by Sally Warner
It’s like dodgeball in a mirror, in fact. Everything is the opposite.
In plain, supervised dodgeball at my school, for instance, you can’t kick the ball, or come back into the game once you’re out—or be a bad sport, cheat, or hit the ball at someone’s head. And the teams always start out even. But in Extreme Dodgeball, you can do whatever you want.
So far, we haven’t been caught, which is cool and scary at the same time.
“Grab a ball and start playing!” Kevin yells as all us boys erupt onto the rain-shiny playground, nutritious snacks forgotten. The playground monitor is way across the playground, helping some girl with a bloody nose, it looks like.
“EllRay, think fast!” Corey shouts, and he hurls a dark red ball in my direction.
I catch it like I have superpowered magnet hands, then I toss it into the air and spike it into Stanley’s big plaid back as he hunches over the stretchy net filled with balls. BOINK! “You’re out,” I yell at Stanley, like we’re playing plain dodgeball and following the rules.
Stanley just keeps playing, of course.
“You’re out, loser,” Jared yells, slamming a ball into my shoulder from just two feet away—which hurts enough to make me want to hurt someone back.
Kids aren’t allowed to say “loser” at Oak Glen, by the way, but this is Extreme Dodgeball, so that’s the least of anyone’s worries. And anyway, I’ve already picked up a ball and bopped it back at Jared. “Take that!” I shout, like we’re in a boxing ring and I just punched him one in the nose.
I pretend I can hear an invisible crowd cheer me on. “Go, EllRay, go!”
By now, the kickballs are flying all over the place, but we are just scooping them up and slamming them into some other kid, anyone who’s playing. Even our own team members, and they’re just laughing! And though Jared did get me that once, I’m pretty much escaping being hit. Just a couple of grazes is all.
See, there are some good things about being a small guy. I’m bouncing around the playground like I’m a kickball myself!
This is so much fun. When I’m racing around, dodging kickballs and looking for the next guy to bash, there’s no Ms. Sanchez, no third grade, no playground rules. There’s no Alfie or Suzette Monahan or hidden pink jacket or hurt feelings, either, much less Mom and Dad telling me to make good choices. I grab a bouncing ball and spike it at my target like a pro beach volleyball player. KA-BLAM!
“Ow!” someone yells.
“Baby!” Jared shouts to the yeller, but then he shuts up fast, because it’s his friend Stanley. And Stanley is holding his eye like there’s something wrong.
His twisted glasses are lying at his feet.
“Time out,” Kevin calls like it’s just an ordinary game, and it’s no one’s fault that Stanley maybe got hurt.
But unfortunately, I know better.
10
A GOOD DEAL?
“Dude. You are so lucky,” Kevin says to me after school for the third time since nutrition break.
“You don’t have to keep telling me that,” I say.
After they checked out Stanley Washington’s eye in the office this morning, he ended up going home before lunch. But not because his eye was messed up. It wasn’t. His glasses were. I mean the metal part that holds the glasses together.
The actual glasses were plastic, so they didn’t break.
His mom could have brought his old pair of glasses to school, Ms. Sanchez told us, her voice icy because of what happened during nutrition break, but Stanley had a dentist appointment this afternoon, so his mother just picked him up late in the morning and they took off.
“But dude. Nobody saw you hit him except me,” Kevin marvels. “It’s like you were invisible!”
Invisible! Like Alfie. Maybe it runs in the family.
Stanley shouldn’t have called Alfie “Waffle,” that’s what he shouldn’t have done, I think, trying to come up with a good reason why it was Stanley’s own fault he got hit.
Not that anyone except Kevin saw me spike the ball at Stanley’s floppy-haired, glasses-wearing head.
“It’s because I’m so short and fast,” I say, shrugging. “It has its good points, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Kevin agrees, grinning. “Like sneaking around places, and creeping through fences, and getting away with stuff. Major stuff, like this.”
I don’t really like the way this is making me sound. “I’m not some weasel,” I object.
“No,” Kevin agrees hastily. “But you’re a real good shot, EllRay. And that counts for a lot. Especially when no one sees you.”
I’m not such a good shot as all that, I admit to myself half an hour later as I walk down our driveway. I mean, we were just playing a game, and it happened to be Extreme Dodgeball. And all us guys—including Stanley!—know Extreme Dodgeball doesn’t have any rules, except to not get caught playing it, because it’s too rough for school.
It’s not my fault there’s just one playground monitor now, is it?
But part of me remembers snagging that ball on purpose, eyeing Stanley’s sarcastic, floppy-haired head, then tossing the ball into the air for a championship spike at just the right angle, glasses or no glasses.
Kickballs are soft rubber balls!
They’re not supposed to be hard enough to hurt someone!
And they didn’t. They hurt someone’s glasses.
Anyway, Stanley should have been watching out.
“EllWay,” a familiar voice calls from the kitchen door. “Why are you just standing there, looking at a twee?”
That’s “tree” in Alfie-speak. You have probably cracked the code by now.
“I was thinking,” I tell her. “We do that a lot in the third grade.”
“And you can’t think and walk at the same time,” she says like she’s just answered her own question. “Will you make me some toast?” she asks as she follows me into the kitchen.
Alfie’s not allowed to use the toaster—not since that time she decided to heat up a slice of cheese in our old one. “Where’s Mom?” I ask her, tossing my backpack onto a kitchen stool.
“She’s working,” Alfie reports. “She barely even heard me when I was talking to her.”
Mom has been really busy with the latest fantasy book she’s writing, and she gets so fuzzy, thinking about the people in the book, that she sometimes forgets about Alfie and me. Just a little. And that’s weird, isn’t it? For a kid’s mom to wander around the house thinking about pretend people’s problems when her own two kids have plenty of problems of their own?
Not that I mind taking charge. Which reminds me. “How did it go today?” I ask my little sister, popping two pieces of bread into the toaster. “Telling Suzette that you don’t care what she does, but she should leave you alone, I mean?”
“It went perfect,” Alfie says, smiling as she gets a jar of peanut butter out of the fridge for her peanut butter and honey sandwich.
I’m in charge of the honey, because of that other time.
“So, you’re not invisible anymore?” I ask, thinking suddenly of me and Stanley, and how no one but Kevin saw it when I stealth-spiked that ball at his head.
“No, I still am,” Alfie says with a sigh, staring at the toaster as if that might hurry things up. “But she told me how I could break her magic spell.”
Her magic spell. Great. “And how are you gonna do that?” I ask, waiting for it.
“By giving her something,” Alfie tells me, matter-of-fact. “One of my dolls. And she gets to choose which one.”
Okay. Alfie has a super-huge doll collection, it’s true, but she loves every single one of them, and all their clothes and stuff. She makes up stories about them and everything. One of Alfie’s dolls even has its own pink plastic pony.
“You’re solving your problem by giving her something?” I repeat, trying not to yell at her. “But—but that’s like Suzette’s a robber, Alfie! She is a dragon, and she has you in her power. You cannot let her steal from you. Not one of your dolls.
I—I forbid it.”
“You’re not the boss of me, EllWay Jakes,” Alfie says, her brown eyes flashing. “And Suzette’s not a dwagon,” she adds. “And it’s not stealing if I give her the doll my own self,” she adds, like she’s repeating an explanation someone else gave her.
Suzette Monahan, that’s who. GREEN and SCALY Suzette, with her pinchy dragon face, her sharp, scratching claws, and her spiky, lashing tail.
“It’s a good deal, EllWay,” Alfie says, trying to convince me as the toast pops up.
“A good deal?” I say. I get the hot pieces of toast out of the toaster and start tossing them in my hands as I look for a plate. Alfie just stands there, holding her precious jar of peanut butter like it’s filled with pirate jewels.
I have to do everything around here?
“It is not a good deal, it’s a terrible deal,” I tell Alfie. “What Suzette is doing is probably against the law, even! Or it should be. And you can eat your toast cold, if you’re gonna let yourself get rooked by some goofy four-year-old robber. What do I care?” I say, flipping her toast onto the counter. “And you’re not getting any honey for that sandwich, either.”
Because—I give up. If Alfie doesn’t have that getting-mad ingredient I’ve been trying to pass down to her after this latest stunt of Suzette’s, she’s a lost cause. Where’s that famous Jakes pride Dad is always talking about?
Alfie can just go through her whole entire life being bullied, that’s all.
She does not deserve a big brother like me.
“But we worked it all out like you told me to,” Alfie wails, her peanut butter and honey sandwich forgotten for the moment. “And I won’t be invisible next week. See, it’s perfect now!”
“So,” I say, arms folded across my chest like Dad does when one of us has done something really bad. “When is this great doll-choosing event gonna happen, Alfie? Because I want to see it with my very own eyes. I want to watch you get cheated by a bully.”
“Well, you’re not invited, and it’s happening tomorrow,” Alfie says, sniffling. “And you can’t stop it, EllWay Jakes. Because—I don’t want to be invisible no more!”
“Any more,” I correct her.
“Oh, s-word,” Alfie shouts at me, clear as can be.
She can go from sad to mad in one second flat. A world record, probably.
“What did you say?” I ask. I cannot believe my ears. If Mom or Dad heard her say the s-word, the world would probably explode. Our world would, anyway.
“That means shut up, in case you didn’t know,” Alfie informs me, grabbing her cold toast off the counter and clutching the two pieces to her chest, along with the jar of peanut butter.
This looks like “an accident about to happen,” as my dad would say.
And now, Alfie’s T-shirt with the frilly sleeves has crumbs all over it, which is not gonna fly once she sees them. Major clothes change coming up. “And I don’t even care about the honey, EllWay,” she tells me, still furious. “Because I like plain peanut butter, all by itself!”
Which is not true, by the way.
But we’re way past telling the truth around here.
Alfie’s pretending she’s not about to be robbed by that slimy little dragon, Suzette Monahan, and I’m pretending I don’t care.
“So, what if I start saying you’re invisible, Alfie?” I ask, trying one last time. “Did you ever think of that? And what’ll you give me to stop? See, it never ends!”
“It will end,” Alfie says, stomping her foot hard on the kitchen floor. “It will end tomorrow afternoon, when Suzette comes over to play.”
“To rob you, you mean,” I say, turning away. “I can’t see you!” I sing out, facing the empty corner of the room. “Who’s that talking behind me? Someone invisible? Why, it’s no one at all,” I say, turning around.
“Liar, liar, liar!” Alfie yells, tears spurting from her eyes as she flees the kitchen.
Let her cry!
To think I spiked that extreme dodgeball at Stanley Washington’s head because I was mad at him for calling Alfie a waffle! Well, I was mad at Stanley for a bunch of other reasons, too, but I forget what they are right now.
Us boys don’t really know or care why we get mad at each other, in my opinion. We just do, and fast. Then we either get over it or fight, and that’s that.
But girls save up every little detail when they get mad. Then the girls sit on their hurts like chickens guarding a bunch of golden eggs, and then they cluck about each egg for weeks. I’ve seen this happen in my class.
I don’t remember exactly what it was that made me blow up at Stanley. Being mad at him seemed important at the time, though.
And it’s all I had to work with back then.
11
BEING PROUD
Dad and I drive around doing chores on Saturday mornings. It’s “our chance to catch up,” he always says. But it’s more him catching up with me than me catching up with him. The thing is, his geology work is about something called “isotope ratios,” not just which rock is prettiest. So you can see why our catching up is so one-sided. Not even most grown-ups know what he’s talking about.
I want my dad to be proud of me more than anything, but it’s hard. He’s a professor, which is like an extra-fancy teacher, and I’m just a shrimpy kid who is only medium-good at everything. When I’m even paying attention, that is.
I have trouble with that, too. There’s a lot going on inside my head.
But I know this much. I do not want to do anything boring like a geology professor when I grow up! If I don’t get to be a Laker, I want to be a stuntman, or else just a plain old millionaire, so nobody can tell me what to do. I think if you’re rich enough, no one cares how short you are.
I will have a giant gumball machine—and the gum will be totally free!—in my fancy front hall that will be so big, you can skateboard in it. Also, I will have every video game known to mankind in my all-glass house. And I’ll be able to eat popcorn whenever I want, even in the middle of the night. Maybe I’ll hire a TV cooking star whose only job is to make really cool snacks for me and my—
“EllRay?” my dad says, sounding like he’s just asked me something.
“Sorry,” I reply. “What were you saying?”
“That we’re almost at the nursery,” he says, sounding happy to share this news with me.
On our Saturday mornings, we are usually on our way either to the plant nursery—for rose stuff—or to the hardware store. The plant nursery is a zero, in my opinion, except for all the cool poisons in the STINKY aisle. But the hardware store is an excellent place to plan your next Halloween costume. They have all sizes of chains on big spools, though I can’t figure out yet how to use them in a costume. And they also have space invader–type masks, and stretchy vent tubes you could use for robot arms, especially if you spray-painted them silver.
True, it is only April, but you cannot start planning too soon for Halloween.
At our hardware store, there is also a big gray cat with a chewed-up ear living there who likes to sleep on top of a big stack of doormats. It’s fun seeing him, because we don’t have any pets at home. Alfie’s allergic. “And then we’ll go to the hardware store?” I ask, trying not to jinx it by sounding too hopeful.
“Sure,” Dad says. “There’s always something we need there. And then….”
He draws out these last two words in a tempting way, a smiles big at me, because me and my dad share one small secret.
Our Saturday morning doughnut!
I smile back at him. “Chocolate sprinkles,” I tell him. “I have a question,” I add, surprising even myself. “It’s about being proud. You’re always saying Alfie and I should be proud of ourselves. So that means pride’s a good thing, right?”
“It can be a good thing, even though pride—vanity, that is—is considered to be one of the seven big vices,” Dad says, after thinking about it for a couple of seconds. “And not a ‘vise’ like in the hardware store, son. This ‘vice’ i
s spelled with a C in the middle, and it’s something bad.”
My dad explains everything way too much. That can be frustrating, especially if you’re in a hurry. But it also means that you always know he has listened to your question and taken it seriously.
“Wait. What?” I ask, now totally confused in the back seat. “So is pride a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Well,” Dad says, stopping at a red light, which is always a good idea, “if you’re so proud that you think you’re a better, smarter, or nicer-looking kid than anyone else you know, that’s a bad thing. But if you’re proud enough to know you’re as good as everyone else, that you try to be the best you can be, that’s a good thing.”
“Corey Robinson’s a lot better swimmer than I’ll ever be,” I tell my dad.
“Do you feel proud of him?” Dad asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I wish I was better at swimming than I am, but I’m proud Corey’s a champion. I like to brag about him.”
“See, that’s a good kind of pride, too,” my dad tells me as we pull into the crowded plant nursery parking lot. “And if your swimming improved even a little bit, it would be a good thing to be proud of that. We can work on it next summer, if you want.”
“Maybe,” I say with some caution, because my dad can go overboard when he helps me work on stuff. Last year, when I said I might like to be a Cub Scout, mostly because Kevin was talking about joining, the next thing I knew I was wearing a uniform with too-big blue shorts sagging down below my knees, and I was reciting some pledge. When the whole thing was just an idea that had floated across my brain.
And Kevin never even joined!
Nothing against the Cub Scouts.
“But can you teach someone to be proud? Someone little?” I ask my dad as if it’s just an ordinary question. Like I’m not talking about Alfie.
“To have pride in himself, you mean? I hope your mother and I did that with you,” Dad says as he wrestles a giant shopping cart loose from a big tangle of them. You should see these carts. They’re double-deckers. You could ride in the bottom of one, if your dad let you. I could, anyway.