by Sally Warner
“We can share,” Mom says, giving my dad a special thank-you look.
“Now me,” Alfie says, still holding on to the blanket.
“Here you go, Miss Alfie,” Dad says after another trip to the back hall. I wonder what’s back there for me?
“Is it breaky?” Alfie asks, taking the gift from him.
That’s her word for “breakable.” I guess she wants to know how careful she has to be when she opens it.
“Let ’er rip,” Dad says, giving her the go-ahead.
And so Alfie tears into the wrapping paper. And out come a purple plastic horse with a long white mane for Alfie to brush, and a lavender baby horse—with wings! Score, Dad.
“Is the baby gonna grow up and be a unicorn?” Alfie asks, hardly able to believe her luck.
“Maybe someday,” Dad jokes, forgetting how confused she already is about such things.
But I don’t say anything, because—I’m next.
“A-a-and, EllRay,” Dad says after a third trip to the back hall.
My wrapped present is half square and half round, which is confusing. My stomach even gives a disappointed little bloop for a second, because I was really hoping for a basketball.
“Go ahead and open it, son,” Dad says, smiling, as the rain patters harder against the windows. “Get it over with. I think you’ll be pleased.”
It is a brand-new basketball! It’s just crammed into half a cardboard box, that’s all. I pry it out and give it a welcoming sniff.
It’s the real thing, all right.
“Ew, gwoss,” Alfie says, glancing up from her two new horses.
Gross.
“He’s smelling it,” Alfie informs everyone.
“Of course he is,” Mom says, snuggled under her new blanket. “That’s part of the fun sometimes. Like when you smell a brand-new doll’s hair.”
Alfie thinks about it, then gives the smaller horse a cautious sniff. “It smells pretty,” she says. “Just like a unicorn.” She starts trotting it across the rug.
Oh, geez. Here we go. Will she ever get things right?
“There’s a new hoop in the hall, too,” Dad murmurs, sidling up to me. “I just didn’t want to get your sister all worked up about you getting bigger presents, that’s all.”
“A real basketball hoop?” I whisper back, picturing for a second one of those plastic jobs—even though those are pretty cool when you’re in preschool, don’t get me wrong.
It’s just not what I was hoping for now.
But Dad nods. “And Marco’s dad is coming over tomorrow to help me set it up. Weather permitting,” he adds.
“You could install it halfway up the garage door,” Mom suggests, probably thinking I’m worried about being too short ever to make a basket.
“Nuh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “I want it the real height.”
“He’ll grow into it,” Dad tells Mom. “In fact, don’t EllRay’s pants seem a little smaller to you lately?”
“They’re just my regular jeans,” I say, hitching them up at the waist. “They still fit fine. Even after three helpings of mashed potatoes.”
“I meant their length,” Dad says, tilting his head as I toss my new basketball from hand to hand.
Using my fingertips, Coach.
I stick one leg out for inspection.
There is a little more sock showing than usual, come to think of it. Could my pants be shrinking?
“You’re growing, son,” Dad says, reaching over to give my head a knuckle rub. That’s his specialty with me.
“I’m probably not,” I tell him, breaking the news.
I mean, I don’t want to argue on such a fun family night, but I would know it if I was growing taller. Wouldn’t I?
Mom’s laugh sounds like falling water. “It doesn’t happen all at once, honey-bun,” she tells me. “Think how upsetting it would be if it did! You would wake up one morning with your legs hanging over the end of your bed.”
Sounds good to me. But I’m afraid to get my hopes up.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, leaning into him as I try to hold the basketball under my arm the way Coach sometimes does.
This is our version of a hug, and I’m going in for it.
24
PROUD
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad says quietly after Mom and Alfie have left the room for Alfie’s bath. “Marco’s father told me how you’ve been watching out for Marco at school and all.”
What? No!
I mean, some things are meant to be private.
But I’m glad my dad is proud of me. That’s the same thing as respect, isn’t it?
“Marco’s okay on his own,” I tell Dad.
“I know,” Dad says. “But it never hurts to have a friend watching your back. A guy you admire.”
“Marco admires me?” I ask, touching the new basketball with my fingertips.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Dad says, laughing. “Lots of folks think you’re a stand-up guy, EllRay Jakes. I’ve noticed how much you’ve been helping your little sister, for instance.”
I guess being a stand-up guy is better than a falling-over guy, anyway. Maybe it’s even the same thing as being a stand-tall guy!
And coaching Alfie is no big deal.
“Okay,” I mumble. “Is Marco coming over, too?” I ask, to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I mean?”
“Of course,” Dad says, smiling big. “You guys can hang out together while we dads wrestle with the ladder and the hoop.”
“Marco will probably want to play olden days. You know, with his knights and dragons,” I warn my dad. “He’s kind of stubborn that way. It may take him a while to really like b-ball—even with our excellent new basketball and hoop.”
“Marco can be any way he wants to be,” Dad says. “And so can you, son. Got that?”
“Got it,” I say.
“Then go brush your teeth, and tell your little sister good night,” Dad says. “Your mom and I will be in before you know it, to say good night and tuck you in.”
I don’t really need tucking in anymore, but I’m not gonna say no.
“Okay,” I say again. But my jaw is aching from trying to swallow my yawns. “Come in and say good night anyway, Dad? Even if I’m already asleep?”
I like to know it’s going to happen, no matter what.
“It’s a deal, son.”
“Okay,” I say for the third time tonight. “Then good night, Dad.”
“Good night, EllRay,” Dad says. “And stand tall, son.”
I will, too. I’ve earned the right!
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