No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) Read Online Free Page B

“termites are tasty. Pound for pound they have more protein than a hamburger. They are fun to eat, too—a very wiggly food.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll eat them first,” I say to Isabelle. “As long as you do it too.”
    Isabelle crosses one eye in.
    I do my best chicken impression. “Bawk, bawk, bawk!”
    â€œGo jump in the deep fryer.” She shoves past me so she can sit next to Jewel. My sister copies everything my uncle’s girlfriend does. Almost everything. Our mom won’t let Isabelle get a lightning-bolt tattoo on her arm.
    I sit next to Uncle Ant.
    â€œDimples is out of control,” my mother says,sighing. “One of these days that dog is going to hurt a child.”
    SCAB’S BUG COUNTER
    T HERE ARE 1,462 DIFFERENT KINDS OF EDIBLE bugs on Earth. Here’s what I’ve eaten so far:
    four chocolate-covered crickets—crunchy!
    two dead flies on a dare from Doyle
    one mosquito; it flew into my mouth at camp
    the front half of an earthworm
(at least, I hope it was the front half!!)
    â€œA bad dog is the sign of a bad owner,” I point out in my most responsible voice.
    â€œHe’s been reading Doyle’s dog books again,” groans my sister.
    Uncle Ant winks at me. He knows how badly I want a dog. He turns toward my mom, who is tossing the salad. “Remember that dog we had as kids, Molly? We’d throw an old shoe and he’d playfetch until it was too dark outside to see—”
    â€œYou mean Roscoe?”
    He snaps his fingers. “That’s the one!”
    â€œFirst of all, that mangy dog wasn’t ours. He belonged to the Horkheimers down the street. But we did take care of him while they were on vacation. That dog chewed up everything in the house, including my ballerina doll, my plaid scarf, and my favorite straw hat. He ate my lucky shamrock plant, too. Then he threw it up on my bed.”
    Uncle ant grimaces. “Oh, well—”
    â€œAnd that wasn’t an old shoe you played fetch with, Ant. That was my best pair of black party sandals. I’d almost forgotten about that horrible animal . . .”
    Ker-splat!
The salad bowl lands in front of me. A radish tumbles out.
    â€œSorry, kid,” whispers my uncle.
    My mom says Uncle Ant has been around too many pest-control chemicals for too many years. She says he’s lucky to remember his own name. I don’t tell her that sometimes he forgets that, too. If sheknew, she would never let him pick me up from soccer practice.
    I stab the radish with my fork.
    â€œSo how is our girl genius?” Jewel asks Isabelle.
    â€œShe got an A on her science report,” says my dad. He is in the den, peeking under the sofa cushions.
    â€œAn A-plus,” corrects Isabelle. “I did it on microfossils. You know, ancient bacteria, seeds, and pollens.”
    â€œInteresting,” Jewel says in that way people talk when they are really not that interested.
    â€œStromatolites are three-point-five billion years old,” Isabelle says. “They are formed by cyanobacteria, which use sunlight to convert carbon dioxide and water into energy. They release oxygen into the air to support life on our planet—”
    â€œYour breath kills life on our planet,” I cut in.
    â€œShut your trap, Scab.”
    â€œTrap your shut, Isabelle.”
    â€œKids,” warns my mother.
    â€œI am writing a report on bats,” I tell Jewel.“Did you know bats pee hanging upside down?”
    She laughs and shakes her head.
    â€œWe’re going to the night house at the zoo for
my
birthday party,” I say.
    It is tradition for Isabelle and me to have three birthday parties. First we celebrate our birthday together with all of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Then Isabelle and I each get a separate party with our own friends. We tried having a party with all of our friends together once. It didn’t work. Girls go radioactive if you