Wringer by Jerry Spinelli

Author:Jerry Spinelli
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

24

Palmer came home that day to find Dorothy shooting baskets in his room.

“I asked your mother if I could come in,” she said, “so I could play basketball.”

Palmer sniffed. “That’s a lie. You’re here for Nipper.” He glanced at the window. The pigeon was due home any minute.

Dorothy laughed and bounced the weightless ball off Palmer’s forehead. “Stop me,” she growled, scooping up the ball, and suddenly she was leaping into him, over him, her knees in his chest, jamming the ball into the four-and-a-half-foot-high basket and shrieking, “In your nose, out your toes!”

She laughed and bounced the ball off his nose. When he got over the shock, Palmer joined her, the two of them flinging the ball at each other and cackling like a pair of chickens.

Palmer wasn’t surprised to find Dorothy in his room. Since he had told her about Nipper, she had come over often. His mother, thrilled that Dorothy was back in his life, received her like a daughter.

As for the Beans Boys, as they sometimes called themselves, by spring they had tired of tormenting Dorothy and pretty much ignored her. Still, she did not come over when they were around. And whenever she saw Palmer with them at school, she acted as if she did not know him. Palmer sensed that she was doing this for his sake.

Dorothy sat on the edge of Palmer’s homework desk.

“So, how was the big party, Snots?” she said with a sneer.

Palmer shrugged. “Okay.”

“What gross stuff did you do, you and your best friends? Did you eat a dead muskrat, Snots?”

“Not really. And don’t call me Snots.”

“Why not? That’s your name—Snots—isn’t it, Snots?”

When Dorothy talked this way, Palmer could not always tell if she was serious. “It’s just my gang name.”

“I sure am sorry I’m not in the gang,” Dorothy said. “Look at all the great stuff I’m missing. No neat name for me. No dead muskrats. No torturing people on the way home from school. No making mothers scream. No Treatment on my birthday.” She rolled up her sleeve. She put on a pouty face. “Look at that, Snots, not one bruise. I want a black-and-blue arm. I want to have to do everything with one hand. I want some pain.”

Palmer’s middle knuckle rose from his fist. He came at her with a wicked grin. “Okay—”

Dorothy screamed and hopped from the desk. They reeled about the room, she screaming, he laughing, and it wasn’t until they quieted down that they heard the tapping.

“Nipper!”

Nipper was let in, and as usual went straight to the top of Palmer’s head. This brought a complaint from Dorothy. “He never stands on my head. I want him to stand on my head.”

“Hold still,” said Palmer. He leaned in toward Dorothy until their foreheads were touching. “Go ahead, Nipper, go to Dorothy.” Nipper would not move from his perch.

Dorothy stomped her foot. “Phooey.”

“Wait a minute,” said Palmer excitedly. He transferred Nipper to the basket rim, left the room and returned a minute later. “Nipper has a thing about ears,” he said.

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