burst in the door of Dylan’s chamber of horrors. Through the hanging spiderwebs and mummy bandages I could see the pile of stuff by the window, waiting to be flung. It was all his lovingly collected football memorabilia—his framed pictures and mementos of Wallace’s big touchdown, his Giants helmet and jersey, his pennants, T-shirts, his miniature of the county championship trophy, and even his dried-up square of turf from the end zone where the Giants won it all last year.
“Dylan, don’t!” I pleaded. “You love this stuff!”
“Get out of here, Rachel!” he warned. “I don’t want anything to do with you! You’re part of the play that brainwashed Wallace Wallace!”
I rushed over and slammed his window shut. “To be brainwashed, first you have to have a brain!”
But he was really upset. “It’s not funny! At least when he was on detention, he had no choice! Now he doesn’t even want to be a Giant, thanks to your rotten stinking play and your rotten stinking friend!”
“You think I’m thrilled about it?” I countered. “I was so happy when I thought we were rid of that jock! Now we’re stuck with him forever! So if you want to feel sorry for somebody, try me!”
In a way, it was the closest I’d ever been with my little brother. It tore him up that Wallace was off football and on drama, and I was just as upset about exactly the same thing.
The next morning when we got to school, I wasn’t surprised to find that someone had written FEMME FATALE on Trudi’s locker in Magic Marker. The part that blew me away was that Wallace Wallace was there, armed with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing it off.
He looked at Trudi, and I stepped protectively between them. “Don’t you dare yell at her!”
He shrugged as he looked at us. “Sorry. My fault.”
I was bug-eyed. Of all the things I’d expected, this was dead last on the list. “ Your fault?”
He shifted uncomfortably and continued to address Trudi. “It’s Porker Zit. The guy’s got it in for me, for some reason. And you got caught in the crossfire.”
“Oh, hey, no problem,” Trudi said graciously. “Sticks and stones, right?”
He finished the cleanup, mumbled, “See you guys at rehearsal,” and rushed away.
Trudi turned to me. “There’s something totally, like, deep between me and Wallace,” she insisted.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah? What?”
“Well, if you could just say it, it wouldn’t be deep, would it?”
(Sheesh!)
Hanging out with Trudi that day was like accompanying a movie star on a stroll through Beverly Hills. Kids in the hall stopped and stared at her. Pointing fingers followed us like compass needles. Whispered conversations swirled around us as we passed by.
“That’s her! That’s Wallace’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend? She’s his fiancée.”
“He gave up football for her!”
One fifth grader exclaimed to his friend, “Hey, look! That’s Wallace Wallace’s leading lady!”
I grabbed the poor kid by his collar, and shouted right into his face, “Wallace Wallace isn’t an actor! He isn’t even in the play! But if he was, his leading lady wouldn’t be her ! It would be me!”
Trudi looked at me with such shock that I got all flustered. “Well, my part is bigger than yours, and I’m going to be a real actress one day, and why does everybody think Wallace is the toast of Broadway just because he used to wear cleats?”
“Calm down,” Trudi soothed. “You can’t blame people for being interested. The greatest Giant ever just threw it all away; rehearsals are locked up tight; loud music is blasting from the gym—we’re the hottest ticket at school!”
I snorted. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
She threw her arms wide. “What’s not to love? Before all this, we were a couple of nothing seventh graders. Now we’re in on the biggest thing since Wallace’s touchdown. Eighth graders talk to us! Do you realize that if Wallace had a party tonight, we’d probably be
“Dylan, don’t!” I pleaded. “You love this stuff!”
“Get out of here, Rachel!” he warned. “I don’t want anything to do with you! You’re part of the play that brainwashed Wallace Wallace!”
I rushed over and slammed his window shut. “To be brainwashed, first you have to have a brain!”
But he was really upset. “It’s not funny! At least when he was on detention, he had no choice! Now he doesn’t even want to be a Giant, thanks to your rotten stinking play and your rotten stinking friend!”
“You think I’m thrilled about it?” I countered. “I was so happy when I thought we were rid of that jock! Now we’re stuck with him forever! So if you want to feel sorry for somebody, try me!”
In a way, it was the closest I’d ever been with my little brother. It tore him up that Wallace was off football and on drama, and I was just as upset about exactly the same thing.
The next morning when we got to school, I wasn’t surprised to find that someone had written FEMME FATALE on Trudi’s locker in Magic Marker. The part that blew me away was that Wallace Wallace was there, armed with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing it off.
He looked at Trudi, and I stepped protectively between them. “Don’t you dare yell at her!”
He shrugged as he looked at us. “Sorry. My fault.”
I was bug-eyed. Of all the things I’d expected, this was dead last on the list. “ Your fault?”
He shifted uncomfortably and continued to address Trudi. “It’s Porker Zit. The guy’s got it in for me, for some reason. And you got caught in the crossfire.”
“Oh, hey, no problem,” Trudi said graciously. “Sticks and stones, right?”
He finished the cleanup, mumbled, “See you guys at rehearsal,” and rushed away.
Trudi turned to me. “There’s something totally, like, deep between me and Wallace,” she insisted.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah? What?”
“Well, if you could just say it, it wouldn’t be deep, would it?”
(Sheesh!)
Hanging out with Trudi that day was like accompanying a movie star on a stroll through Beverly Hills. Kids in the hall stopped and stared at her. Pointing fingers followed us like compass needles. Whispered conversations swirled around us as we passed by.
“That’s her! That’s Wallace’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend? She’s his fiancée.”
“He gave up football for her!”
One fifth grader exclaimed to his friend, “Hey, look! That’s Wallace Wallace’s leading lady!”
I grabbed the poor kid by his collar, and shouted right into his face, “Wallace Wallace isn’t an actor! He isn’t even in the play! But if he was, his leading lady wouldn’t be her ! It would be me!”
Trudi looked at me with such shock that I got all flustered. “Well, my part is bigger than yours, and I’m going to be a real actress one day, and why does everybody think Wallace is the toast of Broadway just because he used to wear cleats?”
“Calm down,” Trudi soothed. “You can’t blame people for being interested. The greatest Giant ever just threw it all away; rehearsals are locked up tight; loud music is blasting from the gym—we’re the hottest ticket at school!”
I snorted. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
She threw her arms wide. “What’s not to love? Before all this, we were a couple of nothing seventh graders. Now we’re in on the biggest thing since Wallace’s touchdown. Eighth graders talk to us! Do you realize that if Wallace had a party tonight, we’d probably be
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