EllRay Jakes The Recess King! (10 page)

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 Schoo
l?” 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 remind 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.