Boys Are Dogs

by Leslie Margolis

  Wow. Looks like Dweeble’s got some competition in the “worst sense of humor, ever” category.

  I sat back down and picked up my bag, wishing I’d just stayed in Spanish III. No, I didn’t speak the language, but at least that teacher had been nice to me.

  Mr. Beller didn’t make any more jokes at my expense, but I still didn’t like him. He made everyone sign a contract that read, “This year, I [insert your name] promise to work hard and always give it my all.”

  It seemed pointless, since everyone plans on giving school “their all” on the first day of the new year. It’s easy to do then, before the work piles on.

  That’s what I was thinking when I felt something hard thump against my back. It pushed my whole body forward. It happened again, and then a third time. Someone was kicking the back of my chair.

  When I turned around, the guy behind me pretended he was writing in his notebook. His shaggy, dark bangs hung down over the tops of his glasses. I stared at him for a few seconds, but he wouldn’t look up. I could tell he noticed, though. As soon as I faced forward, he kicked me again.

  I tried to ignore him, but it was hard. He kicked my chair all through class, and I don’t know why I didn’t tell him to stop. When Margaret Sinclair pulled my hair in the third grade, I’d had no problem telling her to cut it out. Yet now, I just sat there and took the kicks.

  Class finally ended, and luckily, I had social studies in Room 606, right next door.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I walked into the room, some guy got up and said, “I’m Spamabelle Stevens and this is my first day!” His voice was higher pitched than SpongeBob sucking on a helium balloon. I don’t sound like that at all. Still, all his friends laughed and gave each other high fives. It wasn’t even that funny. But the way they carried on, you’d think it was the best joke they’d heard all year. And okay, the school year was only a few hours old, but this didn’t make me feel any better.

  When I got to French class, some skinny red-haired guy called out, “Hi, Spamabelle.”

  My first day of junior high, and I was already a total joke! I wondered if Ted’s dweebiness was contagious. Maybe it spread through the walls of our house, like mold or termites.

  At least I didn’t run into the guy with spiky blond hair from this morning. That would’ve been the worst.

  When the bell rang, releasing me from French, I raced to my locker.

  After dumping my new books inside, I found Rachel. She was leaning against her locker, looking normal and totally happy in a light blue v-neck T-shirt, faded jeans, and flip-flops. Her fingers and toenails were painted pink. She’d left the ski cap at home and her hair frizzed only slightly.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hi, are you ready?” I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind about letting me eat with her. What if word already got out that I was a total spaz who crashed other people’s classes?

  “Of course. I’m starving. Yumi is saving us space over in the West Quad. That’s where all the sixth graders eat.”

  I wondered how she knew that, and wished I could ask. Instead, I followed her down the hall, silently.

  “So, what do you think so far?” she asked.

  I considered lying and saying everything was completely fabulous—the best morning of my life— but in the end, I told her about our alarm clocks and how Stripe chewed up my clothes. “That’s why I look like a slob.”

  “I like your skirt. It’s cute.”

  Rachel probably only said that to be nice, but I decided to believe her. It was the first good thing to happen to me all day.

  That, and lunch. We walked to a big outdoor seating area, and wove through crowded picnic tables until we found her friends, Emma, Claire, and Yumi, who’d saved us seats.

  When we got there, Emma was in the middle of unpacking her lunch. She lined up her food in a neat row and ate everything in order—a bite of turkey sandwich, a sip of lemonade, a carrot stick, then a bite of oatmeal cookie. Then she went back to the beginning. She looked tan, and had thick, dark hair with a perfect part in the middle. Her white T-shirt had pink trim and her pink socks were trimmed in white, which matched her pink and white plaid shorts, which all seemed to match her personality—quiet and orderly.

  Yumi was wearing a Dodgers cap, and she ate like a regular person. She also showed us pictures of her baby sister, Suki, from a pink Hello Kitty photo album. Yumi explained that Suki was only three months old and that’s why she had no hair. I looked at all the pictures to be polite, even though they all seemed the same: sleeping baby—sometimes in yellow footy pajamas, and sometimes in blue and white striped footy pajamas.

  “This one is my favorite.” Yumi pointed to a picture of the baby wearing a baseball uniform. “Isn’t she cute?”

  “Yup, but I already saw it, I think.”

  “No, she was wearing the Dodgers’ away uniform in the other one. This is their home uniform. Plus, in this one she has on socks that look like cleats.”

  “Yumi is obsessed with the Dodgers,” Rachel explained. “But you probably figured that out already.”

  “I’m not obsessed. I just think they’re the greatest team that ever was and I never miss a game.”

  “Exactly,” said Rachel.

  “My dad and I have season tickets. He moved here from Japan to play baseball at UCLA, and almost got recruited to a minor league team in Sacramento,” Yumi told me. “Do you like baseball?”

  “I guess,” I said. “But I’m more into basketball.”

  “So are you a Lakers fan?”

  “Um, I mean I like playing basketball. I don’t watch games on TV or anything.”

  Just then Claire came over with a giant taco salad from the cafeteria. As soon as she sat down, she told me she recognized me from English class. I’m surprised I didn’t remember Claire, since she didn’t look like the other sixth graders. She was much taller than the rest of us, and had long, curly red hair pulled back with a wide blue headband, which matched her blue eyes. She wore a tie-dye shirt and a faded jeans skirt with frayed edges.

  Of course, if we had English together, that meant she’d witnessed my humiliation. “That was so embarrassing,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry. No one cares if you’re late on the first day.”

  “Mr. Beller sure cared.”

  “Well, no one likes him. My sister had him two years ago and she said he’s way strict, and just, not nice.”

  I was about to ask Claire about her other classes, but I never got the chance to, because just then a shadow loomed over our table.

  Everyone got really quiet, except for Rachel. She glanced up and made a face, asking, “What do you want, Jackson?”

  I looked up and almost choked on my chicken salad. Towering over us was the guy who’d told me to walk into Spanish III. I quickly turned my head away and hunched over my sandwich, hoping he didn’t notice me.

  Last year in science we studied spiders that change color to hide from their predators. More than anything, I wished I could do the same thing. At least my shirt was green, so I blended in with the nearby grass. Okay, that’s a stretch. But I wished it were true.

  Luckily, he only spoke to Rachel. “Don’t be late,” he said. “I’ve got Tae Kwon Do after school.”

  “I won’t be late,” she replied, annoyed. “I’m never late.”

  “Well, don’t start today,” he said.

  My foot tingled with pins and needles but I was too scared to shake it awake. I couldn’t even move. If he and Rachel carpooled together, that probably meant he lived near Clemson Court. Could my luck get any worse?

  “Hey, I know you!” he said, pointing at me.

  Great. That’s just perfect. I shook my head, silently pleading with him not to tell everyone how he’d tricked me.

  Rachel said, “This is Annabelle. She lives on our street.”

  Our street? Clemson Court wasn’t that big.

  “That’s cool,” he said, smiling in this obviously fake-nice way. �
�Let me know if you need any help, okay? This place can be kind of confusing sometimes.”

  I felt my face get redder and redder as I looked down at my half-eaten sandwich. Suddenly I’d lost my appetite.

  “Give us some privacy, will you?” said Rachel.

  “Whatever. I’m outta here.”

  When Jackson finally turned to go, I realized why his walk was so distinct. He moved like he knew people were watching him. Like he knew he was cool.

  Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I asked, “Wait, you know that guy?”

  Rachel scrunched her nose up, like she’d just smelled something rotten. Yumi and Claire leaned their heads together and giggled. Emma just shook her head.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, worried.

  “Of course I know him,” said Rachel. “He’s my brother.”

  chapter four

  the loner table

  Instead of getting my own desk in science, I had to share a table with two other students. Or, I should say, I was supposed to share a table. But that would require actually knowing someone who wanted to sit with me.

  Since I didn’t, I quickly headed to the last empty table and sat in the middle chair so it wouldn’t look too empty. Then I watched everyone else group off. Each new kid headed into class and scanned the room until he or she saw someone they knew. Some asked for permission to sit. Others just sat, like it was understood. These were their friends, so it made perfect sense. Where else would they sit?

  Finally, one boy walked over to my table and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

  “Nope,” I said, relieved that someone would finally choose to sit next to me.

  But instead, he picked up the chair and carried it to a table in the back row.

  I snuck a peek behind me and saw him join a table that already had three boys. One I recognized from English: the kicker.

  Soon another boy came over and took the chair to my left, without asking permission this time. So now there were five boys squished around the table behind me and I was stuck by myself.

  I wondered if maybe these boys were friends with Jackson, who’d told them how he’d tricked me. Or maybe they could just tell I was the biggest nerd in school.

  When Stripe peed on the rug last night, Mom and Dweeble used a special cleanser to wipe it up, because dogs have a highly developed sense of smell. My mom explained that if Stripe detected any trace of his pee on the rug, he’d go in the same spot again and make that place his bathroom.

  Maybe boys were like Stripe, and I was carrying around some sort of “nerd scent” that only they could sniff out.

  Yes, I knew this was unlikely, but how else could I explain it?

  After the final bell rang the teacher got up from her desk and called the class to attention. Her name was Ms. Roberts and she was kind of fat, and I don’t mean that in a mean way—just, that’s the first thing I noticed about her. Her hair was long and pulled back in a low ponytail. When she called the class to attention, she sang her words in a pretty-sounding voice.

  After roll call, she passed out a packet that outlined the different units we’d be studying this year. “But before we go over it I’m going to pass around a seating chart,” she said. “We’ll need to split up the class into eight lab groups of three people each.”

  I looked around the room. All the other groups were split naturally. My empty table and the overly full table behind me were the only ones that were messed up. And suddenly everyone noticed.

  I heard whispers. Giggles, too. It was like Spanish III all over again, except now there was no escape. I sat up straight and kept my eyes on Ms. Roberts.

  “Which two of you are going to join Annabelle?” she asked the guys behind me.

  I didn’t turn around but sensed they were all frozen in their seats.

  “You.” Ms. Roberts pointed.

  No one acknowledged her, as far as I could tell.

  She sighed, impatiently. “The young man with the glasses. Don’t pretend like you don’t hear me. That won’t work here. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Me?” asked a guy with a high-pitched voice.

  “Yes, you. What’s your name?”

  “Tobias Miller,” he mumbled.

  “Please move to the table in front of you, Mr. Miller.”

  “That’s not fair. I was here first.” He sounded plenty whiny.

  “Trust me. You don’t want me to ask twice,” said Ms. Roberts, all business.

  I heard a notebook slamming and then a chair scraping against the floor as Tobias dragged his seat over next to mine. Great—the kicker from first period.

  “You, too,” she said to someone else, who immediately groaned, like he had some horrible stomach flu.

  Somehow, sitting with me had turned into a punishment. My face burned red with humiliation.

  Before I knew it, there was a boy on either side of me. Besides the shaggy hair, glasses, and annoying feet, Tobias had thick eyebrows and kind of a big nose.

  The other guy, Oliver, had short dark hair, tan skin, and green eyes. He wore baggy shorts and a T-shirt with some surf logo across the front. If Sophia and Mia were here, they’d get all giggly because he’s so cute. They’d think so, anyway. Me? I could already tell he was too mean to like.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked, moving his stuff to the edge of the table, so that he was as far from me as possible.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Thanks a lot, Spamabelle,” Tobias grumbled to me, as if it was my fault for existing.

  “Spamabelle?” asked Oliver.

  “That’s her name,” said Tobias.

  They talked over me like I wasn’t even there.

  Girls at St. Catherine’s were never this mean. Not on the first day of school, at least. You had to do something wrong first, like try to copy off someone on a test, or spill grape juice down the front of your shirt, or accidentally tuck the bottom of your skirt into your underwear after a trip to the bathroom. These guys were being mean to me for simply occupying the same space. It’s not like I wanted to share a table with them, either. But I didn’t say so. I didn’t say anything.

  The girl at the table in front of us passed the seating chart back. I wrote my name in the middle space of the Table Number Seven box, cementing my place in a very bad situation.

  When I passed the chart to Tobias, he asked to borrow my pen, although not in a particularly nice way.

  “Um, can I have that?” he asked, pointing.

  I handed it over. After writing his name down, he handed the chart to Oliver, keeping my pen. It’s not like I cared. I had six more in my backpack. It was just, well, how could Tobias act like a jerk and take my pen? And not even thank me for it, or anything?

  Why doesn’t he have his own pen, anyway? Who doesn’t bring a pen on the first day of school? I reached into my backpack for a second one.

  Then I tried to pay attention as Ms. Roberts showed us some of the equipment we’d be using this year. She held up shiny silver microscopes, glass petri dishes, and fragile-looking test tubes. She told us how careful we’d have to be, because the stuff was dangerous. Also, the PTA sprung for new supplies three years ago and they were supposed to last for another six.

  By the time the bell rang, Tobias still hadn’t returned my pen. I tried not to care, but he was a mean chair-kicker who called me names for no reason. He didn’t deserve my pen.

  The rest of the day was fine, in that no one teased me and I didn’t get too lost. Still, I was relieved to finally spot my mom’s car among the sea of traffic in the parking lot. As soon as I got in she hugged me. I was glad to see her, too, but wiggled out of her grasp, because people might see.

  “Mom, stop.” I looked out the window. No one was laughing, or even looking, but you can never be too careful.

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “You’re just so grown up and I’m so proud of you.”

  “For starting sixth grade, like a billion other kids?”

  “Yes.”
/>
  After passing the line of school buses, we drove by Rachel and Jackson.

  “Oh look, there’s your friend!” My mom waved.

  I ducked down in my seat and yelled, “Cut it out!”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, since the real problem was too hard to explain. Rachel stood next to Jackson, who swung his backpack around and around over his head. Kids had to make a circle around him so they wouldn’t get hit. If someone wasn’t paying attention and walked too close, they’d get clocked in the face, for sure. I’d only known Jackson since this morning, but something told me this was typical behavior.

  “Who’s that cute boy with Rachel?”

  “Mom!”

  I didn’t want to say hi to Rachel in front of Jackson, because if they saw me, maybe they’d get to talking and Jackson would tell her about the mean trick he’d pulled. Maybe Rachel would think I was dumb for falling for it. Maybe she’d tell her friends and they wouldn’t let me hang out with them at lunch. Then who would I eat with tomorrow? My lab partners from science? I think not.

  chapter five

  stripe gets trained. sort of.

  As soon as we got home, I ran to Stripe’s kennel, which someone had set up in the living room. When I let him out, Stripe jumped up and tried to lick my face. I bent down, so he could reach. It’s not that I wanted my face to get slobbered on. It’s just, well, he was too cute not to pet.

  His whole body wiggled, and he raced back and forth from me to the door. It looked like he wanted to go out and he wanted to say hi, but he couldn’t figure out which thing he wanted to do first.

  Before long, I forgot all about my lousy school day. I didn’t even care that we lived far from my old friends, and across the street from some jerk. Dweeble was still at work and would be for a while. Until then, it was just me, my mom, and my dog.

  Standing up, I headed to the sliding glass door so I could let him out. But before I made it, he peed all over the floor, which wasn’t cute at all.

  “Hey, Mom?” I called.

  “Yes,” she asked, coming into the room.

  “Stripe just peed inside again.” I pointed to the mess on the floor.