EllRay Jakes Stands Tall (3 page)

5

TACO NIGHT!

“Oh boy,” my little sister says, climbing up on a kitchen chair to watch Mom grate cheese. Alfie's three soft, puffy braids seem to be standing at attention, she's so excited.

Wednesday night is taco night at our house. Taco night! My favorite.

I don't know why we can't have foods kids like for dinner
every
night. Foods such as hamburgers, pizza, spaghetti and meatballs, grilled cheese sandwiches, corn-dogs, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. That, plus tacos, equals seven dinners. And there are seven nights in the week.

What would be so wrong about that?

Dad got home from his geology field trip late this morning, when I was at school. He's in the shower
now, after taking a long afternoon nap. So we're all home together again. I like that feeling. It's just right, like finishing a jigsaw puzzle.

I am doing my homework at the kitchen table tonight, just in case any spoonfuls of taco meat need tasting, or there's a chunk of cheese left over after the grating. “Can I help?” Alfie asks Mom.

“The grater is too sharp for your precious little fingers,” Mom says. “But you can fluff up the shredded lettuce, Alfie, if your hands are clean.”

“Of course they're clean,” Alfie says, insulted. “I'm not some
boy
.”

“Hey,” I object from the kitchen table. “That's not fair. Boys don't have dirty hands. Not all the time. And don't let her wreck the lettuce, Mom.”

I have been looking forward to this dinner all day.

“Boys have dirty hands at
my
school, EllWay,” Alfie says, fluffing away. “Like Scooter Davis,” she adds. Lettuce is flying all over the counter.

“EllWay” is “EllRay” in Alfie-speak. And I guess Scooter is a new kid in Alfie's daycare. I haven't heard her talk about him before, anyway.

“No boys are coming to my kindergarten party,”
Alfie adds under her breath. “But we're gonna have tacos, and cupcakes, and pink punch with floating cherries. And the best goodie bags in the world. And it's gonna be
here
.”

“What kindergarten party?” Mom asks. “You're still in preschool, sweetie-pie. And try to keep the lettuce in the bowl.”

But Mom never really gets mad about spills and stuff like that. She's more of a big-deal kind of mom, like when I get a “Needs Improvement” note on a progress report, or when Alfie loses her sneakers in the library.

My dad's like that, too—only more so. I mean, he gets worked up a little faster.

“What party, Alfie?” Mom asks again, stirring a packet of taco seasoning powder into the sizzling meat, and then sloshing in a little water from the teakettle sitting on the stove. “What party?” she says for the third time, but in a cooler tone of voice. Mom turns to face Alfie, who is chewing on a shred of lettuce the size of a blade of grass. Alfie points to her mouth, as if showing how busy it is. Too busy for talking.

And, “No talking when you're chewing.” That's one of Mom's rules.

Alfie finally swallows, in a fakey kind of way. “I just meant if we ever
gave
a party,” she explains, changing her story as she goes along. “Like a kindergarten party. You know,” she says. “To practice for starting primary school next year so we won't look like babies. It would be mostly for my friends, because they're so worried about it,” she adds, like her kindness will win Mom over.

Alfie has three main friends at Kreative Learning and Daycare. Suzette Monahan, Arletty, and Mona. The three of them always seem to be either celebrating, feuding, or plotting how to get even for something. It's hard to keep track.

The point is, their feelings are just like regular, older people's feelings—but looked at under one of Dad's science microscopes. Every little thing becomes
huge
.

What is Alfie up to now?

“You're having a Valentine's Day party at daycare,” Mom says, as if Alfie needs reminding. She already has her outfit all planned. “And your birthday
party was last June,” Mom continues. “Remember the bouncy castle? So don't go getting your hopes up about having another party anytime soon, lovie. Not here. Your dad's going to be extra busy for a month or two, and I have a deadline coming up.”

My mom writes books for grown-up ladies about the days when people were named Alfleta and Lancelot.

Yes, Lancelot Raymond Jakes is my real name. But I changed it to EllRay as soon as I could talk.

“What-
ever
,” Alfie says, shrugging in a sulky way as she stares down at the lettuce bowl, which looks like it just erupted on the counter.

I've heard Suzette say “what-
ever
” before. And our babysitter says it, too, when she's talking on her cell. That's probably where Alfie got it.

Mom's eyes narrow, and one hand parks itself on her hip. “You know I don't care for that expression, Miss Alfie,” she says in a voice that has turned a tiny bit scary. “It's disrespectful. And you are not some reality show teenager who doesn't know any better.”

Alfie—who can be kind of a drama queen, or a drama princess, at least—sighs.

But she doesn't say “what-
ever
” again.

“The lettuce looks fine,” Mom says in a fake-cheerful voice, trying to get things back to where they were a few minutes ago. “Put it in the fridge, would you, EllRay?”

“Yeah,” Alfie mumbles, taking it out on me. “Put it in the fwidge, EllWay. I
command
you.”

“
Mom
,” I object.

But after one look at Mom's face, I get up and put the bowl of shredded lettuce in the fridge, ignoring my little sister in a big way the whole time.

If she wants to be a pain, let her.

I'm not gonna let it ruin taco night, that's for sure!

6

NEGATIVE NUMBERS

A couple of hours later, Dad pokes his head into my room just before bedtime. “Your little sister wants to talk to you, son,” he tells me. “She says it's urgent.”

“I thought she was already asleep,” I say, stretching.

Bath-time, story time, and bedtime are such big deals with Alfie each night that our entire family gets worn out. Well, everyone except Alfie.

It was never like that when I was her age. Even Mom says so. I would just sneak a small car or action figure to bed with me and whisper to it until I fell asleep.

Alfie's more “high maintenance,” my dad says.

That's a fancy way of saying spoiled, in my opinion. No offense to Alfie, except she makes it such a big deal when she doesn't get her way that we
all cave in. But she didn't spoil
herself
, even Mom sometimes says.

When Alfie is under the covers at last, it's as if Mom, Dad, and I are very hard workers who have finally been allowed to take a break. Or maybe we're like the grown-ups at Oak Glen Primary School when they slip into the Teachers' Lounge.

I was all relaxed until Dad said Alfie wants to talk to me. Well, as relaxed as a person can be when he is supposed to be “comparing negative numbers” for math homework.

Yes, that's a real thing.

And I have learned how to do it, even though it doesn't make any sense.

That's what a lot of school is like, if you ask me.

“Do I
have
to talk to Alfie?” I ask Dad. “I already played horsie with her for ten minutes after her bath. And I'm kind of busy here,” I tell him, ruffling my worksheet a little. “Negative numbers,” I add, like they're piling up fast—in an invisible empty bucket, maybe.

“Better just get it over with,” he advises, shaking his head. “This situation is not going away.”

“So what's up?” I ask, padding barefoot into Alfie's pink-and-purple bedroom, now lit only by a glowing sparkly plastic flower that my mom plugged into an outlet on the wall.

Alfie is sitting up in bed, pillows all over the place. “Shh,” she whispers, peering at the door, as if Mom and Dad might be hiding behind it, trying to get in on this.

Mm-hmm.

“Close the door, EllWay,” my sister says. “I have to tell you something important. It's about my kindergarten party.”

“Which you're not having,” I remind her. But I take a seat at the very end of her bed—between a couple of stuffed animals. A unicorn and a dolphin.

Alfie thinks unicorns are real and dolphins aren't real, by the way. Just to give you some idea of the way her brain works.

“And I don't even want a party,” Alfie says. “Not
here,
even though I do wanna start practicing for being a kindergarten girl. But I don't like parties at
home. You know that! Because at parties, I have to share my toys.”

It's true. That's one of our mom's rules—though she lets us put a couple of toys away before kids come over, if we really need to. But just one or two things.

“I like parties to be at school,” Alfie explains. “Or at the pizza place. Or at the movies. Not here.”

“So why are you bugging Mom and Dad to let you have a party here?” I ask.

“Because this is where it would have to be,” Alfie says, as if she is giving me a good explanation. “I already told Suzette she can't come! And that means she will never be able to play with my new horsie barn. But you can't tell Mom the part about Suzette and the horsie barn. That's our deal.”

It's true. We keep each other's secrets. We are on the same team.

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand. “You want to have a party here, at home, where you don't even like having parties—just so Suzette Monahan can't come to it?”

Alfie nods. “And I already
told
her she can't
come. So she will never, ever be able to play with my new horsie barn,” she explains once more. “
Or
get the best goodie bag ever.
Or
get to pretend she's in kindergarten. And it serves her wight.”

“Right.”

I skip over a few of the obvious things wrong with Alfie's plan, such as the fact that she doesn't even
have
a new barn yet for her plastic horses, she just wants one. And there aren't any goodie bags lying around the house—because there isn't going to
be
a party, whether Alfie wants one or not.

Which she doesn't, not really.

But instead of pointing out these obvious flaws in her plan, I ask my sister a question. “Why did you tell Suzette she can't come to your party?”

“To be mean to her before she's mean to me,” Alfie explains.

Like,
“Duh.”

“I decided it on Monday,” she adds, as if that's why it makes sense.

I think for a few seconds, trying to figure out whether or not this is a good example of negative numbers in action.

1. Take one party that is not going to happen—here or anywhere.

2. Subtract one little girl, Suzette, who is not invited to come to that party.

3. Then, whatever happens, do not allow Suzette to play with the plastic horse barn we don't even own.

4. Finally, take away the best goodie bag ever, one that does not yet exist.

5. And do all these mean things so Suzette can't be mean to Alfie first.

“Has Suzette been mean to you at daycare?” I ask, frowning. Because Suzette Monahan can be mean. Bossy, anyway. And not only at daycare! The first time she came over to our house for a play date last fall, Suzette told my mom they had to go to McDonald's when it was snack time.

And Mom had made cookies and everything!

There was lots of noise when Mom said no to Suzette, too. In fact, when she's talking about Alfie's friends to Dad, Mom secretly calls Suzette “Uproar Girl.” I've heard her say it.

“Suzette hasn't been mean
lately
,” Alfie admits,
scowling in the gloom. “Not to me. But she's gonna try to boss me around next year . . . I just know it. But if you're mean to people before they can be mean to you, then they can't be mean to you first. Because you already did it. And then maybe she'll leave me alone in kindergarten.”

Like—
ta-da!

“But—but that's just wrong, Alfie,” I sputter. “And maybe it's the same thing as being a bully,” I add, already knowing she won't get what I'm trying to say.

Alfie thinks she is making perfect sense.

And that unicorns are real.

“Suzette's the bully,” Alfie informs me.

“Maybe
usually
she is. A little bit, at least,” I half-agree. “But this time, you're kind of the one who's being the—”

“
She's
the bully,” Alfie insists. “And I'm the nice one. And you're the brother of the nice one. And you're gonna get Mom and Dad to have my kindergarten party here at our house, because—”

“Because you already told Suzette she can't come,” I say, finishing her sentence.

“So she can't be mean to me first,” Alfie says, correcting me.

Correcting me being one of her favorite things to do.

“I'm sorry to tell you this,” I tell my elf-like little sister, who is in danger of turning into a preschool thug. “But your kindergarten party is flat-out not gonna happen.”

“For reals?” Alfie asks, her eyes wide.

“Mom already told you,” I remind her. “Sorry, Alf.”

“But don't tell Mom about Suzette, okay?” she says. “Because that's my secret—with you.”

This, on top of my own problems.

Lucky me!