EllRay Jakes Stands Tall (9 page)

19

TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM

“How did it go with Suzette today? You know, at school?” I ask Alfie later that same afternoon, Monday.

I mean, how did it go at Kreative Learning and Daycare, of course. But lately, Alfie likes us to call it school. I guess she's trying to get used to the idea of kindergarten.

We are curled up at opposite ends of the squashy sofa in our family room. We're eating string cheese and peanut-butter-stuffed celery sticks, our after-school snacks today. Mom is working at her desk.

“It went tewwible,” Alfie says, shredding a strip of the white cheese.

“Terrible.”

“I had to apologize
twice
about my kindergarten party,” she continues.

“Why twice?” I ask. Once would be plenty, believe me—with Suzette Monahan.

“Suzette lied and said she didn't hear me the first time,” Alfie explains. “Only now she's getting even.”

More payback. Maybe my family is doomed! “How?” I ask. “What's she doing to you now?”

“Having a sleepover. Only I don't get to come,” Alfie says, and her chin wobbles a little.

Whoa.
My sister is clouding up. Tears fill her eyes.

“But Alf,” I say, trying to think of something, quick. “You don't even
like
sleepovers. Remember before Christmas, that sleepover at Arletty's? Dad had to come get you in the middle of the night, you were crying so hard. Mom said you were too young even to have tried it. She said it was a bad idea from the start.”

“I only cried because Arletty's dinner tasted weird,” Alfie says, defending herself. “They had funny chicken with gween stuff on it. And I cried because Arletty's mom wouldn't leave the light on in the closet when we went to bed. And Mona fweaked.”

Freaked.
“Dad told us you're the one who was scared,” I say, not looking at her.

“
Anyway
, I don't get to go to Suzette's,” Alfie says, giving me a look.

“Are you sure it's even a real sleepover?” I ask. “Maybe she's just punking you, Alf. Like you tried to do to her. You know, with that fake party last week.”

“It's a sleepover, all wight,” she says, nodding her head.

All right.

“And Suzette's gonna get away with it,” Alfie continues. “There's nothing I can do.”

“But how is that fair?” I ask. “How come you—”

“Because sleepovers are different from other parties,” Alfie says, interrupting me. “They
have
to be smaller. You can invite who you want. So I can't even tell on Suzette.”

“Would you tell on her if you could?” I ask, curious to know the answer. “So you could get even with her? For getting even with you?”

“Maybe,” Alfie admits. “I dunno. I get mixed up about who started things. But I'm pretty sure it was Suzette.”

“And anyway,” I say, pretending to agree with her, “like you said, it sounds like there's nothing you can do about it. That's the thing.”

Just like there's nothing I can do about being too short to dunk a basketball—or maybe shoot any kind of basket. Even a layup, and layups are probably the simplest shot to make. At least I can't do it while I'm still on that moving sidewalk Dad was telling me about. The one where
you don't grow on the outside for a while.

I have no way of standing out. Or of standing tall.

“There's
something
I can do about it,” Alfie says. “I can be sad all Fwiday night.”

“That's when the sleepover is?” I ask.

Alfie nods. “They'll have the best time
ever,
that's all,” she adds. “And they'll be talking about it all this week.
Blah-blah-blah
,” she says, imitating them in advance.

“And you and I will be here at home, warming the bench on Friday night,” I say. I'm trying to let her know she's not alone. She'll have company, at least.

“Warming
what
bench?” Alfie asks, scowling again.

“That's just an expression,” I hurry to explain, before her chin starts wobbling again. “
Benchwarmer
. That's somebody who doesn't get to play in the game.”

Meet EllRay Jakes.

“Or go to the sleepover,” Alfie says. “Suzette's a
bully,
that's all.”

I think about it for a second. “I don't know about
that,” I finally say. “You and Suzette are sort of the same, Alfie—the same age, and almost the same size. And your fights have always been one-against-one. You guys are even.”

“Whose side are you on?” Alfie asks, jumping to her feet so fast that a stalk of peanut-butter-stuffed celery lands sticky-side-down on one of Mom's throw pillows.

“I'm on your side,” I tell her. “I'm just saying that you calling Suzette a bully isn't gonna fly, that's all. Not after that trick you played on her last week.”

“You're on
her side
,” Alfie says, furious. “And you're my brother!”

“I'm not on Suzette's side,” I say, hoping to calm her down. “Is Suzette being mean to you, not inviting you to her sleepover? And mean to the other girls she didn't invite? Yeah. Maybe she is. But is there anything you can do about it? Not really, no matter who you tell. It will be over in a few days, though. Sometimes you just have to wait it out.”

I feel like I'm coaching Alfie now!
Hup, hup.

“A few
long
days,” Alfie corrects me. “With Suzette going
‘ha, ha, ha'
the whole time.” She sighs, imagining it.

“Just go
‘ha, ha, ha'
right back at her. And then it will be over,” I say again.

Alfie's sleepover disaster will be over—just like the whole choosing-teams thing was over when recess ended today. And I'm still short, but us guys can have fun again on Wednesday morning, learning pre-basketball with Coach.

“So I have to be a benchwarmer
all week
, while they get to talk about how much fun they're gonna have?” Alfie asks, trying to get it straight.

“Yep,” I say, thinking, So will I, maybe. And for longer than a week. “But you're pretty tough, Alf,” I say, trying to encourage her. “And the good thing about being a benchwarmer is that you're still in the game, see,” I explain. “You're just waiting for your chance to play. And that time will come.”

“And plus, I'll get to sleep at home Fwiday night,” Alfie says, her expression brightening. “Not in someone else's scary woom.”

Room. “
Maybe we can even do something fun on Friday night,” I say, hoping to make her feel better. “You and me, Alf. Like play a board game or something.”

This is a big sacrifice on my part. With Alfie,
board games usually end with all the pieces flying through the air when she starts to lose.

“Can we play that candy game, or the one with the ladders?” Alfie asks, already excited.

“Sure,” I say, hiding my sigh.

I'm taking one for the team, yo.

“Okay,” she says, sounding a little happier, at least. “Will you help me clean off this pillow, EllWay? Because someone spilled peanut butter all over it.”

“Someone did?” I ask, smiling. “Sure. I'll help,” I say. “But then I gotta go do my homework, Alf.”

It's subtraction word problems tonight.
Woo-hoo.

“Homework sounds scary,” Alfie says, her voice turning small. “Will I have to do homework when I'm in kindergarten?”

“Nuh-uh,”
I tell her. “Why?” I ask. “Is that what you're worried about?”

“Kinda,” Alfie admits. “And not knowing what schools my friends are gonna be going to. So I thought we could start practicing at the party—and be together
now
, at least.” Her brown eyes are wide and shiny again with tears that are about to fall.

“Well, I could help out a little,” I say, hiding
another sigh—because of course I would rather play
Die, Creature, Die
than teach Alfie how to sharpen pencils and snap the lids on to her markers right. Who wouldn't? “We could play pretend kindergarten,” I say.

“Weally?” she asks, blinking.

Really. “
Sure,” I tell her. “If it would make you feel better about changing schools. Only you can't tell anyone, okay?” I add, thinking of the teasing that might happen at Oak Glen Primary School if word got out that I was playing kindergarten with my little sister.

Alfie presses her lips together until they disappear, and she makes an X across them with a peanut-buttery finger. “
I pwomise,
” she manages to say out of the corner of her mouth.

“It's a deal, then,” I say. “We'll start on Friday night, while we're warming that bench.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” I say, standing up—because I have to get started on those subtraction word problems, don't I?

They're not gonna solve themselves!

20

"BEEF"

“Woo!”
I say, slapping Corey's palm in a high-five. We thought Wednesday morning recess—and our pre-basketball session with Coach—would never happen, but now it's here.

Corey's probably a little bit happier about recess than I am, since he's not the one who was threatened with “payback, dude,” by Jared the Hulk, or who got made fun of by Stanley for being so short.

But at least it's recess.

“Line up,” Coach shouts as we pour onto the playground. Coach is nearer one of the baskets today than he was on Monday. He looks bigger than ever. “Now, now!” he says, tossing us balls as we trot to our places. “Remember your stance, and keep those balls moving,” he tells us. “Pivot in
both directions
, too, or else you're just going around in a circle,” he
adds, making a face. “Remember, you've got two hands and two feet.
Use
'em.”

“When do we get to
play basketball
?” Jared mumble-says, complaining just loud enough for Coach to hear.

“When you're ten,” Coach says. “Until then, it's pre-basketball. Pretend you're the sorcerer's apprentice, buddy—and I'm the sorcerer. You'll be ready for the real thing later on—if you keep your eyes and ears open
now.
And
if
you keep practicing.”

Jared catches my eye, and of course he passes his embarrassment on to me. “
Payback
,” he mouths without making any noise.

Like I've forgotten!

Kry is dribbling away like crazy, with her ball really low to the ground. It keeps bouncing back to her fingertips like there are invisible elastic strings attached. I try to dribble like that, but after a few bounces, Stanley kicks my ball away with a sideswipe move he could never pull off on the soccer field.

Lucky kick—for
him.

“Boing, boing
, boing,”
he teases quietly, making bouncy trampoline noises.

Because I'm so short, remember?

Oops! Coach saw that sideswipe kick. “Stanley,” he says, barking out the name. “One lap. And when Stanley comes back, boys and girls, we're going to try some layups,” he tells the rest of us as Stanley goes chugging off.

“Do ‘layups' mean we get to take a nap?” I hear Annie Pat ask Emma. She sounds hopeful.

“Probably not,” Emma says, panting a little as she tries to keep control of her ball—which seems to have its own idea of where to bounce. It's the opposite of Kry's ball, that's for sure.

1. My pivot and dribble skills are somewhere in between Kry's and Emma's.

2. I'm also worse at pivoting and dribbling than Corey and Kevin.

3. I'm about the same as Major.

4. But I'm a little better than Jason and Jared—and Marco, who is barely even trying today. I'm better than they are in the skills we've learned so far, anyway. Not in size.

It's like there are comparison charts—about
everything
—that are always in my brain.

“
Hup, hup
,” Coach says as Stanley comes gasping back to us. “Time for some layups, then we'll have a huddle.”

Diego's hand shoots up. “Isn't ‘huddle' a football word?” he asks, curious.

“Basketball, too,” Coach says. “Okay, layups. They're the most basic shot in basketball, guys. You use
one hand
to shoot the ball, left or right. Like I said before, I want you to use both hands equally well. That could win you the game someday. But you're going to use your right hands today. You'll try to bounce the ball off the backboard, if you can get it up that high. Your goal is for the ball to then go down through the basket. The backboard's your
helper
. And a layup can be a thing of beauty. Watch this,” he tells us. “I'll show you.”

And Coach heads toward the basket, dribbling his ball all the way perfectly, of course. When he gets there, he jumps off his left foot, and he uses his right hand to toss the ball against the backboard. His hand looks totally relaxed in the air, and his arm stays up there after he's thrown the ball.

Whoosh!

Bounce-off-the-backboard, basket.

So cool.

“You're using your elbow, forearm, and wrist to shoot,” Coach says, dribbling the ball back to us.

“What's a forearm?” Kevin asks Jared, looking worried. “I only got two.”

“He means from the elbow down,” Diego says, showing him.

“So, now,” Coach tells us, “I want you to dribble down the court with your
right hand
, then try to shoot a layup when you get near the basket. We'll try the other hand tomorrow.”

Me?
Hit the backboard?

Throwing the ball the correct way?

Man, I am gonna be so bad at this. I can feel my whole head get hot just thinking about it.

“Don't even worry about making a basket,” Coach tells us, like he can read my mind. “You're just getting used to a series of moves. Okay—Jared, Kry, and Corey. Now!”

And off they go, dribbling.

“Right-hand dribbles only, for now,” Coach yells. He hollers a reminder. “And jump off your left foot! Shoot with your right arm! Elbows, forearms, and
wrists, people. You're not flinging eggs against a wall.”

Which sounds like complete and total fun. Let's do that!

“Grab those balls and head on home to me,” Coach tells the first three kids. “And get ready—EllRay, Kevin, and Marco. Go! Right-hand dribbles!”

Bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce.

Stop.

Jump left foot, shoot right arm.

And—
ploop!
My basketball makes a puny curve through the air, hits the ground, and then goes rolling off on a little field trip of its own. Toward the chain-link fence.

“Good form, EllRay,” Coach shouts. And he's not even being sarcastic! “You got it pretty far up there, Kevin,” he says to my sometimes-friend. “Too much shoulder, Marco. But good effort, buddy. Now, layups are something you can practice on your own, people—if you manage to snag a ball at recess. But huddle up. There's something I want to tell you before the buzzer sounds. It's ‘
BEEF
,'” he says as we gather around.

Beef?
I'm all for it. Especially hamburgers.

“The letters stand for four words I want you to remember when you try to shoot a basket,” Coach explains. “‘B' is for
balance
,” he begins. “One foot in front of the other.”

We shuffle our feet a little, trying it out.

“‘E' is for
eyes on the target
. Not eyes on the ball,” Coach continues. “Keep that in mind no matter what you do in life.”

Okay.
That's
not confusing.

“The second ‘E' is for
elbows
,” Coach tells us. “Keep them down, right beneath the hand that's going to throw the ball. No flappy chicken wings allowed,” he says, demonstrating.

Of course, this sets off a flurry of chicken wing flapping, which Coach ignores.

“And ‘F' is for
follow-through
,” he says. “You keep that arm
up there
after you throw, like it's still doing its business. You don't waggle your arm around while the ball is still in the air. Let that ball know you care. Commit!”

I care! I care!

But—
“BEEF.”
I'll never remember what those letters stand for, I think, frowning. Not that
and
how to do subtraction word problems, understand negative numbers, and memorize random, goofy plurals.

Not to mention trying to figure out how to watch out for Alfie, so she doesn't turn into the world's tiniest bully again.

And worrying about poor old peace-and-quiet Marco.

And guarding against payback.

My brain is already full, yo.

“Got that?” Coach shouts as the buzzer sounds.

“Got it,” we yell back.

And I just hope somebody means it.

Because then maybe they can explain it to me.