EllRay Jakes Rocks the Holidays! (8 page)

“We will,” Kevin and I say together, though I barely manage to peep out the words.

“Great. Then off you go,” Principal James says, shooing us out through his silver garland-hung doorway.

And I don’t look at Kevin the whole way back to Ms. Sanchez’s room.

I’m
that mad
.

9

“Did you finish your homework?” Mom asks after dinner on Tuesday night.

“Mm-hmm,” I say.

She and I are hanging out in the kitchen, scarfing down the leftover crispy pieces of cheese that overflowed and melted in the pan. We had grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner tonight, and about three veggies, as usual.

Carrot sticks, lettuce salad, and something Mom calls “three-bean salad.”

Alfie said “No way!” to that last one. But I ate all three beans. One each.

Dad’s at some meeting at his college in San Diego. That’s why we didn’t have meat for dinner tonight. See, Dad—and I!—love meat, but Mom likes to make anything that’s
not
meat, when he’s not home.

Alfie loves chocolate and buttered noodles, mostly.

She’s playing in her room. I can hear her talking to her dolls from here.

“How about the lyrics to your assembly song?” Mom asks over her shoulder as she loads the dishwasher. “Have you memorized those?”

“Not all of them. Not yet,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved.

Ms. Sanchez loved the idea of “Jingle Bell Rock.” She even said okay to the dancing. So, because of the
JINGLING
feet mentioned in the song, which don’t even make sense, the girls plan to wear bells strapped around their ankles—and just dance like crazy. Someone’s mom is sending away for new bells. She even paid extra for super-fast delivery, so they’ll get here on time.

With any luck, no one will be able to hear us sing.

But the girls are so excited now about getting to dance onstage that I don’t think they’re even bothering to learn the words—so us boys better know them.

It is going to be a
disaster
, because . . .

But at least we’ll be the oldest kids there, so no big kids can laugh at us.

“Why don’t you sing me the song right now?” Mom suggests, smiling. “At least try.”

“No, thanks,” I mumble. Performing it once on stage—in front of moms, dads, and video cameras—will be bad enough. I just hope we don’t end up on YouTube.

And I also have to be the emcee!

This is like a nightmare come true for me. Everyone will be
staring
.

“Well then, why don’t you go see what your little sister is up to?” Mom says. This sounds like more of a question than it is.

“Alfie seems to be arguing with someone,” Mom adds, smiling.

“Probably one of her dolls,” I say.

Alfie has a very active imagination.

And she has tons of dolls.

“You go settle things for them,” Mom tells me, smiling. “You know Alfie. Sometimes she needs a little help sorting things out. And who better for that than her big brother?”

“Okay,” I say, hiding my sigh as I pry up one last bit of cheese before I go.

See, spending time with Alfie can make a person dizzy. She’s like Jared, a
little
, because she likes to argue just for the fun of it. And she always thinks she’s right—even though she’s only four!

Also, Alfie can chatter about a five-minute
Fuzzy Kitties
cartoon for fifteen minutes, easy. It makes my brain hurt.

“Go on,” Mom urges. “Tell her it’s almost time for her bath, okay? Ten minutes.”

Alfie needs lots of advance notice—about doing anything.

Ten-minute warnings. Five-minute warnings. One-minute warnings. It’s like she’s a space shuttle always about to blast off.

My dad says Alfie “has trouble with transitions,” whatever that means.

It sounds like he’s saying that my little sister doesn’t know how to fix car engines, but I know that can’t be right.

“Scoot,” Mom says.

But I don’t just scoot, I skedaddle.

10

“Knock, knock,” I say, pausing outside Alfie’s room. Her door is open, but I’m trying to teach her not to barge into
my
room without knocking. See, I’m setting an example.

So far, so bad.

Alfie looks up from a row of six or seven Barbies lying on her fluffy carpet. Three of them have Beyoncé-brown skin. They are all wearing fancy dresses. Their feet are all touching a yardstick, which is a long ruler that I guess Alfie is pretending is the ground. “Is this gonna be a knock-knock joke?” she asks, getting ready to not laugh.

“Nope,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to tell you that you have to take a bath in ten minutes. So, ten-minute warning. What are you doing?” I say, already half sorry I asked, because her explanation might be a real brain-frazzler.

“We’re having a beauty contest,” she informs me. “First prize is a brand-new darling outfit. Right now they’re telling their hobbies,” she adds. “This one likes horseback widing,” she says, pointing.

That’s Alfie-speak for “riding.”

“And this one likes shopping,” she continues. “Actually, all of them like shopping.”

I go closer to take a look. “Who’s winning so far?” I ask, plopping down next to her.

“She is,” Alfie says, pointing to her newest doll, one with long, blonde hair. “Because her hobby is collecting stuffed animals. I wish they made little stuffed animals for Barbies,” she adds, forgetting about the contest for a minute. “I’d buy a whole lot of them!
Tons.
”

“I know you would,” I say, picturing it. “But what about this doll?” I ask, pointing at one of the brown-skinned dolls. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

Because—Alfie’s pretty, too. And
she
has brown skin.

“Yeah,” Alfie says. “Vanessa. But she’s stuck-up and mean. Like Suzette Monahan,” she explains, naming her secret enemy—sometimes, anyway—at Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care. “Mom
and Dad were talking about you yesterday, EllWay,” she says, jumping to another subject like she always does.

“You were listening in?” I ask, frowning.

“Not on purpose,” Alfie says. “I was hiding under the dining table, behind the tablecloth. Pwetending to be a mouse. And they just started talking.”

“Huh,” I say, wondering what they might have said. A “Needs improvement!” comment on a progress report can really set them off, especially my dad. So can any remark by Ms. Sanchez having to do with my so-called organization skills.

Who even
wants
to be organized? I think keeping
things organized is boring—and
hard.
When I pull my notebook out of my backpack when I get home, I never know what’s gonna fly out and hit the ground. Old permission slips, party invitations, stuff I found on the sidewalk on the way home, sandwich halves I was saving for later. It’s kind of exciting!

But that’s why Mom has started sitting down with me on Sunday nights, so we can go through my backpack—and notebook—together.

I think that’s treating me like a baby. But my mom says it’s important.

“They were talking about you being king of the school assembly,” Alfie whispers, as if the blabbermouth Barbies might spread this stupendous news all around.

“I’m not
king
,” I tell her. “I’m just the emcee. That’s like an announcer,” I add, before she can ask. “And the assembly is only for kids up to the third grade. And I only got named emcee because Ms. Sanchez told me to go to the principal’s office in the first place. And because the principal wanted to get the assembly planning over with, once and for all. And because Kevin wouldn’t do
it. That’s
why
. It’s not like kids voted for me.”

“Mom told Dad it was because you were a born leader,” Alfie informs me.

A born leader.

Yeah, right!

I can lead the way when it comes to not getting permission slips signed, I guess. And I’m a born leader at losing socks. And I am the leader at hurting one of my best friend’s feelings without really knowing how it happened.

I can even lead the way down the rabbit hole to the principal’s office.

What I
can’t
lead the way at is being someone who does not
STICK OUT
.

And that would be so much more
relaxing
in life, not to have to worry all the time about people noticing me. Especially for the wrong reasons!

And I’m not saying that just because I am one of not-too-many kids with brown skin at a school with mostly white kids, either. Well, sort of
pink
kids, to tell the truth. Or freckled, or sometimes even a little tan.

But that’s not the same thing as being officially brown.

And it’s not like I wouldn’t stick out anyway, even if my skin was pink, too. I’m the shortest kid in the whole third grade. And face it, I have a weird name.

The brown skin part just makes it a triple-header.