Ellray Jakes the Dragon Slayer (12 page)

Dad jumps to his feet to help with the tray. “You’d like to join us, wouldn’t you?” he asks my mom, in spite of the fact that there are only four cups of cocoa on the tray, not five.

“Oh, I think I’ll just go keep Alfie company for a while,” Mom says. “And then it’ll be time for her bath.”

And she hurries out of the room. Not that I blame her.

“Alfie is EllRay’s little sister,” Stanley informs his smiley-scary father. “She’s only four years old. EllRay says that sometimes, it’s
hard
being a big brother. He has to teach her stuff.”

That’s all from my personal narrative, of course, because I never told Stanley anything about my life. Why would I?

But—who knew he was paying that much attention?

Stanley’s dad gives him a look. “Thanks for the info,” he says, not sounding like he means it. “Now, come get your cocoa, Stanley—if you can manage not to spill it all over the place.”

I think that Mr. Washington—“Plaid Dad,” I’ve started calling him in my head—has already shifted over to our side, he seems so irked with Stanley. I guess he has figured out the truth, or at least some of it.

It’s like Plaid Dad came into our house with an
invisible army behind him, he was so much in the right, but now the army is standing behind my dad.

And I think big liar Stanley really
is
about to splash cocoa all over the place, because his hands are shaking.

I actually feel sorry for him
.

“I
did
break Stanley’s glasses when we were playing,” I announce in a too-loud voice that surprises even me, and probably my dad, too. “It was an accident,” I say, “but I’m sorry anyway. And I’ll pay him back for a brand-new pair of glasses—out of my own money,” I add, those last words almost choking me.

Because it’s not like I get some huge allowance or anything.

Stanley just gapes at me.

For all he knows, I confessed to this whole thing just to save his sorry bootie from the wrath of Plaid Dad.

Maybe I’ll be Stanley’s hero, now! That would be weird. Fun, but weird.

“Actually,” my dad says to Plaid Dad, “I’ll write you a check for the glasses when you know what the new pair will cost. And then EllRay will pay
me
back, bit by bit. And again, he’s very sorry.”

Stanley takes a noisy slurp of cocoa, then puts down his cup on a small table with a bang. He is staring at me with admiring eyes that are saying
thank-you-thank-you-thank-you
. “Dude,” he says in a quiet, respectful voice.

He must think I’m handing over my allowance just to get him out of trouble!

“Well, thanks for that,” Plaid Dad says, like he’s sorry to have to surrender the words. “I’m guessing that Stanley may have exaggerated the rest of his story. You know, about being bullied for weeks by EllRay, over there,” he adds probably hating to give up those words, too.

“I guess. Maybe,” Stanley mumbles from across the room.

“It’s easy to get carried away when you’re trying to explain something,” Dad says, trying to give Stanley a way out. “But my son is no bully.”

“Obviously,” Plaid Dad says with a chuckle, looking me up and down.

Wait.
Obviously?

Dad clears his throat and sets his cup on the table in a careful way that tells me he’s about to
lose it. This is something that hardly ever happens.

He does not want anyone insulting me, or even my size
.

He
is
proud of me, especially now that he knows the truth!

“I think we’ve just about covered everything,” Dad says, standing up. Probably only I can hear how tight his voice has gotten, which is another bad sign with him.

And, as if my dad has made them do it, Stanley and his father stand up too, despite their almost-full cups of cocoa. “We’ll be leaving, I guess,” Plaid Dad says, looking around for his jacket.

“It’s in the hall closet,” Dad tells him, his voice extra-polite, but cool. “I’ll tell Louise you said good-bye,” he adds, sliding Mr. Washington’s coat off its hanger.

“She’s probably busy with Alfie,” Stanley says, like he’s the expert on our family.

But his eyes are still shining with relief as Dad opens our front door and the cold night air
WHOOSHES
in.

“Thanks,” Stanley whispers as his dad is shaking my dad’s hand, which I guess is something
grown-ups do even when they don’t like each other very much.

Or at all.

“It’s okay,” I tell Stanley.

“I’m sorry about your allowance,” Stanley says, making a face.

“I’ll live,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

It
is
a big deal, but I
will
live.

I’m just glad I’m not Stanley.

I mean, poor him!

17

Alfie always goes to bed before I do, of course, since she’s only four years old. It takes Mom a long time to settle her down. There are a lot of stories, cuddles, drinks of water, and trips to the bathroom involved. Sometimes Dad has to step in and say,
“Good night, Alfleta,”
in his deepest professor voice to put an end to it.

Bedtime is much easier with me. Mom usually reads a chapter or two from a book that’s too hard for me to read alone, or she reads one that I want to hear again, but with my eyes closed. She doesn’t cuddle me as much as she used to, though, because I’m eight. My call.

Boys grow out of that stuff faster than girls, I think. I don’t know. It’s not like I’m about to take a survey and ask the kids in my class, is it?

My dad usually pokes his head in my doorway
and booms out a “Night, EllRay! Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” But we don’t really have any bedbugs at our house. That’s just an expression.

Tonight, though, I have gone to bed earlier than usual. I’m still worn out from Stanley’s dad coming over to accuse me in person of being a bully, and from my dad’s anger, and also from my secret battle with Suzette Monahan.

I just want today to be
over
. Sleep can do that for you, and it’s free. Right now, Mom is still busy herding Alfie from her bedroom to the bathroom, then back again, with lots of chatter all along the way, so I guess there won’t be any reading tonight. I’ll probably be asleep before Alfie, which is just—
MORTIFYING
.

“EllRay?” a voice says from just outside my door.

It’s my dad! But it’s too early for the bedbug thing. What’s going on?

To tell the truth, I’m still a little mad at him. Why did he believe Mr. Washington at first about me bullying Stanley at school? Yeah, he knows the truth
now
, but he still believed Plaid Dad. And as far as I know, they’d never even met.

I could pretend to be asleep, but like I said before, my dad can always tell when I’m lying. Or faking. Or pretending.

“Mmm?” I answer, trying to sound as sleepy and out-of-it as possible.

Maybe he’ll go away.

“May I come in?” Dad says.

“It’s your house,”
I feel like saying, but of course I don’t. I am wa-a-a-ay too tired for a lecture on manners.

“Sure,” I say instead.

I just hope he doesn’t sense with his special Dadly powers that I still have my dirty socks on under the covers, because according to my mom, that’s not allowed.

But I was too tired to take them off. Let my feet rot. I don’t care.

Dad sits down on the edge of my bed and looks around in the near-dark. Comic books are scattered on the end of my bed, and my sweatshirt, jeans, and belt are crumpled on the floor, right where I left them. There’s a half-finished model of a dinosaur on my desk, and a jacket, sweatshirt,
and soccer ball are piled on the chair.

Now, Dad probably thinks I’m a slob, on top of everything else bad about me.

“Were you going to say good night?” I ask quickly, before he can criticize me for that, too.

“No,” Dad says, his voice low. “I came to offer you an apology, EllRay. I should never have doubted that you were innocent. I know you better than that. I could have at least asked you about it, before jumping to conclusions. So, obviously, even dads make mistakes.”

“But how come you
did
believe him?” I mumble from under the sheet I’ve pulled up to my nose. “You should know a shrimp like me could never bully anyone.”

“I know
you
could never bully anyone, son,” Dad says, correcting me. “But it’s not because you’re ‘a shrimp,’ as you put it. And you’ll grow taller, by the way.”

I’ve heard that one before.

“Then how do you know I could never bully anyone?” I ask, my voice a little clearer this time, because I’ve lowered the sheet.

I kind of bullied Suzette Monahan, didn’t I? I don’t feel great about that.

“It’s not in your character, EllRay,” Dad tells me.

My mom is always saying what a character I am, usually after I’ve done something really goofy, or told her a joke. I love jokes. “You mean because I’m
funny
?” I ask, confused.

“No, son,” Dad says. “I mean, because of what you’re like inside.”

“All bony and icky?” I ask, thinking of this TV crime show I accidentally saw once, over at Kevin’s house. Nightmare city. I could barely walk around for a couple of days, knowing all that gunk was inside my body.

I am totally not getting what Dad’s trying to tell me.

My dad clears his throat. “Let’s see,” he says. “Your character is your inner nature, EllRay. Like—you know how sweet and generous your mother is? And loyal, and loving, and creative?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, remembering a second later that my dad likes me to say
yes
, instead.

I am starting to see where this is going.

“That’s her character,” Dad says, smiling as he looks toward my bedroom door.

He wishes he was with Mom right now. Well, me too!

“What’s
your
character?” I ask my dad.

Dad laughs. “I don’t think that’s for me to say,” he tells me. “I hope that at least
part
of my character is that I’m a good father, although I think I could have done a better job of it tonight.”

“You’re okay,” I mumble. “You’re good, even. Most of the time. So if this was baseball, you’d be a star! But what about Alfie?” I ask, changing the subject. “What’s her character?”

“Too early to tell,” Dad says, smiling as he shrugs. “I think she’ll blossom into being a proud and lovely young woman some day, though I’d say that being stubborn is always going to be somewhere in the mix. But with any luck, that stubbornness will turn into a willingness to stick with things and work hard. Alfie’s already a loving little girl. Look at the way she feels about you, son.”

“She
feels
that I wrecked her playdate,” I tell him. “And that I made Suzette Monahan not like her. That’s how she feels about me.”

“Ah, the famous Suzette,” my dad says, his smile disappearing. “There’s always a Suzette around to put a person’s best intentions to the test, isn’t there?”

Does Dad means there will always be dragons to fight?
Always?

“But Alfie’s crazy about you, son,” Dad adds.

“So,” I say, smoothing my sheet over the blanket like it’s the most important job in the world. “You really think I have a good character?”