Boys Are Dogs by Leslie Margolis Page A

annoying. What’s the point of having a coffee table if you can’t eat off it? That’s the whole reason they were invented.
    “Do you have homework?” Mom asked, poking her head into the dining room.
    I set the last plate down on the table. “On the first day of school? Are you kidding?”
    “You’re going to get a lot of work at Birchwood, Annabelle. Just wait. Sixth grade is hard.”
    Well, I knew that was true. But the hard part had nothing to do with what the teachers dished out.

chapter six
rude wake-ups (and other not-fun facts
about birchwood middle school)
    M om drank coffee to help her wake up every morning. Dweeble liked caffeinated tea with honey. My new wake-up call? A heavy dose of being kicked in the back over and over and over again, all through first period.
    Bright and early on Tuesday morning, Mr. Beller tried to explain the difference between a metaphor and a simile. At my old school I’d have been yawning until lunch. Not here. Every time the teacher turned around to write something on the white board, Tobias kicked me.
    I figured he’d leave me alone if I ignored him long enough.
    I figured wrong.
    Halfway through class, I switched tactics and attempted to skooch my chair out of kicking range. Unfortunately, my chair was attached to my desk. This made moving even just an inch a big, loud production that the entire class heard, including Mr. Beller.
    The first time it happened, I noticed his back stiffen, but he chose to ignore it. The second time Mr. Beller spun around and asked, “What’s the problem here?”
    And not in a nice way, either.
    I froze. The class went silent. Mr. Beller’s eyes narrowed in on mine, like he knew I was to blame. But rather than say anything, he turned back to the board.
    Tobias was tall and his legs were long. I got kicked over and over again.
    He only stopped when I turned around and watched him, so I did that for a while.
    This wasn’t the perfect solution, since it kept me from following what Mr. Beller was saying. But I figured I could always borrow Claire’s notes later on. She sat at the other end of the room, in the kick-free zone.
    Everyone but me seemed to occupy the kick-free zone.
    “What are you staring at?” Tobias mumbled.
    Before I could answer (not that I knew how to answer) Mr. Beller asked, “Is there a problem, Ms. Stevens?”
    When teachers call you “Ms.” anything, it’s never a good sign.
    I spun back around. “No, sir,” I said, and for some reason, everyone laughed.
    “Am I going to have to move you?”
    I started to say no, but then I thought better of it. Anything to get me away from Tobias would be great. “Actually, that would be nice, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
    He didn’t say anything at first, so I closed my notebook, grabbed my backpack, and stood up. “Um, where should I go?”
    Mr. Beller pointed to my chair, fuming now, but I didn’t know why.
    “Why don’t you just sit yourself down where you were and move your desk back in line. We don’t have time for your shenanigans.”
    “But I was just—”
    I didn’t even know what shenanigans Mr. Beller was talking about. The way he stared at me got me all choked up. I figured if I kept talking I’d cry, so I shut my mouth and slunk down in my chair.
    Ten seconds later, Tobias pressed his foot into my back. He didn’t kick me this time. He just maintained a constant pressure. I didn’t turn around or try to stop him. Instead, I pretended that I was in a massage chair at Sharper Image. Like it was some great privilege to sit in front of Tobias, who provided me with this fabulous back rub, free of charge.
    I took notes until the bell rang, setting us free not a second too soon. Then I rose from my chair carefully, like an old lady with creaky bones.
    Claire waited for me outside. “What happened back there?” she asked.
    I rubbed the small of my back with one hand, wondering if he’d left a bruise. “I don’t know. How come Mr. Beller hates