EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken (2 page)

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Authors: Sally Warner

BOOK: EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken
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“Yeah, crybaby,” Stanley says. “Go sit with the girls.”
“I'm not even crying,
Stanley-ella
,” I say, pretending
he
is the girl.
It's the best put-down I can come up with on such short notice.
“That's not even my name, so duh,” Stanley says.
“
DUH
,” I say back at him.
I want to turn around and walk away. But if I do, Jared will probably grab me from the back, tight, and start grinding his knuckles into my ribs.
This is one of his favorite things to do, because from far away, you can't tell anything bad is going on.
Jared's supreme goal is to make me cry someday—in front of the entire class.
So I have to wait for Jared and Stanley to be the ones to walk away first.
I would rather be playing kickball with Corey Robinson and Kevin McKinley, who are my friends, but it's not exactly like I have a choice right now.
“
Duh
,” I say again. I don't know why.
Finally, finally,
finally
the recess bell rings, and Jared gives Stanley a friendly pretend-shove, and Stanley gives Jared a shove too, only not as hard, because Jared is the boss. And they walk away without even looking at me.
Like I'm nothing!
“Come on, EllRay,” Emma McGraw says as she skips by with red-haired Annie Pat Masterson. “We have Spanish this afternoon, and Ms. Sanchez is going to talk about food. Taquitos, burritos, and enchiladas and stuff. Yum!”
Emma is the second-littlest kid in our class, but she loves to eat. I think it's her main hobby.
“Hurry up,” Annie Pat calls out, and she and Emma skip away.
And so I hurry up. But I don't skip, because boys just
don't.
Not at Oak Glen Primary School, anyway.
And probably not anywhere.
Not when they have arm muscles the size of ping-pong balls.
2
I CAN'T EXPLAIN
Okay. I can't explain why Jared and Stanley started their war against me, but who cares why the war started? Details like that don't really matter, not when someone is secretly grinding his fist into your ribs.
I know
when
it began, though. It began two weeks ago, right after Christmas vacation.
Why don't I tell somebody what is happening?
Because it wouldn't do any good, and here's why:
1. If the other boys in our class knew about this three-person war, they would take sides, and then it would just turn into a bigger war. But it wouldn't be over for me.
2. If the girls in our class knew, they would whisper and stare, and I hate that.
3. If my mom knew what was happening, she would probably call Jared's mother and complain. And of course that would only make things worse for me in the long run.
4. If my dad knew about our war, he would FREAK OUT. First, he would call Ms. Sanchez or the principal. Then they would make a big announcement to the whole class about fighting, and then the grown-ups would study the problem to death, because studying things is what my dad likes best in the whole wide world.
But there's nothing to study about why Jared hates me. I think he's just bored, and he is taking it out on me.
Or maybe beating me up was Jared's New Year's resolution.
Our war started for no reason, and it will probably end for no reason.
I just have to live through it, that's all.
But the point is, this is a terrible Monday. And I know it sounds dumb, but I am a kid who usually likes Mondays—because Monday gives you a brand-new start.
Monday is like a spelling test that your teacher has just passed out, and you haven't had time yet to make any mistakes. It's like a blank piece of art paper that you haven't messed up. Monday is like the second after your teacher asks you a mental math question in front of the whole class—but you haven't given the wrong answer.
Yet
.
Any good thing can happen on a Monday!
Not this Monday, though.
3
“BEHAVIOR: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT”
“You don't have to keep saying it, Dad, because I already promised,” I tell my father that night after dinner, which was pork chops and mashed potatoes, and some kind of vegetable that I spread around on my plate so it at least looked half-eaten.
I am trying to keep my voice calm, steady, and well-behaved.
Dr. Warren Jakes—also known as Dad—is giving me a “talking-to,” which is the same talking-to I've been getting from him ever since my progress report came out last week.
“Behavior: Needs improvement,” Ms. Sanchez wrote.
Teachers never think about what happens
after
they send home a report card or a note, because writing that comment in my progress report was like telling my dad that his hair was on fire.
My father is a big, strong guy who wears glasses. He is also very smart. He is a college professor who teaches geology in San Diego.
Geology is rocks, basically.
Teaching about rocks must be the most boring job in the whole world.
Do not tell anyone I said this!
But I wish he were a fireman—or a professional extreme snowboarder.
That would be a whole lot cooler, if you ask me.
But even though his job is usually pretty boring, like I just said, my dad and I sometimes get to go on really fun camping trips to Utah, Arizona, and Nevada, where we collect specimens and eat hot dogs and s'mores.
We've seen rattlesnakes and tarantulas and wild pigs called javelinas!
I love to do alone stuff with my dad.
The only bad thing about my dad is that I think he wants me to be a shorter version of him: smart, serious, and sensible.
I think he might even want me to become a geologist some day.
Don't get your hopes up, Dad!
“Pay attention, son,” my father tells me, scowling.
“I'm bringing up this unpleasant subject for a reason. Ms. Sanchez called to say you were bothering your neighbor in class this afternoon.”
“Ms. Sanchez
tattled
on me?” I ask.
I am really, really mad at my teacher when I hear this, because you can get in trouble at school for something, and you can get in trouble at home, but you should never get in trouble both places for the same thing.
I think it's a rule.
It ought to be!
Also, Ms. Sanchez never calls my parents on the days when I'm good. So it's not fair
twice
.
“Ms. Sanchez and your mother and I decided to hold regular telephone conferences, ever since your progress report,” my dad tells me. “We want to handle problems as each one arises.”
“Well, what about if my neighbor
wanted
to be bothered, did you ever think about that?” I ask, angry enough to talk back to my dad. This is never a good idea, even on a good day.
Which this is not.
“Manners,” Dad says, almost growling the word.
But my neighbor in class is Annie Pat Masterson, I want to explain, and she loves it when I make her laugh in class! She's bored, that's why.
“Make that face again,” she whispers, and so I do—just to be polite.
But does anyone except Annie Pat thank me?
NO!
My dad is telling me something else. “And Ms. Sanchez said that you teased Emma McGraw during Spanish, when she tried to say ‘
arroz con pol-lo
,'” he says, continuing his invisible list of
Things That My Son EllRay Has Done Wrong
.
He pronounces it right, of course: “
Ah-rose cone POY-yoh.
”
“The way Emma said it was funny,” I object, remembering how mad she looked when she kept saying “
polo
” by accident.
And I kept saying “Marco!” like in the swimming pool game. “
Marco! Polo! Marco! Polo!
”

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