Free Boys Are Dogs by Leslie Margolis Page B

rather than slink off silently, I turned around and followed him. Once I got close enough, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, wait.”
    “Huh?” The guy spun around, pushing his dark hair away from his forehead with one hand. He seemed confused and not exactly thrilled that I’d stopped him. He was taller than me, but practically everyone at Birchwood was. I couldn’t let that stop me.
    “Did you say something?” I asked.
    He looked at me like I was crazy. Like I was speaking to him in Spanish when he was barely passing French. “No,” he said, and tried to walk away.
    “Wait a sec.” I grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket, then pulled my hand away, surprised that I could be so gutsy.
    “What?” he asked, now annoyed, staring where my hand had been as if I’d left a stain.
    I lost my train of thought. I tried to visualize Pepper tearing up the garden, not because he didn’t like my mom, but just because he didn’t know any better.
    Dogs need to be told what to do. They don’t know, instinctively.
    Maybe boys were the same.
    “You called me Spaz, just now, and that’s not my name.”
    His cheeks flushed red and his eyes darted from left to right. He refused to meet my gaze. “I don’t even know you,” he insisted.
    “My point exactly,” I said. “And let’s keep it that way.”
    By the time I got to our regular table at lunch, everyone else was already there. I had to squeeze into the only space available, which happened to be between Rachel and Erik. This week, his bangs were green. I didn’t know if it was an entirely new color, or if the blue had faded, but it’s not like I could ask him. The guy was way hostile.
    Example? As soon as I sat down he asked, “Do you mind, Spaz?”
    I guess he was upset that I was crowding him, but the thing is—there were five of us girls, and only four boys, and they took up way more than half the table. He could’ve easily moved over. There was plenty of room—but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want to try any boy training in front of an audience. It was all too new. And what would Rachel and her friends think? Obviously they were okay with being smushed. Or maybe they’d gone to school with boys for so long, they didn’t realize how annoying they were.
    Anyway, I ignored Erik, and he soon got distracted by his friend Joe, a short skinny kid with curly dark hair, braces, and pimples all over his forehead.
    “Five bucks says you can’t fit that entire corn dog into your mouth,” said Joe.
    Erik laughed, brushed his green bangs out of his eyes and said, “Dude, that’s easy.” Then he lifted the corn dog and slowly shoved it into his mouth. His cheeks bulged, contorting his entire face. Somehow, and I don’t know how, he stuffed it all in.
    The other boys watched in awe.
    “Do you know what hot dogs are made out of?” Claire whispered. “Random pig parts, like intestines, and brains, and pieces of bone.”
    Yumi put down her corn dog in disgust. “That’s not true,” she said. “Is it?”
    “It could be lips, too. Basically, hot dogs are made out of spare parts that no one else wanted,” she went on.
    I was glad I’d gotten the fried chicken. Sure, it was soggy, but at least I could tell I was eating a leg as opposed to lips. If chickens even had lips. Did beaks function in the same way? And if so, could they be called chicken lips? I’d have to Google that later.
    “Claire is a vegetarian,” said Rachel. “Whatever you do, don’t ask her about veal.”
    “Or factory farm chickens,” Emma added.
    “You should see their crowded cages. They cram so many inside, the chickens don’t even have room to turn around,” said Claire.
    I put down my chicken and reached for my chips. “Just don’t tell me anyone abused these potatoes,” I said, and everyone laughed.
    Suddenly Erik started coughing. A large chunk of corn dog flew out of his mouth and landed on the table—inches from my lunch. If Claire was right, I hoped it wasn’t