EllRay Jakes Rocks the Holidays! (14 page)

“True,” Dad says, nodding in the dark. “And you know Pop-Pop,” he says, talking about my grandfather, who lives near San Francisco now. “He was always careful with a dollar, so I was
sure
he and Mama weren’t going to get it for me. And even now, people call that Nintendo the single greatest video
game console in history,” Dad adds, sounding like the hopeful nine-year-old kid he was back then. “That’s how good it was.”

“But Pop-Pop was a doctor,” I say. “Don’t doctors make a lot of money?”

“Some do,” Dad agrees. “But Pop-Pop was just starting out back then, and he was not in private practice. He was a
Navy
doctor. You know, at the Naval Hospital San Diego? It became the Medical Center a short while later,” he adds.

But I want Dad to stick with his perfect Christmas story.

“I guess you got it, though,” I say, prodding him to tell me what happened.

“Not only did I get it,” Dad says, “but I also got the G.I. Joes that were on my list. Mercer, Red, Dog, and Taurus,” he says, still sounding impressed all these years later. “And on top of everything else, my grandparents gave me this really special toy called Talking Alf. ‘A.L.F.’ stood for ‘Alien Life Form.’ It was a hit TV series, see, and I just loved it. And Talking Alf was really expensive too. But oh, how I wanted that toy—because sometimes, I think I felt like an alien, too.”

My own dad felt like he didn’t blend in? Was it because he had brown skin?

Well, he still does.

I
do not
like talking to my dad about skin color, he is so prickly about it. But I also want to, at least a little. “Why?” I ask, my heart pounding. “Didn’t you have a very big community, either? Is that why you felt like an alien? Not that I’m complaining,” I add quickly.

“It was a much bigger community than ours is now, son,” Dad tells me, laughing and shaking his head at the same time. I can feel it in the dark. “Even if the African-American population was pretty small in San Diego back then. Some gang action had Pop-Pop pretty concerned, though. But no,” he continues. “I think I identified with Alf because my interests were so different from those of my friends. Good old science,” he explains, shrugging.

“But what did Talking Alf do that was so great?” I ask, trying to understand.

“He had a cassette player inside him, and you’d put a cassette in, and his mouth would move as he told you stories about outer space,” Dad says.
“It was the latest cool thing, and I thought I could learn something from him.”

“What’s a cassette tape?” I ask, and Dad shakes his head again in the dark. “It’s kind of what CDs used to be. But never mind,” he says, like it’s too hard to explain. “The point is, for the first time in my life, I got everything I’d even dreamed of getting.”

“And you were
so happy
,” I say, finishing his story for him.

I’m smiling
BIG
in the dark.

“I was,” Dad agrees. “For about half an hour. And then, guess what?”

“What?” I ask, my eyes wide. “You woke up, and it was all a dream?”

“No. It was real, all right,” Dad says. “But I started worrying. What about the next year? And the year after that? Could Christmas ever be that perfect again?”

Now
I’m
the one who is shaking his head, picturing my worrywart nine-year-old father freaking out about his probably-not-perfect future. Who would’ve guessed?

“And you know what?” he asks, laughing. “I was right! Christmas never
was
that good again when I
was a kid. But it turns out that’s okay. Each one was still fun, and I survived.”

“But—does that mean nothing’s ever perfect forever, or even
easy
, from start to finish?” I ask Dad. “Not even something built-in good, like Christmas?”

It sounds strange, but this is giving me an idea!

“It’s okay, though,” Dad says again. “That’s my point.”

“Then listen,” I tell him, excited. “Maybe we should always just go ahead and mess up some of the small stuff. You know, get it over with! And we’ve already done that this year—like when we brought home that crooked Charlie Brown Christmas tree Alfie felt sorry for. Or when you sat down on the box of ornaments after dinner tonight. Or when Alfie found out she accidentally put her
Fuzzy Kitties
DVD in the
Elf
box, and now
Elf
is lost forever.”

“Lost in the black hole that is Miss Alfie’s room,” Dad says, laughing. “And only the ghost of Talking Alf knows where it is, but he’s not saying. You may be onto something, son.”

“And then we could just give up early on Christmas being perfect, and
relax
,” I say, finishing my
thought. “We can have a not-so-perfect Christmas!”

“Now, that is some pretty cool thinking,” Dad says. “But there might still be a few mixed feelings about the holiday.”

“Yeah, but we’d
expect
them,” I explain. “We’d say, ‘Man, this is
messed up
, just like I thought it would be. Typical Christmas!’ And it would be
funny.
”

“Well, I know one thing for sure,” Dad says, sounding happy in the dark. “You and I are going camping in Anza-Borrego on the twenty-eighth, come what may. That’s just four more days. Our reservations are all set, buddy. And maybe this trip will give us a chance to find our feet again.”

Hmm, I think,
WRIGGLING
my toes. I already know where
my
feet are.

But I kind of understand what he means. “You used to camp there with Pop-Pop, didn’t you?” I ask. “When you were a kid?”

“Nearly every year, if we were lucky with the weather,” Dad says.

“You and I should mess things up ahead of time. On purpose, Dad,” I say, putting my new theory into action. “Just a little. You know, forget a ground cloth, or lose the marshmallows for the s’mores.
Nothing huge,” I say. “Just enough so that it takes the pressure off us trying to have a perfect trip.”

“EllRay, you’re too much,” Dad says, reaching over in the dark to knuckle-rub my head, which, like I said before, is his version of a hug. “Do you realize how proud of you your mom and I are? And how much we love you?”

Oh, great, I think, ducking my head away from him and scowling at the wall next to my bed. That dumb
assembly
again. “But I keep telling you guys,” I say. “It was just an accident that I was the emcee. It wasn’t because I was like a special representative of the community, or anything. That would be too much for me.” I add, almost in a whisper.

It
would
be too much. For any kid.

“Well, you did a fine job, son,” Dad says. “But I wasn’t talking about the assembly
or
the community.”

“What else are you proud of me for?” I ask, turning partway back to him.

“Oh, a dozen things,” Dad says, laughing.

“Like what? Name three,” I say, whispering those last words.

“I’ll name five,” Dad says, accepting the challenge.
“Number one, I’m proud of what a good big brother you are to Alfie, even when she makes it difficult.”

“Which she does, sometimes,” I say.

“Number two, I’m proud of what a good son you are to Mom and me. You’re easy to be around, and you do your chores without too much complaining. And you don’t make excuses or blame other people when you do mess up.”

“Huh,” I say, pleased. And I’m thinking—Dad makes lists, just like I do? I guess it runs in the family!

“Number three, I’m proud of what a good friend you are,” Dad continues. “And you pay attention to your friendships, too. You take care of them.”

“I don’t have
that
many friends,” I tell Dad—just in case he’s thinking I’m super-popular or something.

And, of course, I have to subtract Kevin. For now, at least.

That will change, though. Fingers crossed.

“But you have
good
friends,” he says. “Number four, you work hard at school,” Dad says. “Even when the going gets tough.”

“And it can get pretty tough,” I admit.

“And number five, I’m proud of the way you think, son. You have an original way of working things out for yourself that I really admire. Like tonight’s ‘Mess Up the Small Stuff’ solution.”

And that’s not even half of it, I think, remembering how I decided not to shout out a swear at the assembly last Friday.

But there’s such a thing as self-respect, isn’t there? And not letting someone else try to get you in trouble?

I
get to decide the
GOOFY
stuff I’m going to do!

Or not do.

I’ll decide when I’m going to blend in, and when I’m going to stand out.

“Are you asleep, buddy?” Dad asks in a barely-there voice.

“Almost,” I tell him. “I think so, anyway.”

“Then I’ll say Merry Christmas, and good night,” Dad says, getting to his feet and pulling the covers up over my shoulders. “See you in the not-so-perfect morning.”

“Yeah. See you,” I say, smiling as I roll over to go to sleep.

It’s going to be a
very
Merry Christmas, no matter what, I think, wriggling down under my quilt.

A winter wonderland Christmas.

And if it isn’t, well—there’s always next year!

MORE ELLRAY THIS WAY

EllRay Jakes may be the smallest kid in Ms. Sanchez’s third grade class, but he has a
BIG
personality! And he’s not going to let Jared, the biggest kid in class, call him a
CHICKEN
or get in the way of a trip to Disneyland. All EllRay has to do is stay out of trouble for one week—and keep away from Jared. The question is, can he do it?

EllRay wishes he had something cool to brag about. Everyone else in his third grade class does. Jared’s dad owns a brand-new car with flames painted on it, and Kevin’s dad is rich, but all EllRay’s geologist dad has is a collection of rocks.
BORING!
Or is it? They
are
from all over the world . . . and when EllRay brings some of the rocks into school, everyone is impressed. In fact, they’re so impressed, they keep them! Now EllRay needs a plan to rescue his dad’s rocks . . . before his big problem lands him in
GIGANTIC
trouble.