Boys Are Dogs by Leslie Margolis Page B

me?”
    “Mostly because he’s a jerk, but calling him ‘sir’ didn’t help.”
    “I was being polite.”
    “Kids don’t do that around here. He thought you were making fun of him. And then when you wanted to move seats . . .”
    “He asked me if I wanted to.”
    “He was being sarcastic,” Claire informed me.
    “Oh.” Now I felt dumb, but also angry. How was I supposed to know Mr. Beller wasn’t serious? And how come everyone else—or at least Claire—realized it?
    I stopped in front of my social studies room. “This is me.”
    Claire waved and said, “Don’t worry about Mr. Beller, okay? I’ll see you at lunch.”
    “See you.”
    I headed into class, almost bumping into a guy who walked out. He had long, scraggly, white-blond hair that was even paler than mine. Except for his bangs, which were dyed blue. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. Well, not until he said, “Watch where you’re going, Spazabelle,” in a super nasty voice. Oh right, now I remembered. His name was Erik, and we had English, French, and math together. He and his friends shared our table at lunch, but it’s not like we talked to them or anything.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled, ducking my head as I walked through the door.
    Yesterday I was “Spamabelle.” Today it’s “Spazabelle.” I wondered what he’d come up with next.
    Sadly, I didn’t have to wonder for long.
    First thing Wednesday morning, Erik yelled, “Hey, Spaz,” as I walked by his locker.
    A couple of his friends overheard, and they cracked up, like it was the funniest thing they’d heard since sliced bread. Not that sliced bread is particularly funny, but you know what I mean. Anyway, they all thought he was so hilarious, they started calling me Spaz, too. Suddenly I couldn’t walk down the hall or stand at my locker without having someone yell, “Spaz!”
    The kicking, name calling, and general snubbing went on all week, but the biggest blow came on Friday afternoon during PE.
    When our teacher, Ms. Chang, announced that we’d be starting a month-long basketball unit, I was beyond psyched. Okay, school was lousy. But playing basketball for forty-five minutes every day would definitely make things a little better. I volunteered to be team captain, but didn’t get picked, which was no biggie. And I didn’t get chosen first, but that was okay, too. No one at Birchwood knew that what I lacked in height, I made up for in speed and jumping ability. The reason I got so upset was because I got picked last. Dead last. After Maya Gilbert, who announced that no one was allowed to pass to her because she just got a French manicure. And after Jaden Ramsey, who had a broken arm. It was so humiliating! By the time the teams were sorted out, there wasn’t time to play, so we just shot around. Or I should say, I tried to shoot around but no one would pass me the ball.
    It was a fitting end to my rotten first week at Birchwood.
    When I got home, I ran to the living room so I could set Stripe free from his kennel. And when I got there, I found him surrounded by a mess of fluffy white cotton. At first I wondered, “How’d my dog turn his kennel into a snow globe?” But when I got closer I realized he’d torn apart his pillow.
    “Stripe, you were supposed to sleep on that, not eat it!”
    I didn’t know why I bothered explaining. He couldn’t understand me. And from the way he marched back and forth, pacing the length of his kennel while letting out little yelping barks, it was clear he had other things on his mind. If he could talk he’d be yelling, “Get me out of this thing! I’m sick of being caged in.”
    “What’s going on?” asked my mom, as she walked into the room. Once she took it all in she cried, “Oh, Stripe. How could you?”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “It’s not your fault,” Mom said. “And go ahead and take him outside. You can clean this up later.”
    I wasn’t about to argue with that. I opened up the kennel door. Stripe stepped out