EllRay Jakes The Recess King!

by Sally Warner; Illustrated by Brian Biggs

  Okay, about a zillion.

  “Because yes, you can use the computer,” he continues. “You are physically able to use it, of course. But may you use it? That involves getting permission, and permission is a whole different matter. Is your homework done?”

  “Yes,” I say, remembering at the last second not to say, “Yup.”

  Because then there would be a whole different lecture.

  Dad says it’s the little things in life that count. But he turns everything into something big.

  “I finished my homework before dinner,” I tell him. And even I sound amazed. On a normal night, I can gripe so long about my homework that it doesn’t get done until minutes before bedtime.

  Not tonight, though!

  “That’s my boy,” Dad says, looking pleased. “And yes, you may have some computer time. I’ll keep you company while your mom tackles Alfie’s bath.”

  Our big computer is in the family room, and Alfie and I have to ask permission to use it. I guess the idea is that Mom and Dad want to keep track of what we’re doing on the computer. That’s probably not such a bad idea, or Alfie might start buying stuff online. Barbie mansions, buckets of candy, the cutest outfits in the world, you name it. At the very least, she would buy more plastic horses, a glittery stable, and a golden corral big enough to go around our entire house, if they make such a thing.

  Luckily, she doesn’t know how to buy things online. Yet.

  Neither do I.

  But my plan tonight is to research a bunch of amazing things to do at recess. Then I can look like I’m thinking up brilliant ideas—wham! just like that!—while us guys are hanging out, doing the usual boring recess stuff. They’ll be saying, “Whaddya wanna do?” And, “I dunno. What do you want to do?” over and over again.

  It’s kind of our thing.

  And then I, EllRay Jakes the recess king, will come up with something great.

  Who wouldn’t want to be friends with a new-idea-guy like that? I mean, like me?

  The new and improved me.

  I drag the big chair in toward the desk and make a list of things to look up. You have to be careful on the Internet, or you can jump to some really weird stuff by accident. And then you will never be allowed to use the computer again until you are an old man—at least not at my house.

  But here is my list of things to look up:

  1. Playground games.

  2. Third grade recess.

  3. Ideas for recess games.

  You have to give the computer lots of hints and choices to get your research started.

  Mom and Dad would be okay with me looking up those three things.

  As usual, boom, just like that, some of the sites try to sell me something: a pair of shiny high heeled shoes, vitamins, life insurance. I don’t even know what life insurance is, but it sounds like a tough guy high school threat, like, “You better do what I say—or else.”

  They don’t know I’m just a kid with no money.

  Better luck next time, ads.

  But there are some sites with pretty good ideas, I see, scrolling down. A few of them even have videos that some faraway primary schools made. They show sample kids playing sample games. The kids look a little embarrassed, knowing they’re being filmed, but the games aren’t bad.

  I pull my notebook closer so I can write stuff down. But first, in my brain, I cross off every online idea that starts with equipment, even simple equipment such as tarps, tires, or those foam noodles kids play with in swimming pools. We’re not supposed to bring stuff like that to school. It might mess up our playground’s special design, I guess.

  That design is basically an empty square, except for the grassy hill where our picnic tables sit. There is a paved area with a couple of overhead ladders, some creaky swings, and a slide. A first grader hurled all over the top step of the slide ladder last week, so now no one wants to use it.

  It’s been scrubbed clean, but no takers.

  Oh, and there’s a locked storage shed in the corner of our playground. It’s full of deflated kickballs and grimy hula hoops, even though it’s only January. There are five months to go before school is over for the year.

  Too bad for us, I guess.

  I cross off all the girl activities, too.

  I decide to write down ten things in my notebook, then choose my cool recess ideas from those. What I really want is to find special activities that Jason Leffer and Diego Romero will want to do!

  Funny stuff for Jason, and I’m-not-sure-what-kind-of-stuff for Diego.

  Nothing to do with reading during recess, that’s for sure.

  After I rope Jason and Diego in with how much fun I am, I can teach them the kinds of things I like to do, like playing Sky High Foursquare or Shadow Tag. Running-around stuff like that.

  Then I’ll have a friend, Corey, a half-friend, Kevin, a spare friend, Jason, and a spare-spare friend, Diego.

  I will be rich. Rich in friends!

  “You about done here, buddy?” Dad asks over my shoulder. “Did you find what you were looking for? Because you need some time for your eyes to unwind after using the computer, you know. And your mom wants to read to you.”

  I nod, trying not to think of my eyes unwinding, which is just gross. Dad says stuff in a complicated way sometimes, probably because he is so smart. But I kind of know what he means. A person’s eyes do get jumpy, staring at the computer screen. But computers are cool! You can look up anything.

  1. I can look up my own dad on the Internet.

  2. I can spy on any place in the world in one second flat.

  3. I can even scare myself, looking at pictures of leopard sharks or hungry polar bears who might be looking for an EllRay sandwich.

  Mom reading to me will be the perfect medicine for my jumpy eyes, even though the book she’s reading me is very exciting. It is The Sword in the Stone, by T. H. White. I guess the first part of his name is a secret. That’s why he uses his initials.

  The book is a lot different from the old cartoon movie version Alfie has. In the book, the wizard Merlyn turns Wart—who grows up to become King Arthur, Mom says—into lots of different animals, and Wart learns something important from each one. For example, in the chapter we are reading now, Merlyn turns Wart into a goose. Wart learns that geese don’t fight each other. They stick together, fly together, and protect each other. They only fight when they are attacked by outsiders.

  Unlike some of the other animals, like ants—who love to fight.

  “Then shut her down and go brush your teeth,” Dad says, knuckle-rubbing my hair—which only he is allowed to do. It’s his version of a hug.

  “Her.” Our family room computer is a girl, I guess. That’s strange. Well, girls are pretty smart.

  “Okay, Dad,” I say, ducking my head and grabbing my notebook. “Good night.”

  “Night, son,” my dad says, and he gives my chicken-bone shoulder a dadly squeeze.

  He’s pretty cool, my dad!

  7

  A VERY GOOD IDEA

  “I forgot to ask you something,” I say to Mom the next morning, right before we leave for school.

  I timed it this way.

  “What is it?” Mom asks, sounding busy as she finishes up my lunch—which I plan to eat before the first buzzer rings.

  “I need to bring something to school,” I tell her. “From the pointy closet. Can I go get it?”

  We have this weird closet under the stairs. You can’t hang coats in it because the ceiling slopes, so Mom decided it was the perfect place to keep the extra stuff we get at that huge store up the freeway. The store where you have to buy twenty boxes of tissues at a time, or huge jars of pickles. That place.

  “What do you need?” Mom asks, washing her hands at the sink and then looking around for Alfie.

  “TP,” I whisper.

&n
bsp; “Excuse me? What did you say?” my mom asks, turning to face me.

  Great. I have her full attention, and I was hoping to slip this one past her.

  “TP,” I repeat, shrugging. “That’s short for toilet paper, Mom.”

  “I know what it’s short for,” Mom says, her eyes wide. “Are you telling me that you’re supposed to bring your own toilet paper to school these days? Things are that bad?”

  “We don’t have to bring it,” I say, sliding my eyes away from hers as I cross my fingers behind my back.

  No, I haven’t told a lie yet. But I’m getting kind of close.

  It’s true that I don’t like the TP at Oak Glen Primary School. It isn’t like regular TP at all. It’s not even rolled up. School TP is more like little squares of tissue paper stuffed into a metal box. But it’s okay. At least it’s paper. It’s not like we have to use leaves or something.

  “Hmm,” Mom says, thinking.

  The truth is, I need that roll of TP—or I want it—for my plan to coax Jason Leffer into being my spare friend. It’ll be a start, anyway.

  “We’re late,” Alfie shouts, skipping into the kitchen in a pink and purple blur. “And I get to be the magic kitty this morning! So let’s go!”

  Mom is still staring at me. It’s like she’s counting up all the things that are wrong with Oak Glen Primary School.

  “Listen, Mom,” I say. “Never mind. I—”

  “EllRay, for heaven’s sake. Go ahead and take a roll of toilet paper,” she says, shaking her head as she gathers up our things. “Of course you can bring your own TP to school if you need to. Grab a roll from the open package, and stash it in your backpack, if there’s room.”

  “What?” Alfie asks, as if she can’t believe what she just heard.

  “It’s a long story,” I tell her.

  “It better be a quick one, EllWay,” she says, looking half curious, half grossed-out, and half crazy-impatient to leave.

  Wait. That’s one too many halves.

  But in less than ten seconds, I zip into the hall, open the closet door, grab a roll of TP from the tower of supplies jammed inside, and cram the roll into my backpack.

  Man, I hope it doesn’t fall out at an embarrassing time.

  1. That roll of TP could tumble out of my backpack on the front steps of the school, where Principal James greets each of us by name in the morning. It could bounce down the cement steps, bump, bump, bump. I would never live it down.

  2. Or the roll of TP might fall out of my backpack as I walk down the hall toward class. I would leave a long trail of paper behind me.

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  3. Or the roll of TP could topple out of my backpack and onto the floor in our cubby closet in front of all the girls, when I’m putting my stuff away. “Lose something?” Cynthia would ask, waving the roll of TP in the air for all to see.

  There are a lot of disaster possibilities when you bring a roll of toilet paper to school.

  This better be worth it.

  “Paper and pencils out, girls and boys, boys and girls,” Ms. Sanchez tells us right after she takes attendance. She likes to treat us equally. “We’re having a quiz on the spelling words from the last two weeks,” she says. “Surprise!”

  Ms. Sanchez is usually a very nice lady. But saying “Surprise!” in such a situation is just mean, in my opinion. She always tells us that she wants us to know how to spell words forever, though, and not just for the week of the quiz. Ms. Sanchez says she does not want our motto to be, “In one ear and out the other.”

  I think that means she wants the words to stay in our brains for a long time. Long enough for us to be able to use them again in an emergency, for example. Although in my opinion, short words are probably best when it comes to emergencies.

  Words like, “Fire!” and “Help!” and “Giant snakes!”

  Our low chorus of grumbles is muffled by the clank of our three-ring binders and the r-r-r-rip! of notebook paper being wrestled from them.

  If we could make any more noise, we would.

  “Stairs,” Ms. Sanchez begins. “As in the stairs that you climb. And use each of your words in a sentence, please.”

  I’m a pretty good speller most of the time. “S-T-A-I-R-S,” I print. “We walk down the stairs to the playground.”

  “Sometimes,” Ms. Sanchez says, moving on to the second word.

  “S-O-M-T-I-M-E-S,” I write, smiling as I think about the recess to come. Awesome! “Somtimes I get a very good idea.”

  I’m not sure yet how to spell “excellent,” or I’d say “an excellent idea.”

  “Prepared,” Ms. Sanchez says, perching on the edge of her desk and admiring the toe of one of her shoes. There’s a bow on it.

  “P-R-E-P-A-R-E-D,” I print, my pointer finger already creased from the pencil. “I am prepared to make a new friend.”

  And on and on our teacher goes.

  This is going to be the longest morning ever. E-V-E-R.

  But it’ll be worth the wait, I tell myself, half hiding a secret smile.

  Recess is gonna be so much fun.

  8

  THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY ZOMBIE

  “You look weird,” Emma McGraw says as we push our way out the classroom door and into the hall, because—it’s finally recess! “Do you have a tummy ache?” she asks.

  All the other guys are already out on the playground. I’m losing recess time.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. I am just trying to hide the roll of toilet paper under my jacket. “And P.S., Emma,” I say. “You shouldn’t tell people they look weird.”

  “But you do look weird,” Annie Pat Masterson says. She is defending Emma, her best friend. “No offense,” she adds.

  “I don’t think you can say ‘you look weird’ and ‘no offense’ at the same time,” Kry Rodriguez says as we make our way down the crowded hall.

  Me and three girls.

  Emma, Annie Pat, and Kry are the best girls in our class, though. They don’t whisper or giggle behind their hands when a boy messes up, or act like they’re so great, the way Cynthia and Fiona sometimes do.

  But this was not the way I wanted this special morning recess to start.

  “Bye-ya,” I tell Emma, Annie Pat, and Kry, and zoom! off I go, heading for the door like a football player racing toward the end zone.

  Okay, like a small football player—holding a roll of TP instead of a ball.

  “No running in the halls,” I hear a grownup yell behind me, but I’m already gone.

  Jason Leffer, here I come!

  “Look who’s finally here,” Stanley calls as I come trotting up, still hiding the TP under my jacket.

  “C’mon, EllRay. We’re about to play Bubblegum Foursquare,” my sometimes-friend Kevin says. He bounces the dark red ball a couple of times to tempt me.

  Bubblegum Foursquare is really fun. In the Oak Glen Primary School version, the fourth person to hit the ball has to stay frozen to that spot for the rest of the game—like they’re stuck there with gum.

  But I have other plans. “Later, dog,” I say, looking for Jason.

  He’s over at the boys’ picnic table with Corey, Diego, and Major. They’re stuffing their faces, of course. “Hey,” I say, walking over to the table. “Have you guys ever played Mummy Zombie?”

  “Never heard of it,” Corey says through his turkey-cheese roll-up.

  Corey’s big into protein. Or his mom is, anyway.

  “And I’ve never read of it,” Diego says.

  “Then it doesn’t exist,” Jason announces, laughing. “EllRay’s just making stuff up—probably because he already ate all his food.”

  “I’ll share,” Corey offers, holding out his drooping snack.

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” I say, looking around for the playground monitor. It’s Mr. Havens
today, but he’s way across the playground. He’s huge and he teaches second grade. I guess he’s subbing for the real monitor.

  I take out the roll of TP from under my jacket. “Ta-da!” I say, holding it up.

  “Dude,” Jason says, slapping his forehead like he cannot believe his eyes. “You can’t use that stuff out here. You gotta go inside, to the room that says Boys on the door. Right, guys?” he asks, already cracking up at his own joke.

  “No. Listen, Jase,” I say, pulling the end of the paper free. “I saw this on the Internet. The ‘mummy’ part, anyway. I made up the rest. But see, I’m gonna wrap this TP all around you, and turn you into a mummy zombie, okay? And then whoever you tag also has to be a zombie. Except only you get to be the king mummy zombie,” I add, trying to make it sound extra special.

  Jason’s eyes light up, and his buzz-cut hair seems to sent out sparks. “Do it,” he says, holding out his arms. “Wrap me up quick, dude. I’m in!”

  “I need some help,” I say to the guys sitting at the picnic table. Corey, Diego, and Major have stopped chewing, I see.

  This is perfect! I have made Jason Leffer the star of morning recess, which is probably a dream come true for him.

  Of course he will want to be my new spare friend!

  “C’mon, you guys,” I say. And in two seconds, Corey, Diego, and Major are helping me wrap the toilet paper all over Jason: around his middle a few times, then up around one arm, then across to the other arm. And then we start in on his fuzzy mummy zombie head.

  “Raw-r-r-r-r!” Jason bellows, getting into it.

  By now, of course, we have a pretty big audience.

  “The buzzer’s gonna sound,” Corey warns, and Jason takes off into the crowd.

  “Raw-r-r-r-r!” he howls again, staggering stiff-legged toward the kids that surround us. He reaches out his arms. Flaps of TP trail behind him like—well, like flaps of TP. A couple of pieces of toilet paper float free.

  “It’s the curse of the mummy zombie,” Major yells, explaining it to the running kids. “And if he tags you, you have to be a zombie too! Like, forever,” he adds, waving his own arms in the air.