Ellray Jakes the Dragon Slayer (11 page)

Suzette!
That little green tattletale
.

“So. I just got off the phone with Mr. Washington,” Dad tells me.

“
George
Washington?” I ask, really amazed for part of one second.

I don’t know what makes me say “George Washington.” It’s probably because we have been learning the presidents. Also, Dad surprised me with his announcement. I thought we were going to be talking about Suzette Monahan!

“Don’t try to be funny with me, Lancelot Raymond Jakes,” my father says, his eyebrows lowering. Never a good sign.

Okay. Lancelot Raymond is my real name, which is obviously why I changed it to EllRay as soon as I could talk.

First, it was L-period-Ray for short, but now, it’s just plain EllRay.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I tell Dad, my voice shaking. “That just kind of popped out. But—who’s Mr. Washington?”

“Stanley’s father?” my dad says, making his answer a question. “Stanley Washington, from your
third grade class at Oak Glen Primary School?
That
Mr. Washington? I was mortified.”

“Mortified” means embarrassed plus ashamed, Dad explained to me once.

Ashamed. That’s the
opposite
of proud, which is what I have been aiming for with my dad.

Good job, EllRay!

“But why would Mr. Washington call
you
?” I ask, still confused.

My dad looks at me in silence for a few seconds before he speaks. “How you can ask me that question after bullying his son Stanley is beyond me, EllRay. Why did you do it, son?”

Okay. My dad and I have now entered the mirror land of opposites. We are officially “over there,” to use Alfie’s term for being on the other side of the mirror.

Because—me, bully Stanley? It’s more the other way around! Not that Stanley actually
bullies
me. Not like on TV specials or in the movies, and not even the way Suzette has been being mean to Alfie at Kreative Learning. Stanley and I don’t like each other much lately, but that’s about it.

My face is getting hot, I’m so angry.

Did Dad even ask me if I bullied Stanley? No. He asked
why
I did it.

“I never bullied anyone,” I tell my father. “I
fight
bullies. I battle them. But you believe a stranger on the phone the minute he says something bad about me? Just because he’s a
grown-up
?”

For the first time since I sat down, I see doubt in my father’s eyes. “You’re saying this didn’t happen?” he asks. “That you didn’t deliberately break Stanley’s eyeglasses? And that you haven’t been going after that poor kid for weeks, just for the heck of it? Because that’s what Stanley told his father.”

That poor kid?
Poor, nearly-twice-as-big-as-me, name-calling, sarcastic Stanley?

DOINK! DOINK! DOINK!
I can still hear Stanley saying that when Ms. Sanchez called on me in class that time when I wasn’t paying attention.

He loves making me look bad in front of everyone!

And calling my little sister “Waffle?”
Hello?

“No, I did not do any of those things!” I tell my dad, my heart thudding hard in my chicken-bone chest. “I don’t know why, but he’s lying. Well, except
I did break his glasses,” I admit, since someone must have seen me do it.

Someone besides Kevin, I mean. Because Kevin wouldn’t tell on me.

But I wasn’t
bullying
Stanley, I was getting even. There’s a difference.

“So, you broke his eyeglasses,” Dad says, latching onto that one bad thing.

“But it happened totally by accident,” I say, stretching the truth a little. “
Almost
totally. We were playing dodgeball, see. We were all goofing around. Playing!” Yeah, okay. I aimed at Stanley. But like I already said, I’m not that good a shot.

“I’m sorry if I jumped to any conclusions, son,” Dad says, staring at me with his dark brown eyes. “Maybe my surprise at receiving the call got the better of me. And my pride was hurt, hearing him say those things about you. You’re my
son
. But eyeglasses don’t grow on trees, you know. They can be very expensive.”

“Stanley has another pair, Dad. Ms. Sanchez said so,” I tell my father, knowing one second later that it was the wrong thing to say.

“That’s beside the point,” Dad says, shaking his
head. “The eyeglasses you broke were his newest prescription.”

“Prescription?” I ask, confused. “Like for pills?”

“Like for pills,” he says, nodding.

“But it was the
kickball
that broke Stanley’s glasses, not me,” I argue, again knowing at once that I’ve made another mistake.

Never try to argue with Dr. Warren Jakes. That’s my advice to you.

“The big issue here is the alleged
bullying
, not the eyeglasses,” Dad informs me, leaning back in his special desk chair and folding his arms across his chest. “Which is why Stanley Washington and his father are coming over to the house.”

“When?” I ask, wondering how long it takes, and how much money it costs, for an eight-year-old kid to hire a lawyer.

Because
my own father
sure isn’t sticking up for me.

“Tonight,” Dad says. “In fact, they should be here any minute. Stanley’s father very generously said he thought we should try to straighten this bullying thing out ourselves, before dragging the school into it. But if Stanley has been lying, we
can get to the bottom of that, tonight, too.”

Huh. Fat chance, I tell myself. Because if there’s one thing Stanley Washington does not do, it is back down. I think Jared taught him that special skill. Stanley went four whole days once, saying that lima beans could grow in your stomach. And he still thinks hummingbirds die if they stop flying, even for a second. And I’ve
seen
them just sitting around.

“But what if Stanley keeps on lying?” I ask my dad, a hopeless feeling settling into my own lima bean–free stomach. “Are you gonna believe him, and not me? Just because he’s a
stranger
?”

“Simmer down, son,” Dad says. “We’ll sort this out, I promise. But at the very least, you’re going to have to pay for a new pair of eyeglasses for Stanley. Out of your allowance, EllRay—if it takes all year long.”

“Why?”
I ask.

“Because you’re the one who broke them. You admitted it.”

“It was an accident!” I say again. “At
recess
!”

There is a soft
KNOCK KNOCK
at Dad’s office door. “Warren?” my mom says, peeking in. Her
acorn-brown eyes are filled with concern, and I wish I could run to her for protection, or for a hug, at least. She believes in me no matter what. “Stanley Washington and his father are here to see you. Stanley’s dad says you’re expecting them?”

“We are,” Dad says, including me in those two words. “I’ll fill you in later, Louise,” he adds, giving my mom a look that says,
Don’t worry. It’ll be all right
.

I wish he’d give
me
that look!

But oh, no. He’s too busy believing a couple of strangers—and being
mortified
by me, his own son.

When all I ever wanted was to make him proud.

16

“Please sit down. Make yourselves comfortable,” Dad tells Mr. Washington and Stanley after a few silent moments. We have been standing in our living room like penguins, each of us rocking back and forth in his own spot.

It’s like we’re in a play, only nobody knows his lines.

I’ve never been in this much trouble before, that’s the thing.

I guess Alfie has been hustled off to the family room. I can hear Itty Bitty Kitties singing their lame theme song.

Man, I wish I was in there with her.

Stanley won’t look at me. He is squinting behind a pair of glasses that look too small for his big, floppy-haired head.

“Louise is making us some cocoa,” Dad says,
pointing out chairs and sofas where Stanley and his dad can sit.

“Dude,” Stanley whispers really fast, when his dad and my dad are finally next to each other on the sofa, busy making room on the low table in front of them for Mom’s cocoa. “Sorry I lied about you breaking my glasses, but my dad blew up big-time when he heard I wrecked them again,” he says. “And so I made up a bunch of stuff about how you’ve been going after me for a long time at school. You know, to get him off my back. So just go along with it, okay?”

“
What?
” I whisper back. “Go along with it? Are you kidding me?”

So, Stanley thinks he made the whole thing up! He doesn’t know I really did it!

And I confessed to Dad about breaking Stanley’s glasses when I didn’t have to!

But I can kind of see why Stanley’s afraid of his dad. Stanley’s father is one of those big, smiley guys with not-smiling eyes who look like they’re about to explode at any minute, still grinning away. I saw a bad guy like that once in a scary movie.

Mr. Washington is wearing a plaid shirt, too, like the kind Stanley always wears to school when it’s cold out. I guess plaid runs in their family.

My dad doesn’t look the slightest bit scared of Mr. Washington, I’m glad to say. Dad doesn’t even look gloomy, like a guy who’s about to be forced to apologize for something bad his doofus son did. Instead, he looks friendly and businesslike, like he called this meeting himself for some whole other reason.

“Let’s wait for the cocoa to come before we begin,” Dad says, being the boss. Stanley chooses a
chair, then I take one as far away from him as possible.

While we’re waiting, Dad looks from me to Stanley, then back at me again. Then, so does Mr. Washington, as if my dad’s magnetic gaze has made him do the same thing.

There’s me, with my skinny legs swinging because they don’t reach the floor.

DOINK! DOINK! DOINK!

And there’s big, hulking Stanley slumped in his chair like a boxer resting in his corner between rounds. Somehow he is managing to fidget at the same time that he’s slumping, and one huge, sneakered foot is kicking at the chair leg.

And I feel embarrassed, because—maybe Dad didn’t know I was such a pipsqueak until he saw me next to Stanley with his very own eyes!

My dad should see Jared, if he thinks
Stanley’s
big.

It’s not like I’m an elf and Stanley’s a giant. It’s not
that
huge a difference, but I think Mr. Washington is getting the silent point my dad is probably trying to make.

That is, I’m not exactly bully material.

Uh-oh. I hope Stanley’s not gonna get it when they go home.

I’m glad Mom can’t see him kicking her chair, though. It’s one of her favorites.

Yes, ladies have favorite chairs.

My
favorite chair is any place I can sit and eat a messy snack like nachos or pizza without getting yelled at.

“You okay over there, little guy?” Dad asks me, smiling.

“I’m fine,” I peep, going along with it.

He has never called me “little guy” before, but he is obviously trying to strengthen his point.

Mom comes into the living room carrying a tray with four steaming cups of cocoa on it. And even though this is a terrible night, my mouth starts to water—because my mom makes really great cocoa. She doesn’t use instant powder or anything, that’s how good she is. She just
makes
it. I don’t know how.