by Sally Warner
Emma, who is best friends with Annie Pat, is all over Cynthia in a second. “She’s not ‘holding them captive,’ Cynthia,” she says, her cheeks turning even pinker than they already were. “She’s taking care of them. She’s protecting them, and it’s a lot of hard work.”
“Yeah,” Annie Pat says, having recovered from Cynthia’s insult. “Cynthia.”
“What did you write about for your personal narrative, Cynthia?” Kry asks like she’s really interested, brushing her shiny black bangs out of her eyes.
“I wrote about organizing my closet,” Cynthia announces, chin still in the air.
Okay, now that’s just sad. I mean, I’m not saying it didn’t happen. And I’m not saying there weren’t some details about it, or that it ended. But writing about it?
Everyone knows that all you have to do with closets is to jam your stuff inside and then close the door real fast, before it can tumble back out.
Done!
Even some of the girls over at the girls’ table are looking sideways at each other, hearing Cynthia’s personal narrative topic.
“You should see her closet,” Heather says, jumping to Cynthia’s defense so fast that the long, skinny braid she usually wears on top of her hair swings across her face like a pendulum. “It’s the best closet in the world!”
“Now it is,” Cynthia says, shrugging modestly. “I even put a little chair in it when I was done, and my daddy built a special rack for all my headbands.”
Cynthia wears a headband to school every single day. She scrapes her hair back like she’s mad at it.
Her father makes the best sandwiches in the world, by the way. Me and my friends DROOL when we look at them, sometimes. That’s what she should have written about. I didn’t know Mr. Harbison could build stuff, too.
My college professor dad hates doing chores around the house. But he does like working in the garden. The rose bushes that looked like thorny sticks in January have leaves on them now. He checks them every day. I’m not sure what he’s looking for.
“My narrative was about the last time this little boy named Anthony came over,” Emma says, starting to giggle. “He’s only four, and he’s really funny.”
Cynthia sniffs, probably still thinking about her organized closet. “I met him once,” she tells us.
“See, we were going to make some peanut butter cookies with fork marks on them,” Emma explains. “Only he—”
“Too bad you don’t have any real brothers or sisters,” Heather interrupts. “Or you could have written about them.”
Emma is an only child, see, which I have to admit sometimes sounds pretty good to me. But Heather has this teenage sister she’s always talking about. She must think that earns her special points or something—like she’s an honorary teenager herself, just from living with one.
“Yeah. Too bad,” Cynthia fake-sympathizes.
The girls have hijacked this lunch conversation big-time! They always do that.
“Being an only child wasn’t what Emma was writing about,” Annie Pat argues, sticking up for Emma even if Emma doesn’t need her to.
“But who cares about a four-year-old kid?” Cynthia asks Emma—and me, I guess. Because I wrote about Alfie.
I care. I care about Alfie, anyway, since I don’t know Emma’s Anthony. I kind of have to care about Alfie, at least until she learns how to take care of herself.
Or until I teach her to.
A couple of the boys have ditched the shivering lunch crowd by now, even though the bell hasn’t rung yet. Jared and Stanley are chasing each other around and around. It looks like fun. Why am I still sitting here?
I cram my trash into my lunch sack and stand up. Kevin does, too.
“Good riddance,” Cynthia calls over from the girls’ table.
“Who’s she talking to?” Kevin asks, like he’s really wondering.
“Mr. Nobody,” I say back, laughing.
“And where does Mr. Nobody park his car?” Kevin asks, starting in on a dumb old joke of ours that still cracks us up.
“IN THE MIRAGE!” we both shout.
The girls are looking at us like we’re nuts, but who cares?
We’re gone!
7
STILL INVISIBLE?
“Are you still invisible?” I ask Alfie after dinner that night, when Mom and Dad are busy with something else. Paying bills, probably. Alfie and I are in my room, for a change, and Alfie is playing with one of my action figures that changes from a truck to a robot to a killer insect. She has been talking to it in baby talk, which is messed up.
“I’m only invisible at school, not here,” Alfie says, letting the half-changed action figure droop a little. “Mona whispered something to me when we were playing at the dress-up box, but Suzette caught her. So after that, Mona beed quiet.”
“But you’re going to talk to Suzette tomorrow. Friday,” I say like it’s a fact.
Sometimes this works with Alfie, like when I say on a Friday night, “It’s my turn to choose the cartoons tomorrow morning, remember?” Even though it isn’t really my turn, it’s hers. Only I don’t feel like watching Pink Princess Fairies or Itty Bitty Kitties. Can you blame me?
“I might talk to her,” Alfie says, shaking my action figure as if that is what makes it change. “Why doesn’t this do anything?” she asks, frowning. “And don’t you have any clothes for it? It has to stay bare?”
I don’t even bother answering such a goofy question, because—clothes for a killer insect? Or for a robot or a truck, for that matter? What’s it going to wear, pants and a hat?
“You have to talk to her,” I say. “Look, we’ll practice. Let’s pretend you’re you, okay? And I’m Suzette. What are you going to say to me? To Suzette?”
“But I thought you didn’t like playing pretend,” Alfie says, her brown eyes wide.
“I’ll do it just this once,” I tell her. “You have to learn, Alfie. And I guess I’m the one to teach you. Now, you be you, and I—”
“I’m alweady me,” Alfie argues. “That’s not pretending.”
“But pretend you’re talking to Suzette. Go.”
“You go,” she mumbles.
“Okay,” I reply, hiding my sigh. “Hi, Alfie,” I say in a loud and whiny voice. “Why are you still hanging around? Can’t you take a hint?”
“What’s a hint?” Alfie asks me, EllRay, frowning again. “I forget.”
“It’s like a little clue,” I try to explain. “Like if I said you are going to eat something crunchy for breakfast, and it comes in a box. Guess what it is?”
“Toast is crunchy,” Alfie says, thinking about it.
“But it doesn’t come in a box,” I remind her.
“It could,” Alfie points out. “If you put it there. Cereal wasn’t born in a box.”
“I’m Suzette Monahan,” I say, trying hard to get back to the point. “And I’m saying, ‘Get lost, Alfie Jakes. You are invisible to me and my friends.’”
“They’re my friends, too,” Alfie argues, finally getting into it. “And they’re only minding you because you’re so mean, Suzette. And you scratch.”
“Who cares?” I say in my best Suzette voice. I pretend I am fluffing up my headful of brown curls like I think they’re so great. As if they’re what gives me my dragon powers. I’m glad my friends Corey and Kevin can’t see me! “I’m the boss, and that’s what matters,” I continue, being Suzette. “Those girls have to do what I say, or else.”
“But they already did what you said,” Alfie says, her voice wobbling a little. “Can’t you boss them to do something else?”
“No,” I say, shrugging in that I-don’t-think-so way like Suzette did the time when my mom offered her homemade oatmeal cookies instead of saying okay, she would drive everyone to McDonald’s. “I’m not bored yet. I’m having too much fun.”
“But why is making me invisible fun?” Alfie says, tears filling her eyes. This makes them look even bigger than they already are, which is huge.
Pretending is harder than I thought. “Don’t cry,” I whisper.
“Are you Suzette now, or are you EllWay?” she whispers back, wiping her eyes.
“EllRay. But just for a minute. Now I’m Suzette again,” I tell her, changing my voice. “It’s fun because it bothers you so much,” I say in my best stuck-up Suzette way. “Why wouldn’t I do it? What else is there to do around here? You care the most. That’s why it’s fun.”
“I could tell the teacher on you,” Alfie says, trying to put up a fight, if only a puny one.
“Go ahead,” pretend-Suzette says. “Everyone will think you’re a tattletale, and I’ll say you’re lying.” Now I’m getting into it.
“Then I’ll tell my mom,” Alfie says, trying a different idea. “And she’ll call your mom, and they’ll talk. Then you’ll be sorry.”
“No, I won’t. Go ahead and tell your mom. I don’t care,” I say with a Suzette sneer. “I can handle my mom. Anyway, she’s too busy to care what bothers you.”
“Then she’s mean, too,” Alfie says, slamming my action figure to the ground so hard that I almost forget for a second to be Suzette Monahan.
POOR TECHNO-ROBO-BUG!
Alfie’s really angry, I can tell. Electric sparks are practically coming out of her soft, puffy black braids, she’s so mad. But angry is better than droopy any day of the week, I remind myself.
“That’s good, Alfie,” I tell her.
“Be quiet, Suzette!” Alfie yells.
“No. I’m EllRay again,” I say quickly, trying to calm her down before Mom and Dad come pounding up the stairs to see what’s wrong. “Can’t you pretend you don’t care?” I suggest.
“I am a good pretender,” she says, smiling. “It’s one of the things I love best about me.”
“Me too,” I say, laughing. “So are you gonna say something to Suzette about not caring? Tomorrow morning? First thing? And get this whole disaster over with?”
“Maybe,” Alfie says, cautious once more.
But I can tell that I’ve at least planted the idea in her head.
And best of all, she thinks it’s her idea—which makes me a pretty good teacher, right? And a very good big brother?
You’re welcome, Alfie!
8
IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE CLASS
“My shoes got wet on the way to school,” my friend Corey complains the next morning. It is Friday, the third-worst day of the week for rain to happen. The first and second worst days are Saturday and Sunday, of course, because who wants to spend the weekend indoors?
Mr. Nobody, that’s who. The guy who parks his car in the mirage.
“You’re wet all the time anyway, Corey, ’cause you’re alway in the pool, aren’t you?” Kevin points out as we stash our backpacks in our cubbies, which they call “cubicles” in the third grade. Only really, they’re the same as they were in kindergarten.
Just the word has changed.
There are probably lots of things that are like that.
“Sneakers are different,” Corey says in his gloomiest voice. “You can’t get ’em dry. I’m SQUELCHING.”
Around us, the girls in our class are chattering like crazy. It’s as if the April rain has revved them up in some weird way. “Ooh! Darling boots,” Annie Pat is saying to Emma, who is holding out one of her legs for inspection.
They’re lime green. The boots, I mean.
Girls have completely different clothes for when it rains. Most boys just put on another layer, and they always forget their umbrellas, if they even have umbrellas in the first place. Jared Matthews—who can be kind of bossy, remember?—is peeling off a damp brown sweater that looks like a layer of bark or lizard skin. His face is turning red, he’s wrestling with that sweater so hard.
“Come on, everyone,” Ms. Sanchez calls out from her desk, which is like Army headquarters for her. “We have lots of work this morning. It’s personal narrative day!”
“We already did that,” Cynthia Harbison tells her, raising her hand while she’s already talking. “We corrected them for homework last night,” she adds as she takes her seat, neat as can be. Have I mentioned how clean Cynthia is? It’s actually kind of creepy.
“Thank you, Miss Harbison. I realize that,” Ms. Sanchez says. “But today, we’ll read a few of them aloud. That’s an entirely different skill set.”
“We have to read in front of the whole class?” Corey cries out, unable to control himself. Corey hates doing anything in front of the class, even taking something up to Ms. Sanchez’s desk. Even though it’s not that big a class, and everybody likes him.
That’s weird, isn’t it, how scary it can be to have to stand up in front of people, even when you know them? I guess it’s because nobody wants all those eyeballs staring at them. Or maybe they’re afraid they’re going to make fools of themselves. I should say of himself, because some of the girls in my class are looking excited at the idea of reading their narratives aloud. A couple of girl-hands have already shot into the air.
“We’ll get started right after I take attendance,” Ms. Sanchez says. “I’ll decide who to call on then.”
Not me, not me, not me, I think, squinching my eyes shut to help make my wish come true.
“You’re up next, EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez says as Cynthia takes her seat before nutrition break. “And Cynthia,” she adds, “I’m sure we’ve all learned something valuable about organizing a closet. Also, thank you, Emma, for telling us the terrible tale of that forty-five-dollar library book about amphibians that you lost. You had us all shivering in our boots. Thank goodness you finally found it. And now, I present Mr. Jakes, who is going to tell us what it’s like being a big brother. EllRay?”
Someone groans. Probably Stanley, and for no reason.
“But is there enough time?” I ask, like my narrative is so interesting and exciting that I don’t want to cut it short because of mere nutrition break, or like I don’t want everyone’s stomach growling while I’m trying to read my personal narrative. My private personal narrative.
As if there’s such a thing as privacy around here!
I would have written about almost stepping on a rattlesnake once in Arizona if I’d known we were going to have to read our narratives aloud!
I will never live down this wimpy, way-too-personal narrative.
“There’s time,” Ms. Sanchez says, nodding. So I plod to the front of the class and stand at the corner of her desk. “Nice and loud, EllRay,” she reminds me. “No mumbling.”
Mumbling is a big no-no with Ms. Sanchez. “Stand up, speak up, and look people in the eye,” she always tells us.
“Okay,” I say, and I clear my throat in a Kevinlike way. “Being a Big Brother, by EllRay Jakes,” I begin.
“Louder, please,” Ms. Sanchez tells me. “Speak to the very back row, EllRay.”
“Okay,” I say again, and I start reading.
When I have finished, I tuck my chin down and scurry back to my seat, hoping no one will have the chance to ask any questions or give me advice about how to be an even better big brother. Some girls in my class have a lot of advice to give, I have noticed.
But it turns out I don’t have to worry about that—inside the classroom, anyway—because it’s finally, finally time for nutrition break.
And I have earned my snack today, believe me.
9
EXTREME DODGEBALL
“We can go outside. It stopped raining,” Jared Matthews announces, sounding proud, like he personally changed the weather for us. He is pawing around in his lunch bag for his snack, which will be a large one. Like I said, Jared is the biggest kid in our class.
The whole cubicle room smells weird, like a mixture of food, floor cleaner, and wet jackets, but everyone is still hungry.
“And Jared and me, we’re in charge of the kickballs,” his friend Stanley says, his glasses gleaming. He is wearing two plaid shirts today—layers, see?—even though Cynthia once said the shirts he wears makes him look like a walking picnic bl
anket. But then the girls voted and decided that wasn’t very nice, so Cynthia took it back.
But I gotta tell you, Stanley Washington has been getting on my nerves lately. Maybe it’s the way he’s always mooching around Jared, acting like the two of them are so much tougher than Corey and Kevin and me. And he’s sarcastic.
“Who says you’re in charge?” my friend Kevin asks, challenging Stanley as the rest of the kids churn around them, pushing to get their snacks and escape outside. “You’re not the boss of the kickballs, Stanley.”
“He is if I say he is,” Jared says, standing in the middle of the cubicle room like a rock sticking out of the ocean waves. “Anyway, what do you guys care?” he adds, including me in his glare, even though I haven’t said a word. “You’re gonna be too busy talking about how great little sisters are to play anything.”
“Ooh,” Stanley says, laughing. “Cute little Waffle.”
“Her name’s Alfie,” I say, clenching my fists.
Waffle! That’s it for me and sarcastic Stanley.
“Whatever,” Jared says, shrugging as we make our way down the hall. “Sorry, but you guys are just too wimped-out to play with the kickballs today. Especially when we’re playing Extreme Dodgeball, dudes.”
Okay. Plain dodgeball is a real game. Everyone knows that. It has rules and everything, even though the rules can change from place to place. I happen to know this, because the official way we play it at Oak Glen, when we’re being supervised by a playground monitor—and there’s only one now— is not the same way they play it in high school, or even in middle school, for that matter. At Oak Glen, we use soft, bouncy kickballs, not real dodgeballs, and we follow the simplest rules. If you’re hit full-on, without the ball bouncing first, and nobody on your team catches the ball before it hits the ground, you’re o-u-t, out. For good.
But in the past couple of weeks, when no one is supervising us, WATCH OUT! Because if no grown-ups are around, the game has become what we now call Extreme Dodgeball. And it’s very unofficial.
