The Odds of Getting Even

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Authors: Sheila Turnage
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true to her word. She grabbed me as we filed from a lunchroom awash in gossip. Dale let it roll off him like water off wax. I’m more of a sponge person, and I’d just about had my fill.
    â€œMo, I want you to see something,” Skeeter said, handing me a neat stack of applications as the crowd surged on. “Check out Dale’s rough draft, on top of the stack.”
    I stared at the mutant baby scrawl. Dale’s never liked writing, but
this?
    â€œMaybe it’s the stress of the trial or having an armed-and-dangerous father on the run,” she said. “I typed it as a professional courtesy, but if his homework went in like this . . .” She shrugged.
    â€œI owe you,” I said. “Heard any news on Mr. Macon?”
    Skeeter’s Cousin Information Network blankets the state. If a sparrow burps, she hears about it. “Not aword—which is odd,” she said as the tardy bell rang.
    I skidded into Miss Retzyl’s room. “I’m glad you could join us,” she said.
    Teacher Sarcasm. Danger.
    â€œThank you,” I replied. “I love your outfit. Is it new?”
    â€œHave a seat, Mo. Everyone, take out your science books.”
    Science books? Mine was under my bed. “I think we’re on the biology chapter,” I said, opening my history book for cover. “Which reminds me, Dale has an extra credit science announcement. Go,” I whispered, sliding the applications to his desk.
    â€œThere is no biology chapter, Mo,” she replied. “We’re discussing isotopes. Who can define an isotope?”
    â€œUnless I’m turned around, Isotope’s a barbecue joint off I-95,” I said. “Dale has an item of scientific interest.”
    Dale beamed at the class. “Who wants a puppy?”
    The class exploded. “I do!” Jake shouted above the hubbub.
    I smiled at Miss Retzyl, who I adore. Or whom I adore, whichever is correct.
    She sighed. “Hurry,” she said. “We have a lot to cover.”
    Dale nudged the applications toward me.
    I blasted down the row, handing out papers. “To be considered for a puppy, please fill out this form. Dalewill select a few lucky applicants. He’s waiving the application fee for sixth graders, but don’t let it get around.”
    I tried to look innocent as I smiled at Dale. “Does this waiving apply to Miss Retzyl too?” I asked—a softball lob with Home Run Suck-Up Potential.
    Dale pursed his lips and studied Miss Retzyl. My stomach went into a tuck-dive.
    â€œSay yes,” Harm hissed.
    â€œYes,” Dale said.
    â€œCongratulations,” I told Miss Retzyl, handing her an application. “We’re talking puppies of outstanding beauty and poise.”
    Susana Lowery from the third row held out her hand.
    â€œThank you for considering adoption,” I told her.
    â€œLook who’s thanking,” Attila muttered. I strolled to the bulletin board and pinned up an application:
    Puppy Adoption Form by Dale
    â€¢ Name of Human
    â€¢ List all biters in your home
    â€¢ Will you allow visits from Dale?
    â€¢ Names of pets?
    â€¢ Why do you want a puppy?
    â€¢ Pet History with Photos
    â€¢ Extra Credit: Do puppies have spirit lives?
    â€œThis is the stupidest thing ever,” Attila muttered, crumpling her application and tossing it to the wastebasket.
    â€œThank you for pre-crumpling,” I said. “It saves Dale and Queen Elizabeth the trouble of destroying your application themselves. And thank
you,
Miss Retzyl. I yield the floor to you at this time.”
    Miss Retzyl exhaled the way a karate instructor does before he breaks a board. “Science,” she said. “Isotopes and radiation. Who knows how they’re connected?”
    Jake raised his hand.
“Jake?”
she said, smoothing the surprise from her face.
    â€œIsotope would be a good name for a puppy. I could call her Iso.”
    Dale

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