Boys Are Dogs (8 page)

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 and shook, sending little puffs of cotton flying. Then he stretched and headed to the door.

At least he made it outside before he peed. That meant he’d had an accident-free day, and it was already 3:30.

Outside, I tried out some of the new names from the list of possibilities I’d thought up. Anything was better than Dweeble’s idea, but none seemed exactly perfect. Not when I said them out loud, anyway.

“Let’s go, Rover,” I called. I thought Rover might work because he liked to explore.

Stripe headed to another part of the yard without looking my way.

“Here, Zippy,” I tried (because he was fast).

Zippy seemed okay on paper, but didn’t sound so great out loud.

I picked up the tennis ball, bounced it twice, and threw it across the yard. Stripe ran after it, picked it up, and then dropped down next to it so he could gnaw on it.

“Hey, Teddy?” I asked. “Do you like the name Teddy?”

“Is that for Teddy Roosevelt?” asked Mom, who’d snuck up behind me.

“I was thinking teddy bear, but I guess it could be for both,” I said.

“Actually, the teddy bear was named after Teddy Roosevelt back when he was president.”

“Really?” I asked. “That’s cool, but I thought you taught English, not history.”

“Very funny. And speaking of school, don’t you want to get started on your homework?”

“Define want.”

“Homework or unpacking,” she said. “It’s your choice.”

“But it’s Friday night,” I argued.

“Exactly. You may as well finish up both so you can enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

“Fine,” I said. “It’s okay to take Stripe upstairs, right?”

“As long as you watch him carefully, and don’t let him eat anything weird. He got into the garbage again last night and swallowed an orange peel. Then this morning, he chewed a hole in one of Ted’s favorite running socks.”

“Wait. Ted has favorite
socks
?” I asked.

“Annabelle.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You have to admit that’s nuts.”

“I’ll admit nothing,” she said, all fancy and British.

I responded in my regular voice because I wasn’t in the mood. “Okay, fine.”

I finished up my homework that night, and unpacking took most of the next day.

Saturday night as I headed downstairs, I heard an awful sound blasting through the door to the den. I poked my head inside and found Dweeble sitting on the floor, attaching wires to one of his giant speakers. All his stuff was so big: his TV, his stereo equipment, his shoes.

“What are you listening to?” I asked, resisting the urge to cover my ears, but just barely.

“What?” Dweeble asked, pointing to his ear.

Since he couldn’t hear me over the noise, I yelled, “Your music stinks!” at the top of my lungs.

Except I said it right after Dweeble turned down the volume.

My screaming surprised us both.

“Sorry.” I blinked.

“No problem,” Dweeble replied, trying not to laugh. I insult the guy and he thinks it’s funny? Weird.

“What is that, anyway?”

“Meatloaf,” he replied.

“I don’t mean dinner. I mean the music.” Even calling it music was a stretch, but I was trying to be on my best behavior.

“The guy singing is called Meatloaf,” said Dweeble. He grabbed a remote and turned the volume back up.

“Does it have to be so loud?” I asked.

“Yes. Meatloaf always must be blasted. It’s a great music rule.” As a guitar solo blasted from the speakers, Dweeble played a little air guitar.

Wow, my mom sure knew how to pick ’em.

“I think I’m more into the vegetarians of rock bands. The Black Eyed Peas, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, that kind of thing.”

“Hey, that’s a good one,” said Dweeble.

Dweeble thought I was funny? Not a good sign.

I headed into the kitchen, where Mom was making shrimp and vegetable kebabs.

“Oh, Annabelle. Can you please get me a red pepper from the fridge?”

“Pepper,” I repeated. Suddenly it dawned on me.

“They’re in the vegetable drawer. Make sure it’s a red one, not orange.”

“That’s perfect,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic about our dinner,” said Mom.

“No.” I turned to face her. “Pepper is the perfect new name for Stripe.”

Mom looked up and squinted, like she was trying to read an eye chart on the other side of the kitchen. “Pepper. Because of his coloring, you mean?”

Dweeble had described Stripe’s not quite black and not quite white patches as “salt and pepper,” but I’d only just now made the connection.

“Yup. And because I like the Red Hot Chili Peppers.” Just then another cool reason popped into my head. “And because he’s got pep.”

Mom seemed excited. “Oh, and my favorite Beatles album is
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
.”

Feeling generous, I said, “Okay, fine. It can be for that, too.”

I turned around and headed for the backyard.

“Where are you going?” my mom called.

“To tell Stripe about his new name.”

“Well, can you get me the pepper first?”

“Oh, right! Sorry.” I pulled out Mom’s pepper and then ran upstairs to get the dog-training book. Turns out there was a whole chapter called “Naming Your Dog.”

It was funny how much training involved food. I left the book in my room and ran downstairs to get Stripe. I mean Pepper.

I brought out some little bone-shaped biscuits and got to work.

“Pepper, come.”

When he ran over I said, “Pepper, sit,” and he totally listened.

“Good Pepper.” I scratched him behind his ears and then walked to the other side of the yard.

“Here, Pepper,” I called and he came.

Or at least, he started to come but then got sidetracked. “Wait. Don’t chew on the hose. No, Pepper. Stop.”

When he dropped it I said, “Good Pepper.”

He seemed to like his new name. Or at least, he liked getting fed. We practiced until I ran out of treats. And we kept practicing all weekend.

I kept my voice strong and firm the entire time. The commands came from deep within and there was a force behind my words.

By Sunday, Pepper knew his name, and he behaved like a model dog. Well, except for when he stole a chicken bone off Dweeble’s plate, but there’s an exception to every rule. Right?

That night, I ordered him to sit before opening the door. I made him sit before I put on his leash, and I made him sit before I fed him dinner.

The stricter I acted, the better he got.

chapter seven
dog-speak

S
omething weird happened at school on Monday. As soon as Tobias’s foot made contact with my chair, I turned around and said, “Tobias, stop.”

I didn’t think about what I was doing first. The words just came out bossy before I could stop myself.

And Tobias actually looked at me. He seemed surprised and a little alarmed, like he didn’t know me. Like he heard something different in my voice, and maybe realized I was someone he didn’t want to mess with.

His stunned silence didn’t last long, though. Within seconds his features twisted back into a look of annoyance.

“What?” he asked.

“Cut it out,” I snapped.

Tobias waited, but just for a few minutes. Clearly he wasn’t about to give up that easily.

The next time he kicked me I turned around and spoke even more forcefully. “I said, stop kicking my chair!” I didn’t mean to be so loud, but from the way the entire class stared, it was clear that everyone heard me.

“What’s with the ruckus?” asked Mr. Beller.

I quickly faced forward. My first instinct was to stay silent and pretend like nothing was the matter. That was the easiest thing to do. But it wasn’t fair that I should get in trouble, when all I did was sit there and try to pay attention.

It wasn’t me causing the ruckus. And who used a word like
ruckus,
anyway? It was even dumber than calling something a
shenanigan
.

Something bubbled up from deep inside me. I don’t know where it came from, or what it was, exactly. Last week I would’ve apologized softly. Last week, I’d have done anything to deflect the class’s attention. But something had changed.

I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, sir. I mean, Mr. Beller. I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus. I was just asking Tobias to please stop kicking my chair, because it’s distracting.”

Behind me, Tobias groaned.

“Mr. Miller,” said our teacher. “Are you kicking Annabelle’s chair?”

Tobias stayed silent. All eyes were on us. I didn’t want to be a snitch, but he’d left me with no choice. Another few weeks of the kicking and I might develop a case of serious whiplash. Okay, perhaps that’s a stretch, but still. The guy was annoying, and I couldn’t let him get away with it anymore.

I heard the sounds of muffled giggles but for once I didn’t care.

“Tobias?” our teacher asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Beller,” I said. “I was probably mistaken. Maybe it was just the wind, or something.”

A few students laughed, Claire included.

An annoyed Mr. Beller looked from Tobias to me. “Well, then. Everyone pull out your homework and pass it to the front. I trust there won’t be any more interruptions.”

As Mr. Beller blabbed on about the correct format for our book reports, due in just a couple of weeks, I watched the second hand sweep its way around the face of the clock. One minute went by, then two. Tobias didn’t kick.

I sat up straight and took notes. Amazingly, I made it to the end of class without feeling like someone’s kickboxing target. When the bell rang, I gathered my things.

Tobias left fast with his books tucked under one arm. “See you in science,” I called after him, just because I could. Tobias ignored me, but I didn’t care.

I sailed through social studies and the rest of the morning. At lunch, Claire told everyone how I’d gotten Tobias into trouble. “He was shocked. It was like no one had ever challenged him before. She was awesome.”

“How did you do it?” asked Emma, staring at me carefully.

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “It just sort of happened.”

“Impressive,” said Rachel.

“Totally,” Yumi agreed.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I told them. But the thing is, it was.

As soon as the bell rang, I hurried to science, excited because we’d finally get to use the lab equipment this week.