EllRay Jakes The Recess King! (6 page)

10

UH-OH

I jump into the back seat of Mom's car about three minutes after school lets out. There is a long line of cars waiting at the curb. They all have their lights on and wipers going, even though it's still daytime. It has just started to rain.

I am
so
glad Mom said she would pick me up today. I didn't want the guys in my class griping again about what happened this morning.

I'm gonna end up with
no
friends, at this rate.

“Don't get me wet, EllWay, or you'll be sowwy,” Alfie warns.

That's
“you'll be sorry”
in Alfie-speak.

“What's
your
problem?” I ask, wrestling with my seat belt. “What's her problem?” I ask Mom when Alfie doesn't answer me.

My sister looks like a grouchy cartoon character with a little black storm cloud over her head—which matches today perfectly, now that I think about it. Alfie's arms are folded across her chest. She is slumped in her car seat like a rag doll. She kicked off one of her sneakers, too.

Uh-oh. That's never a good sign. I hope it didn't go out the car window.

“Talk to your brother, Alfie,” Mom says, signaling to pull into the traffic. “I'm too busy trying to drive in this crazy rain to explain what happened.”

“I wanna go home,” Alfie says, trying to kick the back of Mom's seat, which luckily is a good eight inches from Alfie's toes. “No chores! No chores, Mom,” she says, wriggling in her car seat. She aims another kick Mom's way.

“Don't do that,” I tell Alfie. “It's dangerous. And you're acting like a baby.”

That's the worst insult you can give her.

“You can't tell me what to do, EllWay,” Alfie says. “You're not the boss of me.”

“I don't even want to be the boss of you,” I inform her. “Where are we going?” I ask Mom. I'm hoping for a surprise trip to a drive-through, but that hardly ever happens.

Mom and Dad want us to have all kinds of experiences. Even fast food ones.

Only not very often.

“We're headed back to the arts and crafts store, and then I need to swing by the library,” Mom says, not even looking at me in the rear view mirror. That's how nervous she is about driving in the rain—or how angry she is at having to return to that store. It drives Mom nuts how messy the shelves are. She's a very neat lady.

She could organize the world if she ever got the chance.

“But I thought you got everything you needed for Alfie's goldfish costume,” I remind her. “You already started making it, didn't you?”

“Miss Nancy decided Alfie would do better in another role,” Mom tells me, her voice sounding a little tight. “Our Miss Alfie was saying everyone's lines for them, it seems. And she had some trouble settling down.”

“Yeah. Miss Nancy cheated the rehearsal,” Alfie says, pouncing on Mom's words.

“Cheated
at
the rehearsal,” I correct her. “Because you can't cheat a rehearsal, Alfie. That doesn't make any sense.”

“EllRay,” Mom says to me from the front seat. “You're not helping.”

“Did that stuff really happen?” I ask Alfie. “You saying other kids' lines?”

I'm pretty sure she's ready to talk now. Getting her to stop up will be the hard part.

“Well, I knowed 'em all, and the other kids didn't,” my sister says. “Not fast enough, anyway. So Miss Nancy said I have to be the
red bird
,” Alfie tells me, almost spitting out the last two words. “Just because I was saying all the lines, and maybe bothering my neighbor. It's so she can keep an eye on me, Miss Nancy says. But I don't
wanna
be the red bird. The red bird comes first, and then she just stands there like—like a
baby
. I wanna be the goldfish and come last.”

“I think you ‘just standing there' is the idea, Alfie,” Mom says. “And it's not up to you. It's up to Miss Nancy,” she adds—from the safety of the front seat, remember.

Thanks, Mom.

“There are nine characters,” Mom continues. “Not counting the teacher and the children in the story. So you're lucky you're in the skit at all, especially after disrupting the rehearsal the way you did.”

“What's a skit?” Alfie asks, starting to get mad all over again.

“It's, like, a little play,” I tell her. “A short one.”

“But this is gonna be a
big
play,” Alfie argues as Mom pulls into the arts and crafts store's shiny black parking lot. “And I'm
not gonna be the red bird
. I'm telling you that much wight now.”

Right now.

“Then close your eyes when we get to the red tissue paper aisle, young lady,” Mom tells her, handing me a ladybug umbrella. Like that's gonna happen. “Because I don't want any unpleasant scenes in the store.”

“Then I'll make a
pleasant
scene,” I hear Alfie mutter once Mom is out of the car.

Uh-oh, part two.

Dad gets home late from work a couple of Wednesday nights each month because of some meeting they have in the geology department of his college. Tonight he has gotten home even later than usual, because rain messed up the traffic.

It's almost my bedtime, and I've been looking at this really cool book Mom let me check out of the library this afternoon. The book is the equipment for my Diego Romero Spare Friend Plan that I'm gonna try to pull off tomorrow at school.

If anyone is still speaking to me, that is.

Dad has just finished eating the dinner Mom heated up for him. But instead of watching the news, he wants to talk to me. I guess I'm the news, tonight.

Uh-oh, part three.

“Come on down to my office, son,” he has just called up the stairs.

About ten maybe-bad things I've done leap into my brain—and also one or two for-sure-bad things. I did them by accident, but what difference does that make to Dad? They still happened.

“Ooh, busted,” Alfie says from her darkened room, as I walk past her partly open door.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” I inform her.

“I'm too angwy to sleep,” she says.

Angry.

“You think you have problems
now
,” I say over my shoulder, because—I'd give anything to have a
Brown Bear, Brown Bear
kind of problem.

Being a red bird instead of a goldfish? Big deal!

Wait until she learns about the
real
world.

“Take a seat, EllRay,” Dad says from behind his desk, which has several large sparkling rocks sitting on it. It's like he's a king sitting on his throne, surrounded by a wall of crystals.

Wait. Those rocks aren't
that
big.

I know I'm in some kind of trouble, though. Mom probably heard about all the stuff that happened today at school but decided to let Dad handle it when he got home.

That must be it.

Things will go better for me if I take the first step, I decide. “Look,” I say to my dad, gripping the arms of my chair like that's going to save me. “Is this about the punishment we got at lunch for making that big mess in the playground during recess? Is that why you wanted to see me? Because we picked it all up. Every scrap of paper.”

Dad looks at me, his head tilted a little.

“No, wait,” I say quickly. “Is this about Iggy getting so scared that he wet his pants? Because we apologized for that. We wrote him twenty-five fancy I'm-sorry letters, with correct spelling and everything. Even though he probably can't even read. Well, twenty-four letters,” I correct myself. “Because one of the girls was absent today. I forget her name.”

Now, Dad's looking a little confused. Like—
Iggy? Iggy who?

So that's not it. “Is this about the Curse of the Mummy Zombie thing?” I babble on, as if my mouth is not connected to my brain in any way. “Because I didn't make up the ‘curse' part, Dad. That was Major's idea. And it wasn't ‘curse' like a swear. I
did
make up the mummy zombie thing, but I had a really good reason. I had
good intentions
,” I add, remembering an expression Dad sometimes uses.

Parents like it when you quote what they say, even though they've already heard it before. Obviously.

By this point, the expression on Dad's face is impossible to read. It almost looks like—like he's about to laugh? But that can't be right.

“Wait. Is this about the toilet paper I took to school?” I ask, using up my last idea. “Because I can pay for it out of my allowance!”

“The
toilet paper
?” Dad echoes. “You'd better just stop talking, son. I only wanted us to catch up a little. We haven't had any time alone together in days. But obviously, there's been a lot going on.” And he leans back in his chair, inspecting me like I'm some surprising new specimen.

What have I done?

“We don't really need to talk,” I jibber-jabber, wishing I could delete the past few minutes from my dad's memory bank. Wipe it clean. “Everything's good. Really! At school, I mean.
And
at home. It's good everywhere, in fact. Good, good, good!”

“Oh, it is, is it?” Dad says, like it's not really a question. “Well, why don't you tell me about the Curse of the Mummy Zombie anyway, son? I could use a good laugh about now. And we can move on to the story about the punishment at school, and then you can tell me about little Izzy's wet pants.”

“Iggy,” I mumble.

“Excuse me?” Dad asks.

“It was
Iggy
who wet his pants,” I say, staring at my bare feet. They look so happy, so innocent! It's as if they're not attached to the rest of miserable me. “He's in the first grade, Dad.”

I'm gonna be here
forever.

And Dad's never going to understand about me needing a new spare friend by Friday, which is sure to come up.

Man, I hope I don't start crying.

But there is no other way out of this tangled-up crystal maze, so I start talking.

11

BABY TALK THURSDAY

“How come the wind always blows after it rains?” I ask my mom. We have just dropped off Alfie at Kreative Learning and Daycare.

It is Thursday, the day after my toilet paper disaster, and the day before Alfie's big show. Wow, I'm glad I'm not Miss Nancy today. Wait—I'm
always
glad I'm not Miss Nancy! But especially today, when she's facing one of the few rehearsals left before tomorrow's
Brown Bear, Brown Bear
disaster.

Alfie is still saying “No way!” to the whole red bird thing.

“Good question about the wind, honey,” Mom says, glancing out the car window at the bending trees and skittering leaves. “You know, I always picture a rainstorm as a beautiful lady sweeping through her castle,” she says. “Maybe the swish of her skirts creates a breeze as it follows her out the door.”

Yeah, right, I think, trying not to make a face. I'll keep that theory to myself, if anyone asks at school. Especially during science this morning.

But that fancy explanation is pure Mom.

I hug my backpack to my chest. Inside is the big library book, wrapped every which way in aluminum foil in case it starts raining again.

I am taking no chances today.

Okay, yes, I am basically sneaking it into school. And that is against the law at our house.

1. Library books are expensive, Mom says. And the librarians work hard ordering them, and getting them ready to be checked out.

2. It is a privilege to borrow library books.

3. That's why you have to pay a fine if you bring them back late.

4. And if you damage or lose a library book, you have to pay for it. It will cost more than if you just went to the store and bought a new one, too, because of all that librarian work.

Am I
asking
for trouble?

No, I am not. I do have a plan, though. I have given up trying to convince Jason Leffer what a great-idea guy I am. Instead, I am now trying for Diego Romero, the kid who likes books. Books about cars.

He
can be my new spare friend.

This library book is perfect for Diego! It's all
about
cars. It has a gold race car on the front, and lots of really cool pictures inside. But it has writing, too. Diego likes writing. We can look at the book during together recess and lunch. I'll just kind of surprise him with it.

And then later, after I invite Diego to Alfie's show tomorrow night, I can teach him some of the fun stuff
I
like to do—like play
Die, Creature, Die
. He will then be the
new-and-improved
Diego Romero.

Once we're friends, I won't be stranded every time Corey goes to swim practice, or Kevin decides to mooch around with his neighbors instead of with me.

“EllRay?” Mom says, giving me a funny look in the rearview mirror.

“Hmm?” I say, still thinking about hanging with Diego at recess, and about him unwrapping the book. I can't wait to see the look on his face!

“We're here,” she tells me. “At school,” she adds, as if I might need more of a clue.

“Okay. Good,” I say, escaping from my seatbelt. I open the car door, get out, and lug my too-heavy backpack after me.
Ugh.
“See ya,” I shout through the car window, waving bye to my mom.

Out on the playground, the girls in my class are acting extra goofy today—as if the beautiful rain lady sweeping her skirts through the castle got
them
all worked up, too. The boys are kind of standing back and watching the girls, for once.

Girls-acting-goofy just happens sometimes—for no known reason. They are like stampeding cattle in a cowboy movie, only smaller. Fads happen a lot with girls, too. In fact, the girls in my class run through fads so fast that by the time you realize one is happening, it's old news—and another fad has taken its place.

Pink Day?
They had that before Christmas. No announcements or anything.

Skipping Day?
Been there, saw that. The girls even tried skipping in class, until Ms. Sanchez said no. She said a few other things, too.

Don't-Say-
“
Boy
”
-Day?
The girls had that one, only nobody noticed until it was almost over. They mostly ignore us boys
every
day, it seems to me.

So what fad is it going to be today?

“Goin' onna fwing, EllWay,” Cynthia says, running toward the swing. There's a pink sweater wrapped around her head.

“Yeah,” Heather says, racing after her. “Goo-goo, gah-gah! Toopid
boy,
” she adds, pointing at me.

At me! What did
I
do?

Today, I mean.

Next to the girls' picnic table, three of them are clustered together, cooing at one another. “You so cute!”

“No,
you
so cute.”

“Widdle babies,” Fiona chimes in, hugging the other two.

The boys are watching this with nauseated expressions on their faces. I join them. “Hey. What's up with them?” I ask, clunking my backpack onto the table.

I'll see if anyone is still talking to me after what happened yesterday.

“Kry says it's
Baby Talk Thursday
,” Kevin reports, frowning. “Only I don't think
she's
doing it much. And Emma and Annie Pat can't decide if they even want to.”

I laugh. “I thought it was
Wear Your Sweater on Your Head Day
,” I say, trying out a joke.

“That's supposed to be a baby hat Cynthia has on,” Kevin says, serious as anything. It's as if he is interpreting the girls to us—like some kind of goofy puzzle-solving scientist.

Kevin is not taking his worried eyes off those girls, in fact.

But me? I'm
relieved
it's
Baby Talk Thursday!
After all, just about every day has to be something if you're in the third grade at Oak Glen Primary School.

Hurt Feelings Day.

Scared About That Test Day.

Emma's Birthday Day.

So if this wasn't
Baby Talk Thursday
, it might be
Thanks a Lot, EllRay! Day.
And everyone would still be mad at me.

But because of the girls, we have officially “moved on,” as Ms. Sanchez would say.

“Aren't you gonna eat anything?” my friend Corey Robinson asks, eyeing my backpack. Corey is always hungry, because of the swimming.

“I guess not until later,” I say. I don't want anyone seeing the library book yet—or even spotting the aluminum foil it is wrapped in. Aluminum foil inside a kid's backpack usually means something yummy is inside the foil.

Like leftover birthday cake!

My mouth starts watering for a turquoise-blue frosting rose.

“Shove over. I want a front row seat for this,” Marco says to me, but in a friendly way. I make room for him on the bench.

Two girls skip by, arm-in-arm. “We fwying, Marco!” one of them calls over her shoulder—as if she's showing off just for him.

“They're frying?” Marco asks, leaning forward like he just missed something.

“I think she said they're
flying
,” Major tells him. “But I don't know for sure.”

“How long are they gonna keep this up?” Diego wonders aloud.

“Probably all day, knowing them,” I say. I try not to sound too overjoyed.

But if the girls
do
act like babies for the entire day, then I'm out of trouble for sure! Because their being babies will soak up all the attention around here. And that's a fact.

It's kind of hard to know how to act around all this baby stuff, though. That's the only bad thing about today so far.

Are we boys supposed to ignore it?

Or go along with it?

Or argue with it?

Or wrap sweatshirts around our own heads and start making fun of it?

“Let's see what Ms. Sanchez has to say,” I tell the other guys at the table. “I have the feeling babies aren't really her thing.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Corey says. “At least not crawling around her classroom, if that's what they've got planned.”

“Yeah,” I agree as the buzzer sounds. And we start for class, dodging a couple of skipping, babbling girl-babies.

Geez
, what a break.

Maybe this is my lucky day!