Don't Swap Your Sweater for a Dog Read online

  Roscoe Riley Rules #3

  Don’t Swap Your Sweater for a Dog

  Katherine Applegate

  Illustrated by Brian Biggs

  For Julia and Jake,

  with love

  Contents

  1. Welcome to Time-Out

  2. Something You Should Know Before We Get Started

  3. Something Else You Should Know Before We Get Started

  4. The World’s Best Roscoe Riley

  5. The World’s Ugliest Sweater

  6. Jump, Frog, Jump!

  7. Pandas

  8. Roscoe Riley, Superteacher

  9. The Swap

  10. The Toe-Tapping Trick

  11. Truly Terrific Tricks

  12. MY Dog

  13. The World’s Best Backward Somersault Team

  14. Good-Bye from Time-Out

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Welcome to Time-Out

  Hey! Want to play?

  Oops. I mean, want to play when I’m done with time-out?

  I sort of kind of got in some trouble again.

  ’Cause I sort of kind of borrowed somebody’s dog.

  I only borrowed him so I could win a trophy.

  A shiny, sparkly, silver trophy.

  You’ve probably borrowed a dog before, right?

  A cat? A gerbil? A tarantula?

  Oh. Well, I had my reasons.

  It’s a long story, actually.

  Usually when I end up in time-out, there’s a long story to tell.

  And since you’re here anyway, I’ll bet you’d like to hear it….

  2

  Something You Should Know Before We Get Started

  Just because your dog cannot read a book does not mean he isn’t a winner.

  Maybe he just hasn’t figured out his real talent yet.

  3

  Something Else You Should Know Before We Get Started

  If your grandma knits you a sweater with pandas and smiley faces and hearts and baby ducks on it, do not give it to Martin.

  Or anybody else.

  It has sentimental value, you know.

  4

  The World’s Best Roscoe Riley

  This all started because my little sister won another trophy.

  Hazel is still in preschool. And she already has a golden trophy from Little Minnows swim team. And one for being the Fastest Skipper in Ms. MacNamara’s pre-K class.

  So you can see why I was the teensiest bit annoyed when she came home with another trophy.

  I’d had a long, hard day at school.

  On account of an incident involving chocolate milk.

  Did you know that if you blow through a straw into chocolate milk, the bubbles will volcano right out of your cup?

  The bubbling part is way cool.

  Cleaning up the mess afterward is not so cool.

  Anyway, after all that, I didn’t need to hear Hazel’s big news as soon as I opened the door.

  “Roscoe!” she screamed. “I wonned another one! For bestest sitting-stiller for the month at circle time!”

  “I never got a trophy, and I sit still,” I said. “Well, sometimes I do.”

  Life is so not fair.

  I dropped my backpack in the hall. I kicked off my tennis shoes. Then I flopped on the couch.

  “You will not be getting any trophies for neatest boy on planet Earth,” Mom said. “Backpack in the closet. Shoes in your room.” She kissed the top of my head.

  “I want a trophy,” I said in that whining voice you use when you feel really sorry for yourself.

  “You got that little plastic statue in kindergarten last year,” Mom said. “For most improved hand raising.”

  “I mean a real trophy,” I said. “A big, heavy one. Made of gold.”

  “Shoes,” Mom said. “Backpack.”

  I got off the couch and picked up my shoes and my backpack.

  “You are the best burper in first grade,” my big brother Max said.

  He burped an extra loud one.

  It was beautiful. Like music.

  “But I’m still the best in the world,” Max added.

  Which is true. My brother has a gift.

  “Everybody’s got something cool like a trophy or a statue or something to take to show-and-tell,” I said.

  “Everybody?” Mom asked.

  “Last week Gus brought his yellow belt from karate,” I said. “He got a little gold trophy cup with it. And today Emma brought her piano statue. She got it for practicing lots. It’s of that grouchy guy.”

  “Ludwig van Beethoven,” said Mom. “He was a famous music writer.”

  “Even you have a trophy, Mom,” I said. “For selling Girl Scout cookies.”

  “That was a very long time ago,” Mom said. “I was a great little salesperson, though. I could sell snow to a polar bear. I could sell water to an otter. I could sell—”

  “Gee, Mom,” I interrupted. “You are big-time not helping me feel better. Which is sort of your job, after all.”

  Mom gave me a hug. “Sorry, sweetheart. You just be the very best Roscoe you can be. That’s all that matters.”

  Easy for you to say, I thought. You have a cookie trophy.

  Nobody gives a trophy for being The World’s Best Roscoe Riley.

  5

  The World’s Ugliest Sweater

  “Don’t forget Emma and Gus are coming over for a playdate,” Mom said after I put my stuff away.

  “Mom,” I said with a groan, “we are not having a playdate. Hazel has playdates. We are hanging out.”

  “Well, when they get to the house for the hang-out, please wear your new sweater if you go outside,” Mom said.

  “I will never wear that sweater,” I said.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. To show I meant business.

  “Your grandmother knitted that sweater with her own two hands,” Mom said.

  “It has hearts on it! And flowers! And smiley faces! And baby ducks!” I cried.

  “No sweater,” Mom said, “no hang-out with Gus and Emma.”

  She tossed me the sweater. I put it on.

  One side dangled down to my knees.

  There was a pink bunny on the right sleeve. I hadn’t noticed him before.

  “NO!” Max cried. He covered his eyes. “Not the sweater of doom!”

  Hazel wrinkled up her nose. “Why is there a monkey on the elbow?”

  “That’s a puppy,” Mom said. She frowned. “At least, I think it is.”

  “Goofy and I are going to wait for Gus and Emma on the front porch,” I said. “Cross your fingers nobody sees me.”

  “It was knit with love,” Mom said. “It has sentimental value.”

  “What’s mentisental value?” I asked.

  “Sentimental value means you have to pretend to love your sweater when Grandma’s here,” Max said.

  “Sentimental value,” said Mom, “means that a gift is special to you because it came from someone you love.”

  I went outside. Goofy came with me.

  He is a big, whitish guy dog with floppy ears.

  His tail is usually in high gear.

  And he almost always has something in his mouth.

  Right now he had Mom’s cell phone.

  “Not a good idea, Goofy,” I said.

  I went back inside and gave Mom the wet cell phone.

  When I returned to the porch, Emma’s dad dropped off Gus and Emma.

  Gus and Emma live on the same street. It’s a few blocks away from my house.

  I wish I lived near them. Then we could be neighbors and best friends. Which is very nice for hang-ou
ts.

  They ran over to the porch. Goofy licked their hands and wagged his tail extra speedy.

  Then he licked one of Gus’s sneakers for a while.

  “You look kind of down in the dumps, Roscoe,” Emma said.

  “My sweater’s ugly,” I said. “And also I don’t have any trophies and stuff like you guys.”

  Emma thought. “I would call your sweater interesting.”

  “I would call it very interesting,” Gus said. “Why is there an armadillo on your shoulder?”

  “That’s a cow,” I said.

  “No,” said Emma. “I’m pretty sure that’s a kangaroo.”

  “COULD WE STOP TALKING ABOUT MY SWEATER?” I demanded.

  Gus grinned. “Maybe you could get a blue ribbon for World’s Weirdest Sweater.”

  I gave him my extra scary look.

  “Okay, okay. No more sweater talk,” he said.

  “You know,” said Emma, “it’s never too late to get a trophy or a medal for something. You could learn to be a rodeo rider. Or an Olympic high diver.”

  Goofy started chasing his tail. He spun in crazy circles. He looked like a big white doughnut.

  “Maybe Goofy could win a trophy for Best Tail Chaser,” Gus said.

  Goofy slammed into a bush.

  “Or not,” Emma added.

  6

  Jump, Frog, Jump!

  We decided to play fetch with Goofy in the front yard.

  We threw lots of tennis balls. Sometimes Goofy brought them back.

  But mostly he just chewed them.

  He even got three balls in his mouth at once.

  He had a big, hairy clown smile.

  When a boy walked by with his dog, Goofy ran over to say hello.

  The dog was a little white poodle. He was wearing a silly doggie sweater with kitties on it.

  “Sit, Edward,” the boy said to the poodle.

  Edward sat down. He did not move. He looked like a puffy statue.

  Goofy raced around Edward in crazy circles. He barked. And sniffed.

  And barked some more.

  He looked goofy.

  “I’m Martin,” the boy said. “I just moved here a couple weeks ago. We used to live in Alaska.”

  “Did you live in one of those ice cube houses?” I asked.

  “He means an igloo,” Emma said.

  Martin laughed. “Nope. Just a regular old house.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “We live in regular old houses, too.”

  Martin pointed to my sweater. “Is that a poodle on your shoulder?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” I said.

  “I really like animals,” Martin said. “It’s a cool sweater.”

  I waited for him to laugh. But he didn’t.

  “I’m Roscoe,” I said at last. “And that’s Gus and Emma.”

  “Shake hands, Edward,” Martin said.

  Edward held up his paw.

  Gus shook it. Emma shook it. I shook it.

  Goofy licked it.

  “Say hello, Edward,” Martin said.

  “Arf-arf,” Edward said.

  It was not exactly “hello,” but you could tell what he meant.

  “Wow! Your dog is amazing,” said Emma.

  “I was going to enter him in the Truly Terrific Trick Contest this weekend,” Martin said. “But I have a tuba lesson.”

  “Do you mean the contest at the street fair?” Emma asked. “I saw a poster for that. Kids and their dogs can enter. And the winner gets a trophy.”

  “A trophy?” I asked. “Really?”

  “Do they have a prize for Stupidest Pet Trick?” Gus asked. “I’ll bet Goof could win that one!”

  Goofy lay on his back on the sidewalk.

  I think he was ignoring Gus.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Martin asked.

  “Goofy,” I said. It sounded kind of lame next to a name like Edward.

  Goofy wriggled on his back like a snake. His tongue was hanging out.

  “What’s he doing?” Martin asked.

  “Itching,” I said.

  “Edward is never itchy,” Martin said. He reached into his backpack. “Watch this.”

  Martin took out a book. “Just a regular book, right?” He showed it to me. “Now read it.”

  “I’ve already read that,” I said.

  “Not you,” Martin said. “Edward.”

  I laughed. “Your dog cannot read!”

  “Why not?” Martin asked.

  “Because he is a dog,” I said. I said it very slowly and clearly.

  Since apparently Martin was a little crazy.

  “Just watch,” Martin said.

  He put the book on the ground. It was called Frog on a Log.

  “Open the book, Edward,” said Martin.

  Edward put his little white poodle paw on the book.

  He pulled on the cover.

  The book flipped open.

  “Good dog, Edward,” Martin said. “Now read to Roscoe.”

  Edward looked at the first page. So did I.

  It said:

  Frog on a log

  in a big, dark bog.

  Edward said:

  Arf arf arf arf

  arf arf arf arf arf.

  “Good dog, Edward,” said Martin. “Next page.”

  Edward turned the page with his nose. I looked over his shoulder.

  The page had three words:

  Jump, frog, jump!

  Edward said:

  Arf arf arf!

  I looked at Martin.

  I looked at Edward.

  He didn’t look so silly anymore. Even with the kitty sweater.

  “That dog is a genius,” I said.

  We looked at Goofy.

  He was eating an old gym sock.

  “Your dog is nice too,” Martin said.

  7

  Pandas

  I thought about Edward and that book all the next day.

  Especially when it was reading time.

  Gus and Emma and I are in the same reading group. There are six kids.

  All the groups have animal names. There are Panthers. Giraffes. And Tigers.

  Gus and Emma and I are Pandas.

  We each read two pages out loud.

  When someone else is reading, we have to follow the rules:

  No talking.

  No laughing if somebody makes a mistake.

  No sound effects.

  Ms. Diz made up the third rule after we read our last book.

  It was called Honk! Honk! Beep! Beep!

  When we were all done, I asked Ms. Diz a question. I’d been wondering about it ever since meeting Edward.

  “Ms. Diz,” I asked, “do you think a dog can read?”

  Ms. Diz thought for a second.

  “Well, I doubt it, Roscoe,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Gus and Emma and me met a dog who could read Frog on a Log.”

  “He wasn’t exactly reading, Roscoe,” Gus said. “It was more like weird barking.”

  “But he barked when there was an actual word,” I said. “If we can learn to read, why can’t a dog?”

  “Well, Roscoe,” Ms. Diz said, “it’s not that simple. Before you can read, you need to know your letters and the sounds they make. I’ve never met a dog who could do that.”

  “I’m telling you, Edward was reading,”

  I said.

  Sometimes, even when I’m not for-sure right, I kind of get stuck acting like I’m right.

  I was feeling a little bit sticky at the moment.

  Even Gus didn’t think Edward was a reader.

  And Gus believes everything.

  I mean, Gus believes toads give you warts.

  And everybody knows that’s not true.

  8

  Roscoe Riley, Superteacher

  Maybe you think it’s easy being a teacher.

  I used to.

  After all, they get to boss around little kids all day.

&nbs
p; How hard could that be?

  Well, here are some things you should know in case you ever become a teacher:

  1. Do not grouch at your students. Even if they stop their learning so they can chew their tail.

  2. Do not try to make them learn everything in one day.

  On account of their brain might explode.

  Or they might take a nap.

  3. Don’t forget to praise your students when they do something right.

  A treat is a good idea.

  A cookie for the teacher is always nice, too.

  I might even have given up teaching when my student tried to eat a book.

  That can be pretty hard on a teacher.

  But I kept seeing a beautiful picture in my head.

  It was me at the dog trick contest. With Goofy by my side.

  And a judge handing me a gigantic trophy.

  The contest was Saturday. And today was Wednesday.

  I didn’t have a lot of time to teach Goofy to read like Edward.

  The first thing I had to do was find the right book for Goofy.

  I let him come with me to my bedroom. In case there was a book he especially liked.

  For example, I like to read about dinosaurs. Also superheroes.

  I found some books about dogs. (Because Goofy is one.)

  And cars. (Because he likes to ride in them.)

  And cats. (Because he likes to chase them.)

  I put them on the floor in front of Goofy.

  “Which one do you like, Goof?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  He was sniffing a dirty shirt on the floor. It had a nice, tasty spot of dried spaghetti sauce on it.

  I picked a book called Bad Cat Goes to the Vet.

  I figured Goofy would get a kick out of that.

  We went to the kitchen. I stuffed my pockets with dog treats. And grabbed a banana for me.