Ellray Jakes Walks the Plank (10 page)

“Yeah,” I say. “If it’s so important.”

And to my surprise, Cynthia—and her robot friend Heather, of course—follow us outside.

At Oak Glen Primary School, kids can eat their lunch in the school cafeteria whether they buy lunch or not, or they can eat outside on the picnic tables, which is a lot more fun. The different grades eat lunch at different times, so we third graders get two tables all to ourselves, one for the boys and one for the girls.

The tables are on the grass, near two big trees you aren’t allowed to climb.

I sit down at the boys’ table next to Kevin and across from Corey. Jared and Stanley are already stuffing their faces, those luckies.

And Cynthia actually walks up to me and tugs my shirt again. “This will just take a minute,” she whispers, almost polite—because she is on the boys’ property, I guess.

I can tell that none of the boys likes having a girl so nearby, so I very s-l-o-w-l-y get up and
follow Cynthia to one of the trees. “Go away,” I tell Heather, who is trailing after Cynthia like a shadow. “Or else my friends get to listen in, too. Two against one is no fair.”

And so Heather looks at Cynthia—for permission to leave, I guess—and then melts away to the girls’ picnic table, where Fiona, Kry, and the two church friends are already giggling and eating their lunch.

Girls cannot eat without giggling, by the way. It’s a fact.

Cynthia takes off her plastic headband in a serious way, tosses her straight hair, then scrapes the headband back on over it. It’s like she needs everything to be perfect before she can even start talking. “Listen,” she tells me. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble for spilling Ms. Sanchez’s water bottle.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t get me in trouble,” I say. “Ms. Sanchez says that even though the pages are curly now, everything was written in permanent ink. And she hasn’t yelled at me yet. And I
didn’t
spill the water bottle, in case you forgot.
You
did, when you tried to sock me.” I have to keep reminding her, because Cynthia Harbison is exactly the
kind of person who believes that saying something two or three times makes it the truth.

I have the feeling you have to watch it with people like that.

“Yeah, but that’s my point,” Cynthia says, like she’s just won the argument. “Ms. Sanchez doesn’t even care,
because
of the permanent ink.”

“She cares,” I argue. “The water glugged all over her work of art. And it even soaked into some of the art projects.”

“Not mine,” Cynthia says, shrugging. “Because mine was on top.” She gets a look on her face like
it’s hard getting through to me, I’m so dumb. “I mean, she won’t care if
you
did it, EllRay. Because she’s so used to you messing up.”

“But I didn’t mess up!” I shout. “And I’m gonna tell Ms. Sanchez what really happened when she asks,” I add, trying to lower my voice.

And I start to go back to the boys’ lunch table, because—what is the point of arguing with someone like Cynthia Harbison? It’s a waste of your brain!

“No, wait,” Cynthia calls after me. “Listen,” she says again, catching up. “
You owe me
. Remember? Recess? And going to the principal? And the rocket ship Band-Aids? So when the water bottle accidentally spilled for no reason, I thought, ‘I should just blame it on EllRay. Then we’ll be even.’ Think about it, EllRay. It’s a great idea,” she says, her voice suddenly soft as she tries to convince me.

And she pauses a minute, letting the brilliance of her “great idea” sink in.

She actually looks hopeful, like she needs this to happen.

Huh?

“Well, number one,” I tell Cynthia, my voice as cold as an ice cube, “I don’t owe you anything. And number two, why should I take the blame for something you did?”

“Because it doesn’t matter for
you
,” she says, like she’s eager to explain. “You’re already the kid in our class who messes up, and I’m already the kid who has the perfect record. So all I’m asking is that you take this
teensy-weensy blame
for spilling Ms. Sanchez’s water bottle, and we’ll be even about recess and the principal and the clashy Band-Aids. You won’t owe me anymore. I mean, it
could
have been you who knocked the water bottle over, right?”

“Wrong,” I tell her. “I wasn’t the one swinging my Fist of Doom through the air for no reason,
Cynthia. I was just trying to turn in my
Treasure Island
map, that’s all.”

“And I was trying to help,” she says, lying again. “It was an accident.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But you caused it.”

“
Listen
,” Cynthia says for the third time, like she really needs to tell me something. “You don’t understand. I just
can’t
get in trouble with Ms. Sanchez, EllRay. You’re used to it, but I’m not.”

Cynthia’s probably right about one thing, even though Ms. Sanchez is my teacher, too. I guess I
am
getting used to being in trouble, not that I ever planned for my life to turn out this way. But before I can think up an actual reply, there is a tap on my shoulder.

It’s Emma McGraw.

“Ms. Sanchez says she wants to see you in the classroom, EllRay,” Emma tells me, not looking at Cynthia. “Right away.”

“But I didn’t get to eat yet,” I say, thinking of the big sandwich I helped my mom make this morning. It has turkey bologna on it, and pickles, and no mustard, and everything. “I’m gonna
starve
.”

No wonder I’m the littlest kid in our class!

“She says you can bring your lunch with you,” Emma says, still not looking at Cynthia, who is giving her the
STINK-EYE
.

“Oh,
okay
,” I say, and I stomp off to the boys’ picnic table to get it.

That sandwich had better still be in my lunch sack, that’s all I’m saying.

“Have a seat, Mr. Jakes,” Ms. Sanchez says, looking friendlier than I thought she would, considering.

“Okay,” I say cautiously, and I sit down in the chair she has pulled up next to her desk. But I don’t open my lunch sack, because I don’t want to have turkey bologna flapping in my mouth when my teacher starts asking me complicated questions.

“So, what happened this morning?” Ms. Sanchez asks.

“Well, I got up,” I say, stalling. “And then I took a shower, and—”

“EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez interrupts. “You know what I mean.”

“Okay,” I say again. But I don’t blab the truth right away, because I’m thinking.

1. Maybe Cynthia’s right.

2. Maybe I
should
take the blame for knocking over that water bottle.

3. After all, Cynthia needs to be perfect, and it’s already w-a-a-a-y too late for that for me, even if we’re just talking about the last couple of weeks.

4. So what difference would it make to me if I took the blame?

5. Maybe I’m already doomed!

“EllRay?” Ms. Sanchez says, reminding me that she is still waiting for an answer.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and I get ready to walk the plank.

That’s right. Suddenly I just want to get it over with. I will walk to the end of the plank, take a deep, deep breath, then drop off into the cold dark ocean.

It feels like I don’t even have a choice.

“I guess spilling your water bottle was all my fault,” I say to Ms. Sanchez. “I guess I kind of waved my arms around at Cynthia and Heather, and—”

“Stop right there,” Ms. Sanchez says, holding up her hand. “I must tell you that I heard from another source that the whole unfortunate episode happened in quite a different way.”

Whoa
. Fancy words alert. Somebody blabbed?

Emma?

“And I’m not even talking about my soggy attendance notebook anymore,” Ms. Sanchez says. “Why are you so willing to take the blame, sweetie?” she asks, her voice gentle. “That’s the question.”

Ga-a-ack!
This is the second time this semester that Ms. Sanchez has called me “sweetie”! Well, at least there are no other kids in the room this time.

“Why, EllRay?” Ms. Sanchez asks again.

And I can’t think of anything to say, because it’s too hard to explain.

Or maybe I can’t think because I’m starving. Even my
brain
is empty.

“Look,” Ms. Sanchez says, pointing toward Zip’s still-empty fish bowl, which is sitting on the table behind her desk. “Do you see that?”