“Not a problem, buddy,” Dad says, laughing.
“That’s right, honey-bun,” Mom agrees. “I’m just asking you to talk to Alfie in her room. Ask her how the Brown Bear, Brown Bear rehearsal went today. That sort of thing.”
“I guess I could talk to her,” I tell them.
Maybe I can really drag it out, I think, already plotting. I know. I’ll ask Alfie what it’s like being the red bird in the skit. I mean in the play.
That ought to chew up an hour or two.
With any luck, Mom and Dad will be too tired to meet later in the family room. And they will never find out what’s been happening at school.
But at least I can say I tried to tell them.
17
MR. BRIGHT IDEA
“Knock, knock,” I say at Alfie’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” Alfie says. “I see a lellow duck looking at me,” she announces in a loud and gloomy voice as I enter her room. “That’s my whole speech for tomowwow. Supposedly,” she adds. “And then I have to just stand there quietly and pwetend I’m listening to everyone else,” she finishes, shaking her head in disgust.
Yeah. That’s gonna happen. And she’s mixing up her Ls and Ys again, like she did a couple of years ago. Is it going to be Baby Talk Friday at Kreative Learning and Daycare tomorrow night?
Alfie is wearing striped leggings, a tutu, and a shrunken T-shirt. In other words, she is not ready to take a bath. Instead, she is putting two of her plastic horses to bed—but on their sides, under a tiny quilt. “Want to practice your speech again?” I ask. “You were perfect, Alfie,” I tell her. “Only it’s ‘yellow,’ not ‘lellow.’ Remember how you learned to say it? ‘Yes, yes, yellow.’”
“Yes, yes, lellow,” Alfie repeats, as if she’s cooperating with me. “There. Are you happy now, EllWay?”
“Sure,” I say, sitting down next to her on the fluffy rug.
I’m happy except for the part where I have to tell Mom and Dad what’s been going on at school, that is. Let Alfie say her line however she wants—as long as she doesn’t wreck the skit. Or embarrass Mom and Dad. “Hey, Alf,” I say. “You know what would be fun?” Mr. Bright Idea, here.
“What?”
“A bath,” I say. “A bubble bath. With lots of toys.”
“Go ahead and take one, then,” Alfie says, shrugging. “Only don’t play with my seahorse.”
“I meant you,” I tell her. Yeesh!
“I’m busy,” Alfie says, and she tugs up the horses’ quilt under their chins—if horses even have chins. “Is a fwend coming with you to my Brown Bear show?” she asks, looking up. “Like maybe Corey?”
Alfie loves Corey. He told her once that her shoes were pretty, and that was it for her.
“He can’t come,” I say. “He has to get up early the next day, when it’s still dark out, because of swimming. So he has to go to bed right after dinner, almost.”
“Aw,” she says, drooping. “Who wants to swim in the wain?”
That’s “In the rain.”
“I think there’s a big roof over the aquatics center,” I say. “But I have lots of other friends who might come,” I fib. “I was gonna ask Jason Leffer, but—but that didn’t work out,” I fumble. “He was busy.”
Okay, it’s a lie, but just a little one. Jason has been busy, trying to avoid me, ever since the toilet paper thing.
“Huh,” Alfie says. “I see a lellow duck looking at me.”
“Then I thought maybe Diego Romero could come,” I say, ignoring the news about the nosy yellow duck. “Only he’s already doing something.”
Reading, probably. And staying away from kids who wreck library books.
Some recess king I turned out to be!
“Huh,” Alfie says again. “I don’t even know him. But sometimes Suzette and Mona and Arletty are too busy for me, too.” She droops even more.
Those are her three best friends at Kreative Learning and Daycare.
“But only sometimes,” I point out. “Because you play with them a lot. Mostly one at a time.”
“I play with Arletty, anyway,” Alfie agrees. “She gets to be the green fwog in our play. That big lucky.”
“That’s cool,” I say. I’m wondering when I can give up and leave.
Bath or no bath—I don’t care!
And maybe Mom and Dad have forgotten all about the whole “There’s-something-I-have-to-tell-you” thing. Which was my own bright idea, of course.
Another good one, EllRay.
“Alfie-kins,” Mom says, popping her head into the room. “Bath’s all ready, sweetheart. Come with me.”
“But I’m putting my horsies to bed,” Alfie says.
I can tell she’s not really into the argument, though—and that bath-time will happen in a couple of minutes, tops.
Mom gives me a wink and a thumbs-up as I slip out the door.
18
BRAIN SPLINTER
“So, EllRay,” Dad says in the family room, his feet propped up in front of him on the long part of the sofa. We are waiting for Mom, who is now trying to get Alfie out of the tub, just like I said would happen. “What’s up at school? Still leading a rich, full life?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘rich,’” I begin, thinking of my allowance.
But now’s not the time to complain about that, the last logical speck of my brain informs me. Not when there are so many bad things I have to tell him.
In fact, I have way too much to tell my mom and dad. The fake TP shortage. The wrecked library book. Us boys fighting during lunch. Well, Mom and Dad might already know about that, thanks to Principal James and his horrible “parents may be notified” threat. In my opinion, that’s about ten times worse than yelling, “I’m gonna tell!”
I don’t think Principal James called, though. That’s one good thing. Because if he had called, Dad would not be asking, “What’s up at school?” He’d be saying, “What in the world is going on over at Oak Glen Primary School?” in a very loud voice.
“EllRay?” Dad asks again. “School?”
Okay. Go.
“There have been some problems,” I begin, fidgeting in my seat. “Well, a problem,” I correct myself, thinking of my quest to make at least one new, spare friend by the end of January. I should start with that.
But—instant complication! Because I don’t want Dad thinking I’m not popular.
See, that’s the whole “brain splinter” thing I was talking about earlier. Like, my brain splinter is that I’m the shortest kid in the third grade. And no matter how tall I’m gonna grow later, which Mom and Dad keep promising I will, that doesn’t change my shortness now.
1. I can do great on my vocabulary words for the week, but I’m still short.
2. Everyone can laugh at a joke I tell, but I’m still short.
3. I can beat my personal best at Die, Creature, Die but I’m still short.
It’s always there, like a splinter in my brain.
And, as I said before, my dad’s brain splinter is that there aren’t more brown faces—families—around Oak Glen. And he’s the one who really wanted us to move here.
So I think one small part of his gigantic brain is always secretly afraid that kids might pick on Alfie and me because our skin is brown.
Well, not afraid. Not Dad. More like alert.
But also like I said before, and as I have recently proven, there are other reasons for kids to get irked at me.
And Alfie’s no picnic either. No offense.
“Finally,” Mom says, gliding into the family room. Her clothes are still wet from Alfie’s bath. She flings herself onto the other end of the sofa and sighs. “Honestly,” she says. “I don’t know whether it’ll be better or worse when she turns five.”
“Probably better,” I say, looking on the bright side. I’m about to remin
d her that I turned out pretty well, didn’t I? But then I remember why we’re all sitting here. “Or maybe not,” I say. I grab for a small round pillow and clutch it to my chest like it’s a life preserver.
My mom puts little pillows all over the place.
Before even starting to talk again, I decide to skip the making-a-new-friend part of my story. It’s too complicated and personal to explain.
I clear my throat. “So, there are three things I want to talk about.”
Mom beams a smile in my direction. “Oh, I just love how you’re so organized sometimes, EllRay,” she says. “You and your lists.”
Typical Mom.
“What three things?” my father asks. He is holding very still, probably so that his brain splinter won’t start poking him. See, he’s already imagining the worst!
Typical Dad.
“Okay,” I say. But I feel like I’m sinking to the bottom of a very deep pool, life preserver or no life preserver. “I’ll just start. First, there is no toilet paper shortage at Oak Glen Primary School. I never said there was one, not really. I just wanted to bring a roll of TP to school for—well, for kind of a joke.”
Mom’s golden-brown eyes are wide as she takes this in. She is probably picturing the hundreds of rolls of toilet paper she has gotten the other parents to buy. She must also be imagining the embarrassing phone calls she will have to make. “But—but—but—” she sputters.
“You certainly let your mother think there was a shortage,” Dad rumbles. Then he turns to my mom. “Obviously, that roll of toilet paper he brought to school was what led to the whole Curse of the Mummy Zombie thing, Louise. But let’s let him continue. Go on, son,” he says, turning back to me.
Dad just called me “son.” I am his son, of course, but still, it’s not a good sign.
“There’s also that library book you let me check out,” I say, turning to face Mom. Mom the Merciful, I hope. “I decided to bring it to school,” I tell her. “Okay, sneak it to school. But I had a really good reason,” I add. “And I wrapped the book in aluminum foil so it couldn’t even think about getting wet. I was taking really good care of it.”
“Even though it’s against our family rules to bring a library book to school?” Mom asks. “Why, EllRay?”
“Well, I brought it to—to show someone,” I say. “Only Ja—I mean, only this other kid thought it was gingerbread.”
Yeesh, I think, starting to sweat a little. I almost gave away Jared’s name, after they all stuck up for me yesterday! That’s not “flocking together.” And there’s no point in getting anyone else in trouble around here, is there?
“Gingerbread,” Dad repeats, giving me a look.
“I’m not even kidding, Dad,” I say. “Gingerbread. And then this strange kid came out of nowhere and grabbed the book from me. And all of a sudden, the whole thing turned into a game of keep-away.”
Jared is strange. Sometimes, anyway. So that’s not a lie.
“Keep-away,” Dad says.
I nod. “Only, when the guy found out the book wasn’t gingerbread, it fell on the ground,” I try to explain. “By accident. I don’t know, it happened really fast. But I’ll pay the library back,” I say. “Every penny.”
By now, Mom and Dad are just staring at me. “Is that it?” Dad finally asks.
“Only one more thing,” I tell him. I mean them. “There was kind of a fake fight after the book accidentally fell in the mud.”
“How do you have a fake fight?” Mom asks. She looks confused.
“A bunch of us were mad at each other,” I admit. I am trying to be as honest as I can. Well, almost. “And we were kind of pretending we were gonna fight. But then some big kids saw us, and started yelling, ‘Fight, fight!’ So we really had to. Fight, I mean.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Dad asks.
“Oh, most of us boys,” I say, not wanting to be a tattle-tale. “But a lot of them were on my side. Corey, Kevin, and Nate. Major and Marco.”
“Marco Adair?” my mom asks. “I met his mother at Visitor’s Day. What a lovely woman.”
“Yeah, Marco’s really nice, too,” I agree. “He’s been sticking up for me a lot, lately, come to think of it.”
“But you guys didn’t have to fight,” Dad informs me. “This was all about the library book, and nothing more? Because somehow, I’m not buying it.”
Brain splinter.
And “I’m not buying it” means he thinks I’m lying. Or at least leaving something out, which I am. But it’s not what he thinks.
“I guess the fight was also because the book wasn’t gingerbread,” I say, trying to remember. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Apparently so,” Dad says. “So is that it?”
“That’s it,” I say.
That’s it until tomorrow, anyway. Until my next goof-up.
Dad runs his hands back through what is left of his hair. “I’d like to hear the part of the story you’re leaving out, son,” he says after one long, quiet minute.
“But I’m not—”
“Because why would you suddenly change from good old reliable EllRay Jakes into this—this absolute gold mine of bad ideas?” he asks. “In just the last two or three days? Swiping household supplies,” he begins, like he’s reading from a list. “Making a mess on the playground. Disobeying family rules about library books. Ruining public property. And getting goaded into a lunch-time brawl by a bunch of yahoos.”
“I didn’t swipe the toilet paper,” I remind him. “I asked Mom, and she said yes.”
“EllRay,” Dad says. “What is going on?”
I think my mom is holding her breath. I can’t even look at her.
“I—I only wanted to make another friend,” I manage to say, finally spitting out the truth. “A spare,” I mumble. “So I came up with my recess king plan.”
“Your recess king plan,” Dad says. He is turning into an echo chamber tonight.
“But honey,” Mom says to me. “You already have lots of friends.”
“No offense, but you only think that because you’re my mom,” I inform her. “I have exactly one-and-a-half good, solid friends,” I say. “Corey, and half of Kevin. Except Corey’s busy with swimming most of the time. And me not having enough friends isn’t setting a very good example for Alfie, is it?” I ask, the words spilling out of me now.
“What does Alfie have to do with any of this?” Dad asks, frowning big-time.
“She wanted me to bring a friend to her show tomorrow night,” I try to explain. “And I couldn’t think of anyone.”
“Oh,” Mom says. She—frowns, thinking.
“Other kids have lots of friends, Mom,” I interrupt. “Tons of them. And no,” I say, turning to face my dad. “This is not because I have brown skin. Or because I’m short,” I add, surprising myself. “I guess it’s because I’m me.”
Wow. Does that make things worse, or what?
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” Mom says. “You get along with everyone, EllRay. Most of the time, at least. And everyone gets along with you. Believe me, I would have heard about it, otherwise.”
“And no,” Dad chimes in. “Other kids do not all have ‘tons of friends,’ as you put it. In fact, I think just about every kid in the world thinks other kids are swimming in friends.” He shrugs. “And as I just told you, the answer is no, they aren’t.”
Huh, I think, wondering if what he just said could possibly be true. “I don’t want to swim in friends,” I tell him. “I just want a couple of spares, that’s all.”
“To set a good example for Alfie,” Dad says, repeating my earlier words.
Does he think I’m lying?
“Look. Everyone’s tired,” Dad says. “We can sort out all these incidents over the weekend, after things have calmed down around here.”
“Can
’t I just find out my punishment now?” I ask. “And get that part over with? Or I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Tell you what,” Dad says. He gets to his feet in a that’s-that kind of way. “You start thinking about how you’re going to earn the money to pay for, say, half the cost of that library book. That ought to keep you busy for a while. And no more wacky recess king schemes, okay?”
I nod, hiding a sigh.
“EllRay, listen,” Mom says. “I’ve got an idea. What about asking that boy Marco to come over tomorrow night. He sounds like someone you’d have fun with.
And she’s right. I think I would have fun with Marco. He’s been really nice to me lately.
1. Marco tried to tell Ms. Sanchez that the grass wasn’t all that dirty when little Iggy collapsed on the ground during the zombie fiasco.
2. He shared his mini muffins with me at recess—and his dragons, too.
3. He even stood up for me in Principal James’s office.
Why didn’t I think of Marco before now? Just because he’s friends with Major doesn’t mean he can’t be friends with me, too!
“You could call him, EllRay,” Mom says. “I have their number in the other room. Call him now and invite him to spend the night tomorrow. We’ll have a ball, I promise. I can talk to Mrs. Adair after you talk to him and we can work out the details.”
“Just don’t tell him he’s Marco-Adair-the-Spare,” Dad advises. “You should keep that little nugget to yourself.”
Which I will.
“Okay,” I say, bouncing to my feet like an EllRay cloud that just got lifted up by a gust of wind.
Because—dude.
Marco might be coming over!
19
BRAND-NEW EYES
“Hey, Alfie,” I say in the back seat of the car the next morning on the way to school. “I’m bringing a friend to your show tonight.”
“Shh. I’m busy pwacticing inside my bwain,” Alfie says, scowling.
EllRay Jakes The Recess King! Page 8
