by Sally Warner
It is obvious from the look on her face that Cynthia does not like this news about the missing school nurse one bit. “She’s not?” she squawks. “But this could be serious!”
Yeah, right. A “serious” skinned knee with three tiny dots of blood on it. Okay, maybe four.
“I think you should call my mom,” Cynthia says, tears filling her eyes again.
My dad calls this “turning on the waterworks” when Alfie does it.
“We’ll let Mrs. Tollefsen decide about calling your mother,” the playground monitor tells Cynthia, peeking at her watch. “I have to get to class. Do you think you two can control yourselves for a couple of minutes?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
“I guess,” Cynthia says, scootching her chair away from mine an inch or two—so she won’t be infected by my badness. Or in case I start whirling her around again.
And all of a sudden we are alone.
Cynthia turns and stares at me. “You are in so much trouble, EllRay Jakes,” she says. “Hitting a girl so hard that she falls over and bleeds.”
WHAT?
“I didn’t hit you, and you know it,” I say, because somebody has to tell the truth around here. “Just saying stuff doesn’t make it true, Cynthia. We were playing Octopus Tag. I tagged you, but you wouldn’t stay tagged. That’s all that happened.”
“Nuh-uh,” Cynthia says, shaking her head. “You went after me for no reason, and you hit me so hard that I fell on the ground. And now look at me,” she says in a wobbly voice, pointing to her knee. “I’m wrecked, just like Heather said. And so is my poor, stretched-out pink sweater, which was brand-new last year. You owe me.”
“You know it didn’t happen like that, Cynthia,” I say, trying to keep my own voice steady. “I never went after you. And I had to tag you. We were playing Octopus Tag! That’s why they call it tag. You were running right at me. You didn’t see me, that’s all.”
“Well, but you didn’t have to hold onto my sweater the way you did,” Cynthia says, petting its saggy sleeve like it’s a little lost kitten.
“But you were gonna cheat,” I argue. “You kept saying I never tagged you!”
“So what?” Cynthia says. “Making someone bleed is a lot worse than not playing some stupid game right, EllRay.”
“I didn’t make you bleed,” I say. “You fell. It was an accident, and you know it.”
“They won’t know that,” Cynthia says, her voice very loud and clear, and I can feel my heart slither down to my shoes, because—the grown-ups might believe her. Everyone might believe her sooner or later, even the kids who saw the real thing happen with their own eyes.
I’m starting to think that’s the way things are in the world.
“Who won’t know that it was an accident, Miss Harbison?” a man’s voice asks, and Cynthia and I both look up.
It’s the principal, and he’s been in his office the whole time! And the door was open!
He heard everything.
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.
Cynthia jumps to her feet, even though no one told us yet that we could get up. “This bad boy was mean to me on the playground for no reason,” she says, pointing her finger at me.
Okay. Cynthia knows the principal heard what she said, but she still thinks she might pull this off.
“Look,” Cynthia says to the principal, showing him her skinned knee—as if it must be proof of something.
“Mrs. Tollefson will take care of that scrape in a minute or two,” the principal says, barely giving Cynthia’s knee a glance. “Why don’t you two come into my office and sit down?”
This sounds like a question, but it isn’t. So Cynthia and I don’t make any suggestions of different activities to do. We follow the principal into his office.
I already know the way, unfortunately, but I think this is Cynthia’s first time—unless she’s been there to get a medal for being perfect or something.
No. She would have bragged to everyone if that had happened.
“Now, what’s going on?” the principal asks, once we get settled into our uncomfortable chairs.
Cynthia and I look at each other for a second, and then, as if we have made a silent promise, we look away and try to erase our faces like marker boards. For once we share the same goal: to get out of the principal’s office as fast as possible.
I mean, he’s nice and everything, but he’s the principal.
I just hope he doesn’t call our parents, that’s all. Being in trouble at school is bad enough, but being in trouble at home, too—at the same time? And for the same thing? That’s just wrong!“Nothing’s going on,” Cynthia mumbles.
“Everything’s fine,” I agree. “It was just an accident on the playground. It wasn’t an on-purpose.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the principal says, staring at us through half-closed eyes as he pets his beard. “But I’m not too pleased about what I overheard you two saying out there.”
Cynthia and I look at each other, then look away.
The principal doesn’t say anything for one whole minute, which I know for sure because I count the seconds from one to sixty. And then he says, “Look. I’m not going to have any feuds going on here at Oak Glen. Or any roughhousing on the playground, or any fibbing about it afterward. Do you understand me?”
Cynthia gives me one of her old looks. “Do you understand him, EllRay?” she asks, sounding patient and forgiving at the same time.
If I could kick her “by accident,” I really think I would.
“I was talking to both of you, Miss Harbison,” the principal says, his voice sharp. “And I’ll be keeping an eye on both of you. Understand that, please.”
And Cynthia and I both nod our heads, because by now, we’re too scared to say another word.
I can tell that Cynthia is furious, though, and that she blames me—not herself—for this scolding, on top of blaming me about her knee and her stretched-out sweater.
But even though he’s angry, the principal kind of stuck up for me!
At least now, someone knows I’m not the only kid here at Oak Glen who messes up.
For what that’s worth.
CLASH
“You owe me, EllRay Jakes,” Cynthia says again in a low voice as we walk down the hall toward our classroom holding our excuse slips. “You owe me big.”
“I do not,” I say. “This whole thing was an accident.”
“Just look,” Cynthia says, not even listening as she points to her knee. “Do these Band-Aids go with this outfit? No, they do not. I clash, and it’s all your fault.”
Cynthia now has two bright blue rocket ship Band-Aids on her barely scraped knee. “These are for kindergarten boys,” Cynthia had objected to Mrs. Tollefson, but they were the only Band-Aids our school secretary could find. And Cynthia is almost angrier about those rocket ship Band-Aids than she was about getting knocked down at recess or being scolded by the principal.
“You have to make it up to me, EllRay, or else,” Cynthia says as we get near our classroom. “You have to pay me back. It’s, like, the law.”
“Not if I didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, my hand on the sticky door handle. “Anyway, you don’t get to decide stuff like that.”
“Then the kids in our class will decide,” she says, still keeping her voice low. “I’ll tell them to vote on how bad you are. This is a democracy, don’t forget.”
“Oak Glen Primary School isn’t really a democracy,” I inform her. “They say it is, but we hardly get to vote on anything.”
And it’s true. We don’t vote on anything important, like how much homework we get or how long recess should be. We just vote on stuff like should we sell magazine subscriptions, fancy popcorn, or chocolate bars for our fund-raiser.
“And anyway,” I add, “a democracy is—well, it’s voting for who’s gonna be President. It’s not kids voting on whether another kid did something wrong or not,” I say, trying to come up with a good argument, fast. “The truth
either happened or it didn’t.”
I just hope I’m right, that’s all.
“Nope,” Cynthia says, smoothing back her hair with one hand as she gets ready to push open the door with the other, even though I am still holding onto the handle. “There’s gonna be a secret vote, and I’ll run it. And then I’ll tell you how it comes out. And if you lose, then you have to make it up to me about what happened at recess, and about the principal, and how you ruined my look with these stupid clashy Band-Aids. And I’ll tell you when you have to do that, and how. Period.”
“You can’t just make rules and stuff up, Cynthia,” I say. “You’re not the boss of me,” I add, sounding more like four-year-old Alfie than myself.
“Huh. Of course I am,” Cynthia says, lifting her stuck-up chin high in the air. “Until you pay me back, anyway.”
PLANNING MY GETAWAY
“Please open the milk, EllWay,” Alfie says, staring hard at the find-the-mistakes cartoon on the back of her cereal box. “It’s glued shut. How are we supposed to dwink it?”
“Okay,” I say, prying open the container of milk and pushing it toward her. I barely look up from the comics I am reading.
Friday was full of Cynthia Harbison’s scowls and whispers as she tried to get kids to vote on how bad I am, and how I “owe” her. But now it is Saturday morning, which means no school for two whole days.
Just in time, too. That was one rough week back there.
But Saturday mornings are always fun for Alfie and me. Mom and Dad sleep late, and Alfie and I are allowed to eat one big bowl of whatever cereal we want, even the kinds Mom won’t let us eat any other day of the week. I’m in charge of pouring the milk. Then we get to watch cartoons or a DVD until ten o’clock, if we don’t argue.
Alfie’s cereal milk is pink this morning, and mine is kind of chocolate-y.
“Oh, guess what?” Alfie asks, looking up with a big smile on her face—and a line of pink milk crawling down her chin.
“What?” I say.
“Suzette’s coming over to play today,” Alfie says. “Yay!” she adds, I guess to show me how happy she is about this terrible news.
“Suzette Monahan?” I ask, almost dropping my spoon. “The same Suzette who threw torn-up paper in your hair and said you had to be the meanest kid in day care from now on? Bossy Suzette?”
“Um-hmm,” Alfie says, nodding. “Suzette’s my friend again,” she explains, still smiling big-time.
Mom hasn’t fixed Alfie’s hair for the day yet, so Alfie is still looking a little random, but cute—not that I’m going to tell her that. That’s all she needs.
“I thought Suzette was mad at you,” I say. “You know, for telling her she was gonna die some day and get buried in a plastic container in the back- yard.”
“Or flushed down the toilet,” Alfie adds, nodding again. “But she forgived me, because I apologized.”
“What about you?” I ask, not bothering to correct her grammar, because what’s the use? She’s four. “Did you forgive her?”
“What for?” Alfie asks, after shoveling some more cereal into her mouth and thinking about my question.
“For saying that she got to be the cute one in day care now, and you had to be the mean one,” I remind her.
“I decided to forget about that,” Alfie tells me, like it never mattered in the first place. “Because I want to be Suzette’s friend again more than I want to stay mad. So she’s coming over. Yay!” she cheers again.
And what I want to know is this. Since when did Alfie become so forgiving? Like I have mentioned before, she is usually a very stubborn kid.
1. For example, Alfie got so mad at Mom once for not buying her this fancy doll at Target that she ran away to the front yard that afternoon. She even hung her favorite clothes on the fence using little white hangers.
2. Also, when she first started day care, Alfie wore her shirts backward for two whole weeks—no matter what anyone said. She said she thought the shirts looked better that way.
3. And a few weeks ago, Dad got so fed up with Alfie about her picky eating that he said she had to finish her peas before she could leave the dinner table. Alfie sat there all alone after dinner for more than one hour, gagging whenever she even looked at those peas. And she’d probably still be sitting there if I hadn’t sneaked back into the dining room and eaten the whole pile of cold, wrinkled peas for her.
But Alfie can forgive terrible Suzette Monahan just like that? Suzette, who snooped around in my room while I was out the last time she came to play? I could tell! Suzette, who told my mom the last time she came over that she wanted McDonald’s for her snack, not the oatmeal cookies Mom had just finished baking? Suzette, who has this thing about Alfie’s hair—just because it’s different from hers?
My sister’s hair is lots prettier, by the way.
“Did Suzette at least apologize to you?” I ask Alfie, thinking about how hard it would be for me to forgive Cynthia, for instance. Unless Cynthia said she was sorry for making my life miserable, which she never would.
“Kind of,” Alfie says. “She said I could be the funny girl in day care, instead of the mean girl. But she still gets to be the cute one.”
“You’re way cuter than she is,” I inform my little sister. “And don’t get stuck-up, but I’m not just saying that. What time is Suzette coming over?” I ask, scooping up another bite of cereal—and planning my getaway, because NO WAY am I going to be in this house when Suzette Monahan is here. I think I’m allergic to her, the way some kids are to peanuts.
“Before lunch,” Alfie says, dribbling some more pink cereal milk down her chin. “Mommy’s gonna go get her.”
I hand Alfie a clean napkin. “Well, you guys have to stay out of my room this time,” I tell her. “Because I’m going to be over at Corey’s. Or Kevin’s,” I say, correcting myself when I remember that Corey probably has a swim meet this weekend—or, at the very least, practice. Swimming is the only thing Corey ever does in his spare time. I think his parents need him to be best at something. More than Corey needs to be the best, I mean.
“But me and Suzette were gonna make a pretend store in the backyard,” Alfie says, her spoon drooping. “And I wanted you to come buy stuff, EllWay.”
“I’ll give you a quarter,” I tell her fast. “And you can buy some things for me, okay? And put them outside my room. But pretend there’s an invisible lock on the door.”
“Is there?” Alfie asks, her eyes huge.
“Not really,” I admit, because for some reason, I don’t like to lie to my little sister. It’s too easy, for one thing. What would be the point? “But pretend there’s a lock, okay, Alfie? Because there’s such a thing as privacy.”
“Okay,” Alfie says. “Hey,” she says, looking at her imaginary wristwatch and smiling again, “it’s almost time for our cartoons to start!”
“Yeah,” I say. “Go turn on the TV, but not too loud. I’ll rinse our bowls.”
“Okay,” Alfie says, and POOF. She’s gone.
SUCH A STUPID FIGHT
The next Friday, just before lunch, we are supposed to be finishing up and turning in our Treasure Island art projects—which are supposed to be either maps of the island or pirate flags, but not just skulls and crossbones—while Ms. Sanchez takes some important papers to the office and talks with the principal. I am standing next to Ms. Sanchez’s desk at the same time as Cynthia and Heather.
Almost everyone else in class has already handed in their maps and flags. They are now doing Sustained Silent Reading—or goofing around. But silently.
Cynthia slaps her fancy pirate flag onto Ms. Sanchez’s desk. She did it on pink construction paper. It has palm trees and glitter coconuts on each side of the rainbow in the middle, and it doesn’t look very pirate-y to me. But maybe girl pirates love glitter and rainbows, I don’t know.
Heather is holding the stars-and-stripes USA flag she made for the pirates. She is probably hoping that Ms. Sanchez will figure this project is so patrioti
c that she won’t be able to say anything bad about it.
Heather likes to play things safe.
I made a map of what I think Treasure Island looks like, and it came out pretty good, in my opinion. I drew the Spy-glass hill and the North Inlet and the stockade. Everything. And I put pistols and knives all around the edges, which Mom helped me tear perfectly to make my map look old. I wanted to burn the edges a little, too, so it would look like my map was pulled out of a pirate ship fire, but Mom said playing with fire was asking for trouble.
Listen. I will never need to ask for trouble, not when trouble seems to find me so easily.
Heather slides her flag under Cynthia’s, but just as I put my map on top, Cynthia swats it away. “Mine gets to be on top,” she whispers. “I want Ms. Sanchez to see it first. That’s why I waited to turn it in. Duh.”
“Watch out,” I whisper back. “You almost ripped my map.” I examine it carefully for damage.
“Oh, like you could tell,” Cynthia says, laughing. And she nudges Heather until she laughs, too. “It’s not like EllRay’s map isn’t already all ripped up,” Cynthia says. “Look at it!”
“Yeah,” Heather agrees. But I can tell she wishes she weren’t trapped in the middle of this.
“I tore the edges on purpose,” I inform Cynthia.
All three of us are trying to keep our voices low, but a few kids—Emma, Annie Pat, and Kevin, especially—are looking up to see what’s going on.
“It looks old, all right,” Cynthia says, barely giving my excellent map a glance. “My palm tree flag goes on top, and that’s final. I don’t want my glitter coconuts getting all ruined.”
And then she shoves me for no reason.
