tasty. Pound for pound they have more protein than a hamburger. They are fun to eat, too—a very wiggly food.”

“Okay, I'll eat them first,” I say to Isabelle. “As long as you do it too.”

Isabelle crosses one eye in.

I do my best chicken impression. “Bawk, bawk, bawk!”

“Go jump in the deep fryer.” She shoves past me so she can sit next to Jewel. My sister copies everything my uncle's girlfriend does. Almost everything. Our mom won't let Isabelle get a lightning-bolt tattoo on her arm.

I sit next to Uncle Ant.

“Dimples is out of control,” my mother says,
sighing. “One of these days that dog is going to hurt a child.”

“A bad dog is the sign of a bad owner,” I point out in my most responsible voice.

“He's been reading Doyle's dog books again,” groans my sister.

Uncle Ant winks at me. He knows how badly I want a dog. He turns toward my mom, who is tossing the salad. “Remember that dog we had as kids, Molly? We'd throw an old shoe and he'd play
fetch until it was too dark outside to see—”

“You mean Roscoe?”

He snaps his fingers. “That's the one!”

“First of all, that mangy dog wasn't ours. He belonged to the Horkheimers down the street. But we did take care of him while they were on vacation. That dog chewed up everything in the house, including my ballerina doll, my plaid scarf, and my favorite straw hat. He ate my lucky shamrock plant, too. Then he threw it up on my bed.”

Uncle ant grimaces. “Oh, well—”

“And that wasn't an old shoe you played fetch with, Ant. That was my best pair of black party sandals. I'd almost forgotten about that horrible animal . . .”

Ker-splat!
The salad bowl lands in front of me. A radish tumbles out.