by Sally Warner
“Or pride in herself,” I say, not looking at him.
“Well, sure,” Dad says, sounding a little lost in this conversation. And being lost anytime, anywhere, is unusual for him.
“But you can’t just keep telling them and telling them to ‘show a little pride,’ because that doesn’t work,” I say, just barely keeping it from coming out like a question.
“I suppose not,” Dad says, distracted now by a display of rose bushes in dark plastic pots.
Right after Christmas, these same plants were what Dad called “bare root roses,” and they looked like a bunch of thorny sticks poking out of dirt-filled burlap bags. They hadn’t started growing any leaves or flowers then. But the nursery still charged money for them.
With bare root roses, Dad told me, you just have to assume something good is gonna happen.
But he decided to wait until now before he bought any. That’s how careful he is.
Dad picks up one of the rose bushes and examines its metal tag. “Telling someone to ‘show some pride’ would have been like commanding a bare root rose to ‘show some flowers, and make it snappy’ last Christmas, I suppose,” he adds, sliding me a look. “When it was just too soon in the year for that to happen.”
“I didn’t say I’d command them,” I object, looking away.
“The roses you see now existed somewhere deep inside those roots, the way pride exists somewhere in Alfie,” Dad says, placing a rose bush on our cart with so much care that it makes me feel jealous for a second. “And if we had planted one of those bare root roses correctly last January, say, and taken good care of it, the flowers would have emerged in their own good time. We wouldn’t have had to teach that bare root rose a thing, just the way we won’t need to tell this rose bush what to do. Or tell your little sister how to be her bravest and truest self.”
“Huh,” I say, not really convinced—because he doesn’t know Alfie.
Well, he does know Alfie. Obviously. She’s his kid.
And maybe Alfie is a little like a bare root rose. And maybe the right kind of pride will burst out of her some day—probably along with a lot more thorns.
But Dad does not know that she’s about to make a fool of herself—or that now, she has no pride at all, even though he and Mom are taking very good care of her.
So I’m gonna have to step in—step up, man up—and defend my little sister.
Suzette Monahan, here comes ELLRAY JAKES THE DRAGON SLAYER!
12
UPROAR
“Eat a little more of your sandwich, sweetheart,” Mom tells Alfie at lunch, after Dad and I have gotten back from doing our Saturday morning chores.
“Or eat some, at least,” my dad chimes in, looking at Alfie’s tuna sandwich, which has been trimmed down to four triangles with the crusts cut off. It’s barely there. “Your friend Suzanne will be here in less than an hour.”
“It’s Suzette, Warren,” my mom whispers, sounding shocked, as if maybe the dreaded Suzette can hear this terrible mistake from wherever it is she lives in Oak Glen.
On Green and Scaly Lane, maybe.
“Oh. Excuse me,” my dad says, trying to be funny. But really, all of us—except for Dad, who I don’t think remembers the story of Suzette’s one other visit to our house—are feeling weird about Suzette coming over again, but each for our own reasons.
Alfie probably feels weird because she wants everything to go perfectly, so she can spend the rest of her life as a visible human being.
I think Mom feels weird because she loves Alfie, and she knows this playdate is important to her. But Mom also doesn’t want to have a bossy four-year-old like Suzette giving her any grief about snacks, or wrecking everything by demanding to be taken home early if she doesn’t get her way.
And I feel weird because I know what’s really up, that Suzette is basically planning to steal one of Alfie’s best dolls. And because I have a secret two-part plan to keep Alfie from giving in to Suzette, only I’m not sure if I can pull it off. See, I’ve already had some experience with her.
“Alfie, eat something,” Mom is saying again.
Alfie is still drooped over her sandwich. In an instant, I realize what the problem is. Alfie told me once that after she’d brought a tuna sandwich to the “Welcome, Kreative Learners!” picnic, Suzette told kids that she smelled like cat food. Alfie must be worried about smelling like a cat again.
“Can I eat Alfie’s tuna sandwich—because I’m so hungry?” I ask, reaching for my little sister’s plate. “I’ll make Alfie a peanut butter and honey sandwich. She’s way too excited for tuna.”
This makes no sense at all, but no one calls me on it, even though the whole making-whatever-you-want-for-lunch thing goes against family rules.
But this is a special occasion, I guess. Mom seems to think so, anyway. “I suppose you can,” she says, her forehead wrinkling as she looks at my dad, who just shrugs his agreed permission.
Alfie gives me a look so full of thanks—as I cram one of her sandwich triangles into my mouth and get to work—that I feel even madder at Suzette Monahan than I did before, if that’s possible.
And that stinky little dragon hasn’t even gotten here yet!
“Go away. You’re a boy,” Suzette Monahan tells me from Alfie’s shaggy rug, where she and Alfie are lining up Alfie’s dolls like the dolls are in a contest.
I guess they are. Which unlucky doll will Suzette take home?
“Big duh, I’m a boy,” I say. “Do you think I don’t know that already?”
“That’s my brother EllWay,” Alfie tells Suzette, as if she hopes things will calm down after this introduction. “He’s eight,” she adds, trying to make me sound important.
Alfie’s voice sounds different when she is talking to Suzette, I notice at once. Softer, worried, and like what she’s saying is about to turn into a question.
“I don’t care. Make him go away, or I’m leaving,” Suzette says, narrowing her green eyes as she glares at me.
Amazingly enough, Suzette Monahan looks like a regular four-year-old, I think, standing in the doorway and staring at her. She has curly brown hair that is smoother in front than it is on top, as if she only brushes the parts she can see. She is taller than Alfie, and very thin. She reminds me of a grasshopper, crouched on Alfie’s rug that way. She flexes her hands as if she’s about to spring at me and start scratching.
“EllWay?” Alfie asks, giving me the please-please-please look that usually works.
Sorry, Alfie. Not this time.
“Mom wants you in the kitchen,” I tell my little sister. “To help her make a special snack.”
Alfie turns to Suzette. “You come too,” she says, almost begging. “Maybe we’ll get to fwost something.”
Like there’s going to be frosting. No, Mom is making chocolate chip cookies. And Suzette is either going to like them, or she’ll go home hungry. I don’t care.
“I’m busy,” Suzette says, not even looking at Alfie. She picks up two dolls, one in each claw, I mean hand, and jiggles them a little, like she’s weighing them or something. “Hmm,” she says, tilting her head.
She’s choosing which doll to steal from Alfie right in front of me!
“Go on. Mom’s waiting,” I tell Alfie, not taking my eyes off Suzette.
And so Alfie hurries down the hall.
It is time for me to begin my two-part plan.
Part one involves talking to Suzette like she’s a normal person.
HA HA HA HA HA!
That’s funny because—would a normal person mess up another person’s bookcase, and then put a tutu on his soldier action figure? That’s not just rude, it’s unpatriotic! And would a normal person talk back to another person’s mom the way Suzette did that time? Not to mention what she’s doing to Alfie at Kreative Learning? And doing here, now, in our very own house? But I should at least try.
“Look, Suzette,” I say. “You have to stop bullying my little sister. Period.”
“No, I don’t,
” she says, sounding calm as she examines two other dolls. “Besides, bullying’s against the law.”
“You’re doing it anyway,” I inform her. As if she didn’t know.
“You’re not the boss of me,” she says.
I think that must be four-year-olds’ favorite thing to say, and it’s so not true. Nearly everyone is the boss of them. Or they should be.
“You’re a bully if you hurt other kids’ feelings for no reason,” I tell Suzette. “And also if you make other girls go along with you. Girls like—like Moany and Gnarly,” I say, wishing for the first time in my life that I’d paid attention to Alfie’s babbling so I could remember her other friends’ real names.
But Suzette must get the idea.
“Mona and Arletty,” Suzette corrects me, a tiny smile turning up at the corners of her skinny dragon mouth for the first time. “You just made fun of them! They’ll be real mad, Alfie’s Brother. Even at Alfie, maybe.”
And—she reaches for another doll. The doll who has the pink plastic pony.
“This is your last chance to stop bullying Alfie, Suzette Monahan,” I say, lowering my voice the way Dad does when he means business.
“Go away, Alfie’s Brother, or I’m gonna take two dolls,” Suzette says, not even looking up. “Or Alfie’s new pink jacket.”
The pink jacket Alfie won’t even wear anymore.
Suzette is terrible! See?
It is time for part two of my plan to protect my little sister.
13
BABYISH
“Too bad about that bed-wetting thing you do,” I say, trying to sound as bored as she does. “That’s so babyish for a four-year-old. Ooh, smelly little baby.”
I have totally made this up.
Suzette finally looks at me, her hands still. “What?” she asks, frowning.
“I’ve heard all about it,” I say. “Not from Alfie,” I add quickly. “She’s too nice to say something that personal about a friend. But other kids might find out,” I tell her, shrugging.
“I do not wet my bed,” Suzette says, her cheeks turning just pink enough with anger to tell me that she might. Every so often, at least.
“Sure, you do,” I say.
“Don’t say that,” Suzette says, throwing down Alfie’s doll and covering her ears.
“Okay,” I tell her real loud, shrugging again. “But that just proves it’s true. So babyish,” I say again.
Suzette’s mouth is just a straight pink line. “LIAR-LIAR-PANTS-ON-FIRE,” she finally tells me, but her voice wobbles. “Who cares what you say?”
“Lots of people,” I say, lowering my voice. “Starting with my friend Corey’s little sister, and Jared’s little brother, just to name two. They both go to Kreative Learning, and I’m sure they’ll spread the news all around.”
“They’re just babies,” Suzette says, her green eyes flashing with anger. But she’s relaxing a little, probably thinking my threat is pretty weak. “They can barely talk.”
“Ah. But you’ll be going to Oak Glen Primary School pretty soon,” I remind her. “Next year, right? For kindergarten? And that news will be waiting for you, because I’m gonna tell everyone. Unless you stop bullying Alfie, that is. ‘Here comes Suzette-Monahan-the-bed-wetter!’ they’ll all say,” I tell her, as if making an announcement.
Now, I have her complete attention.
Do I feel mean? Yeah, a little. Maybe a lot. But I have to defend my sister.
“It’s a big fat lie,” Suzette says, the words almost exploding out of her mouth.
I shrug again. “So is telling other kids that Alfie’s invisible,” I point out. “That’s a lie too, isn’t it?”
“Huh,” she says, almost snorting out the word like a stinky puff of dragon smoke.
“I guess some people tell lies,” I say, shrugging for the third time. “But at least I have a reason for lying, Suzette. Unlike you.”
“It’s still not right,” she mutters, and I guess she’s correct about that.
But I can live with being a little wrong. It’s for a good cause.
The sweet smell of baking cookies floats down the hall, which seems weird, given the sour things going on in Alfie’s pink and purple room.
“Lying is wrong,” Suzette says, trying to sound like the queen of good behavior. But her pointy chin is wobbling just enough to remind me that she is only four years old, and I feel kinda bad again for a second.
She’s been picking on Alfie since forever, though, hasn’t she?
“I know it’s wrong,” I say quietly. “So I’ll quit lying if you will.”
“You’re still gonna tell,” Suzette says, narrowing her dragon eyes once more. “Just for the fun of it. Mean boy.”
“Is that why you lied about Alfie being invisible?” I ask. “For the fun of it?”
Now, Suzette is the one to shrug. “I don’t know,” she mumbles.
I think she’s actually telling the truth, for once.
“But you’re going to quit it?” I ask again.
Suzette doesn’t say anything right away, but she gives one of Alfie’s newest dolls a reluctant pat, as if telling it good-bye. “You can’t make me like Alfie,” she finally says. “You’re still not the boss of me.”
“I don’t want to be the boss of you,” I say, meaning it, except for where Alfie is concerned. “And I don’t care if you like her or not,” I add. “Just treat her fair, that’s all. Like any other kid. And leave the other girls alone if they want to play with her. I’ll hear about it if you don’t.”
“Go away, Alfie’s Brother,” Suzette says, sounding more tired than angry now. “I wanna go home.”
“You can go home when my mom says you can,” I inform her. “And no stealing any of Alfie’s dolls at the last minute, either, not to mention her jacket, or the deal is off. Tell Alfie you changed your mind about wanting anything.”
I can hear pink-sneakered footsteps THUDDING down the hall. “The cookies are ready,” Alfie tells us, screeching to a halt just outside her bedroom door. “Come and eat ’em while they’re still all warm and melty! With icy-cold milk!”
“You guys go ahead,” I tell Alfie and Suzette. “Mom will save me a few.”
“Suzette?” Alfie says, her voice turning soft with worry once more.
“Sure. I guess,” Suzette says, getting to her feet. “But they better be good.”
She sneaks me a questioning look when she says this last mean thing, but I just ignore her, turning away.
With some kids, I think mean is kind of a habit. Maybe they can’t stop it that fast.
“EllWay?” Alfie says, putting her little golden hand on my arm. “Are you all wight? Because—chocolate chips.”
Chocolate is Alfie’s favorite food group.
“I’m fine, Alfie,” I say. “I’ve just got some stuff I have to do. Boy stuff,” I add.
Like lying down flat on my bedroom floor while I try to recover from my dragon-slaying ordeal.
Man, that was hard. Every single bone in my body is aching, and I actually have a headache from threatening Suzette Monahan with a really mean lie.
But it was so-o-o worth it.
14
AN UNUSUALLY QUIET DINNER
“This smells funny,” Alfie says, poking at her grilled cheese sandwich.
“No, it doesn’t,” Mom informs her, sounding tired.
It is an unusually quiet dinner tonight. It’s the kind of dinner a family has after driving two hours to have lunch with relatives they barely know, because “family is important.” Or it’s what dinner would be like after taking your little sister to the emergency room after she fell off the slide at the park one afternoon, and then you had to sit in the waiting room for more than two hours with a bunch of scary-looking people, some of them bleeding, even. But your sister was fine.
Mom heated up a can of soup tonight and made grilled cheese sandwiches, that’s how worn out she is. Usually, Saturday dinners are a big deal around here.
Chicken with m
ashed potatoes. Spaghetti and meatballs. That kind of thing.
But we have all had too much Suzette Monahan for this to be a regular night.
Some people are energy vampires, that’s what I think.
Alfie usually loves grilled cheese, but tonight she is eyeballing her sandwich like she suspects there’s something weird inside. Eggplant, maybe.
Dad is pretty quiet at dinner most of the time, apart from asking us about our best things and worst things of the day, one of our family customs. I guess he has a lot to think about, with all the rocks there are in this world.
But tonight, he left the dining room to take a phone call, even though usually, the rule is no phone calls during dinner.
As for me, I still have a headache from telling that lie. And what was the lie? It was threatening Suzette Monahan about the bed-wetting thing, because I wouldn’t really have told anyone. Who would be interested?
“It does smell funny,” Alfie insists, giving her sandwich another angry jab.
“Don’t eat it, then,” Mom says, shrugging.
Alfie looks up, shocked. “But I’ll starve,” she says, and my mom actually starts to laugh. I do too, because while Alfie isn’t fat, she’s not skinny, either. She is in-between, with a button popping off every so often. “It’s not funny,” Alfie says, heating up. “Stop laughing!”
“We’re laughing with you, not at you,” Mom assures her, even though Alfie isn’t laughing.
I don’t really see the difference between these two things when Mom says that to me, but Alfie buys it. “Well, okay,” she says with a sniff.
“I thought you’d be happy tonight, Alfie,” I say, stirring my soup in slow circles with a spoon. “You got everything you wanted. Your friend Suzette came over. And you guys had a yummy snack,” I continue, “and Suzette left here empty-handed,” I add, trying to give Alfie a meaningful look. But Alfie is still glaring down at her grilled cheese sandwich, which is now probably more of an orange glue sandwich, it’s so cold.