Minerva Clark Gives Up the Ghost by Karen Karbo Page B

supply closet at school, and how I’d already turned them in once for the same offense, and how the ringleader, Daniel Vecchio, was on some kind of medication for being pure evil. Whatever is beyond attention deficit disorder is what he had. He ate with his mouth so far open the food fell right out and back onto his plate. Fifth graders are almost beneath hating, but I hated Daniel Vecchio and he hated me.
    Mark Clark laughed. Then, suddenly, there was Morgan and Ned. Despite his heavy coat and the brain-boiling heat, my dog looked as if he could walk a hundred miles on his stumpy white legs. The saying should be changed from “happy as a clam” to “happy as a dog on a walk.”
    Morgan set off in the opposite direction as if he hadn’t seen us.
    â€œHey! Wait up!” I said.
    I don’t know why I wanted to join him. Morgan was usually gone for about an hour—fifty-nine minutes too long of a walk for me. But I was irritated at Mark Clark. I did not like being patronized. Now that he was a grown-up, he’d totally forgotten how rotten fifth-grade boys could be. Also, if I hung around too long, Mark Clark would make me clean up the toilet-paper mess.
    Morgan and I tramped down the sidewalk. It was so hot he’d been forced to remove his trademark earflap hat. He’d talked about shaving his head, or else growing his hair to his waist like Weird Rolando. (I told him I would have to kill him first.) Morgan agonized over his hair, which was thin like Mrs. Dagnitz’s. He was the only one of us who did not have enough hair for ten people. We walked along, stopping at every yard so Ned could sniff and lift.
    â€œWhy do dogs’ tongues always look like bologna?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t know,” he said.
    â€œDo you think it’s, like, evolutionary?”
    â€œCould be,” he said.
    â€œI made that observation before and Mrs. Dagnitz lost it. To her, saying ‘lunch meat’ is the same as eating it.”
    â€œYou should give her a break,” said Morgan. “I know you’re angry at her, but it’s not easy being her age.”
    â€œHey, I’m thirteen, officially the worst age in human existence. She gets no sympathy from me.”
    â€œWell, she should.”
    â€œWhere are we
going,
anyway?” I asked. I knew a stroll when I was on one, and this was not a stroll. It was a march. We were clicking down the sidewalk like we’d just shoplifted something and were trying to flee the scene without drawing attention to ourselves. We were headed toward Fremont, a long street of small shops, coffee places that were Not Starbucks, a place that sold a thing called a wall bed, plus a place that served the best hamburgers in the city.
    Also on Fremont was a pet store that sold the special all-natural kitty food we gave to Jupiter. “Can we stop by Green’s for some Jupiter food? He’s almost out.”
    â€œThat pet shop?”
    â€œJust past Roasted,” I said. Roasted was one of the Not Starbucks coffee places. As soon as the word left my lips, Morgan perked up, as if I were a mystical healer from Java who had uttered the secret magic word of happiness. We turned onto Fremont a half block before Roasted, just in time to see a waitress clearing plates from one of the tiny tables on the sidewalk. She was short, with swingy blond hair and big arm muscles. She wore baggy khakis cut off just below the knee and a tank top that showed off her biceps.
    â€œHe-e-e-e-y,” she called out as we approached, “it’smy favorite boys. You getting the regular today? Let me clear this stuff.”
    Morgan turned dark pink and ducked his head. “Hey, Jeannette. Not today. We’re just …”
    â€œâ€¦ on a real walk?” she called out, laughing. “Neddie thanks you, I’m sure. Hey, Neddie Teddy Bear! I LOVE that dog!” And then she hustled back into the coffee shop with her stack of dirty