No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (9 page)

“Sorry, kid,” whispers my uncle.

My mom says Uncle Ant has been around too many pest-control chemicals for too many years. She says he's lucky to remember his own name. I don't tell her that sometimes he forgets that, too. If she
knew, she would never let him pick me up from soccer practice.

I stab the radish with my fork.

“So how is our girl genius?” Jewel asks Isabelle.

“She got an A on her science report,” says my dad. He is in the den, peeking under the sofa cushions.

“An A-plus,” corrects Isabelle. “I did it on microfossils. You know, ancient bacteria, seeds, and pollens.”

“Interesting,” Jewel says in that way people talk when they are really not that interested.

“Stromatolites are three-point-five billion years old,” Isabelle says. “They are formed by cyanobacteria, which use sunlight to convert carbon dioxide and water into energy. They release oxygen into the air to support life on our planet—”

“Your breath kills life on our planet,” I cut in.

“Shut your trap, Scab.”

“Trap your shut, Isabelle.”

“Kids,” warns my mother.

“I am writing a report on bats,” I tell Jewel.
“Did you know bats pee hanging upside down?”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“We're going to the night house at the zoo for
my
birthday party,” I say.

It is tradition for Isabelle and me to have three birthday parties. First we celebrate our birthday together with all of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Then Isabelle and I each get a separate party with our own friends. We tried having a party with all of our friends together once. It didn't work. Girls go radioactive if you fling even a little fudge frosting on their Hello Kitty shirts.

“You want to come with us and see the bats whiz?” I ask Jewel.

“Sure, why not? What are you doing for your party, Isabelle?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

My head jerks up all by itself. She doesn't know? What does she mean, she doesn't
know
? Isabelle always knows what she's going to do for her party. Shoot, she plans every detail a whole year in advance,
right down to the color of the jelly beans. I watch my sister pick apart her napkin. Isabelle only tears paper when something is bothering her.

“You had a great time at Laura's lemon tea party last year, remember?” My mom brings a plate of chicken wings to the table. “It was so darling, Jewel. It was a lemon theme—lemonade, lemon pie, lemon cookies. They even played Pin the Lemon on the Tree.”

“Did they rip some lemon belches?” I ask.

My mom shoots me a “keep quiet, young man” glare. “Naturally, all the girls wore yellow party dresses. That was fun, wasn't it, Isabelle?”

“I guess.”

“We could make cucumber sandwich cutouts with the cookie cutters. You could invite Laura and Kendall, and some of your new fifth-grade friends—”

“No.”

“But why—?”

“Because I don't want to,” snaps Isabelle. “Tea parties are kind of last year, Mom.”

“All right. Well, you think about it.” My mother looks around the kitchen. She peers into the den. “Where is your father? Jason, are you coming? It's time to eat.”

My dad walks into the room. He's holding his eyeglasses. “That's strange.”

“What is it?”

“I can't seem to find a single bottle of my lens cleaner anywhere.”

Have a Nice Day

I
hear something,” says my sister. “Do you hear something?”

Bug spit! If those supersensitive ears of hers figure out that the noise is coming from my backpack, she is going to ruin everything.

“It's the engine,” I say. “These school buses are older than our parents. We could explode in a ball of fire any minute—”

“No.” Isabelle scoots to the edge of the green seat. “It's not the engine.”

We hit a bump. My backpack flies upward. I throw my body over it.

Ms. Rigormortis stops the bus. That's not her real
name. But she looks like a skeleton with a sheet of skin stretched over her bones. Doyle's mom runs a funeral home so I know that rigor mortis is when a dead body goes stiff. Ms. Rigormortis always stares straight ahead with her skeleton hands clamped to the steering wheel. I am certain she is one of the undead.

Kids are getting on the bus. There's Reece Perez and Isabelle's friend Laura Ling . . .

“Sloshing,” says Isabelle. “That's what it sounds like—water sloshing.”

I put my arm over my backpack. “Aren't you going to sit with Laura?”

She lifts her chin. “No.”

I glance back. Laura is sitting five rows back with Veronica Oliver. Veronica only talks to a few people—mostly popular girls. Never boys. She once went to a private school and thinks she is too good for public school. She wears polka dots every single day. There's only one reason why Laura is sitting with Snotty Polka-Dot Pants back there.

I nudge Isabelle. “So Laura and you had a fight, huh?”

“No, we didn't.”

“Then why didn't Laura say hi when—?”

“Zip it, Pilobolus.” Isabelle moves across the aisle to an empty seat.

I have
got
to look up that word to find out more. I have a feeling it's going to be my name for a long time.

The microphone crackles. “Stay seated while the bus is in motion,” Ms. Rigormortis says without emotion.

For the rest of the ride to school, Isabelle stares out the window.

“Have a nice day. Have a nice day.” Ms. Rigormortis says the same thing to every kid that gets off the bus. “Have a nice day. Have a nice day.”

I never say anything to her. Nobody does.

Like always, Doyle is waiting for me when I hop off the bus. We walk quickly, but not too quickly in case Super Spy is tailing us.

“It's all set,” says Doyle. “The guys are waiting behind the orchestra portable. I've made them promise to keep everything top secret. I've made sure the area is clear of all teachers and playground monitors. It's secure.”

I salute him. Doyle is good with details, which makes us the perfect team. I am the one with the guts to fly off Alec's Super Colossal Dirt Bike Ramp. But Doyle is the one who makes sure the
ramp is long enough, strong enough, and wide enough for me to do the stunt. When we get to the portable, four guys are waiting there. I know Andy Quizzenpost and Jake Barton, but I don't know the other two kids. They must be fifth graders. Doyle hands out the bottles of Isabelle's Smell. I collect the money. “Thank you, come again,” I say as I take their dollars.

“I've got four more orders,” whispers Doyle once the guys leave. “Plus, I'm talking to a couple of sixth graders at first recess.”

“Sweet!”

My best friend holds out his hand.

I slap his palm. “I'm out of spray bottles and bolo—I mean, a few things. I'll have to go to the store
after school for stuff to make a new batch.”