by Sally Warner
“I guess. Maybe,” Stanley mumbles from across the room.
“It’s easy to get carried away when you’re trying to explain something,” Dad says, trying to give Stanley a way out. “But my son is no bully.”
“Obviously,” Plaid Dad says with a chuckle, looking me up and down.
Wait. Obviously?
Dad clears his throat and sets his cup on the table in a careful way that tells me he’s about to lose it. This is something that hardly ever happens.
He does not want anyone insulting me, or even my size.
He is proud of me, especially now that he knows the truth!
“I think we’ve just about covered everything,” Dad says, standing up. Probably only I can hear how tight his voice has gotten, which is another bad sign with him.
And, as if my dad has made them do it, Stanley and his father stand up too, despite their almost-full cups of cocoa. “We’ll be leaving, I guess,” Plaid Dad says, looking around for his jacket.
“It’s in the hall closet,” Dad tells him, his voice extra-polite, but cool. “I’ll tell Louise you said good-bye,” he adds, sliding Mr. Washington’s coat off its hanger.
“She’s probably busy with Alfie,” Stanley says, like he’s the expert on our family.
But his eyes are still shining with relief as Dad opens our front door and the cold night air WHOOSHES in.
“Thanks,” Stanley whispers as his dad is shaking my dad’s hand, which I guess is something grown-ups do even when they don’t like each other very much.
Or at all.
“It’s okay,” I tell Stanley.
“I’m sorry about your allowance,” Stanley says, making a face.
“I’ll live,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
It is a big deal, but I will live.
I’m just glad I’m not Stanley.
I mean, poor him!
17
AN APOLOGY
Alfie always goes to bed before I do, of course, since she’s only four years old. It takes Mom a long time to settle her down. There are a lot of stories, cuddles, drinks of water, and trips to the bathroom involved. Sometimes Dad has to step in and say, “Good night, Alfleta,” in his deepest professor voice to put an end to it.
Bedtime is much easier with me. Mom usually reads a chapter or two from a book that’s too hard for me to read alone, or she reads one that I want to hear again, but with my eyes closed. She doesn’t cuddle me as much as she used to, though, because I’m eight. My call.
Boys grow out of that stuff faster than girls, I think. I don’t know. It’s not like I’m about to take a survey and ask the kids in my class, is it?
My dad usually pokes his head in my doorway and booms out a “Night, EllRay! Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” But we don’t really have any bedbugs at our house. That’s just an expression.
Tonight, though, I have gone to bed earlier than usual. I’m still worn out from Stanley’s dad coming over to accuse me in person of being a bully, and from my dad’s anger, and also from my secret battle with Suzette Monahan.
I just want today to be over. Sleep can do that for you, and it’s free. Right now, Mom is still busy herding Alfie from her bedroom to the bathroom, then back again, with lots of chatter all along the way, so I guess there won’t be any reading tonight. I’ll probably be asleep before Alfie, which is just—MORTIFYING.
“EllRay?” a voice says from just outside my door.
It’s my dad! But it’s too early for the bedbug thing. What’s going on?
To tell the truth, I’m still a little mad at him. Why did he believe Mr. Washington at first about me bullying Stanley at school? Yeah, he knows the truth now, but he still believed Plaid Dad. And as far as I know, they’d never even met.
I could pretend to be asleep, but like I said before, my dad can always tell when I’m lying. Or faking. Or pretending.
“Mmm?” I answer, trying to sound as sleepy and out-of-it as possible.
Maybe he’ll go away.
“May I come in?” Dad says.
“It’s your house,” I feel like saying, but of course I don’t. I am wa-a-a-ay too tired for a lecture on manners.
“Sure,” I say instead.
I just hope he doesn’t sense with his special Dadly powers that I still have my dirty socks on under the covers, because according to my mom, that’s not allowed.
But I was too tired to take them off. Let my feet rot. I don’t care.
Dad sits down on the edge of my bed and looks around in the near-dark. Comic books are scattered on the end of my bed, and my sweatshirt, jeans, and belt are crumpled on the floor, right where I left them. There’s a half-finished model of a dinosaur on my desk, and a jacket, sweatshirt, and soccer ball are piled on the chair.
Now, Dad probably thinks I’m a slob, on top of everything else bad about me.
“Were you going to say good night?” I ask quickly, before he can criticize me for that, too.
“No,” Dad says, his voice low. “I came to offer you an apology, EllRay. I should never have doubted that you were innocent. I know you better than that. I could have at least asked you about it, before jumping to conclusions. So, obviously, even dads make mistakes.”
“But how come you did believe him?” I mumble from under the sheet I’ve pulled up to my nose. “You should know a shrimp like me could never bully anyone.”
“I know you could never bully anyone, son,” Dad says, correcting me. “But it’s not because you’re ‘a shrimp,’ as you put it. And you’ll grow taller, by the way.”
I’ve heard that one before.
“Then how do you know I could never bully anyone?” I ask, my voice a little clearer this time, because I’ve lowered the sheet.
I kind of bullied Suzette Monahan, didn’t I? I don’t feel great about that.
“It’s not in your character, EllRay,” Dad tells me.
My mom is always saying what a character I am, usually after I’ve done something really goofy, or told her a joke. I love jokes. “You mean because I’m funny?” I ask, confused.
“No, son,” Dad says. “I mean, because of what you’re like inside.”
“All bony and icky?” I ask, thinking of this TV crime show I accidentally saw once, over at Kevin’s house. Nightmare city. I could barely walk around for a couple of days, knowing all that gunk was inside my body.
I am totally not getting what Dad’s trying to tell me.
My dad clears his throat. “Let’s see,” he says. “Your character is your inner nature, EllRay. Like—you know how sweet and generous your mother is? And loyal, and loving, and creative?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, remembering a second later that my dad likes me to say yes, instead.
I am starting to see where this is going.
“That’s her character,” Dad says, smiling as he looks toward my bedroom door.
He wishes he was with Mom right now. Well, me too!
“What’s your character?” I ask my dad.
Dad laughs. “I don’t think that’s for me to say,” he tells me. “I hope that at least part of my character is that I’m a good father, although I think I could have done a better job of it tonight.”
“You’re okay,” I mumble. “You’re good, even. Most of the time. So if this was baseball, you’d be a star! But what about Alfie?” I ask, changing the subject. “What’s her character?”
“Too early to tell,” Dad says, smiling as he shrugs. “I think she’ll blossom into being a proud and lovely young woman some day, though I’d say that being stubborn is always going to be somewhere in the mix. But with any luck, that stubbornness will turn into a willingness to stick with things and work hard. Alfie’s already a loving little girl. Look at the way she feels about you, son.”
“She feels that I wrecked her playdate,” I tell him. “And that I made Suzette Monahan not like her. That’s how she feels about me.”
“Ah, the famous Suzette,” my dad says, his smile disappearing. �
��There’s always a Suzette around to put a person’s best intentions to the test, isn’t there?”
Does Dad means there will always be dragons to fight? Always?
“But Alfie’s crazy about you, son,” Dad adds.
“So,” I say, smoothing my sheet over the blanket like it’s the most important job in the world. “You really think I have a good character?”
“I do,” Dad says, reaching over to rub my head with the flat of his hand, something he likes to do. It’s the mushiest he gets with me. “One of the best. You’re LOYAL and BRAVE. And forgiving, I hope. But the thing about character is that it isn’t just handed to you when you’re born, and that’s that. You have to keep working on it your whole life long.”
“I’ll have to work on it?” I almost yelp.
Like I don’t have enough to do? All that homework? And being a good friend to Corey and Kevin? And teaching Alfie stuff, and secretly protecting her from dragons like Suzette Monahan—even if that means dinging up my character a little?
“Hey, don’t worry about it, dirty-sock boy,” Dad says, adjusting my sheet. “You’ll do great. And listen, I’m going to pay for those broken eyeglasses, by the way—except for maybe two allowances from you. Or half of four allowances, so you won’t ever be totally broke. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” I say, relieved. Because I have a lot of expenses—like candy, comic books, and models of dinosaurs, just to give you a few examples.
“But what about today?” Dad asks, getting back to his apology. “I’m sorry I let you down, son.”
“That’s all right,” I say, leaning against him in the dark. “And sorry about the socks.”
“I was just guessing,” Dad admits. “So, do you accept my apology?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, yes. I accept your apology.”
“And we’re good?”
“We’re better than good,” I tell my dad. “We’re supergood.”
“Then good night, EllRay,” Dad says, rubbing my head once more. “And—”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” we say together.
18
COTTON CANDY
“EllRay, pay attention,” Mom tells me on Monday afternoon from the front seat of our car—which is still old, but at least has a new battery in it.
Outside our car it is raining a little, but a big storm is on the way, Mom told me this morning. So, as planned, she picked me up from Oak Glen. We are waiting again in the line of cars in front of Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care. “Sorry. What?” I say, sliding my handheld video game under my backpack, because I know what’s coming.
“Dash inside and get Alfie, okay?” Mom says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
Grown-ups like to say “dash” when they’re talking about you running around in the rain, I have noticed. As if you won’t get wet if you dash.
“Okay,” I say, not bothering to argue. Because the truth is, I’m kind of curious about how things went for Alfie today with her friends Gnarly, Moany, and, most of all, the dreaded Suzette Monahan.
And I’ll be able to find out better if I see it with my own eyes.
“What’s Alfie wearing today?” I ask, so I can spot her faster. And a ZING of sadness goes through my chest as I remember the wadded-up pink jacket under her bed, nestling among the dust bunnies. That jacket was almost brand-new, and it used to be her favorite thing to wear. She said it made her feel like cotton candy.
It’s strange how one kid—jealous Suzette, calling it “poop jacket” that day, but wanting it later—could ruin something for Alfie that way. You’d think cotton candy would win out over rabbit poop any day of the week.
But real cotton candy can’t stand up to anything, I think, remembering the feeling of a big, cloudy, almost prickly bite of it dissolving into sweetness in my mouth.
It’s sweet for just a second, but still.
“I don’t remember what Alfie had on this morning when I dropped her off,” my distracted Mom says, fiddling with the radio. “Something cute, knowing her. She was asking where her striped sweater was this morning, so maybe she’s wearing—”
“That’s okay. Never mind,” I interrupt as politely as possible, opening the car door. “It’s not like I won’t recognize my own sister.” And I duck my head and dash toward the day care front door.
“Hi, EllRay,” the teacher with the clipboard says as I squeeze in past all the excited kids wanting to go home.
“There’s my daddy!” one little boy shouts, and the teacher confirms the sighting, checks his name off her list, and watches him scamper—dash—to his car.
“Bye, Vlad,” the teacher shouts after him, which gives me something to think about as I make my way through the main playroom. Some goofy parents named their kid Vlad? Like the vampire? What is wrong with grown-ups?
Maybe “EllRay” and “Alfleta” aren’t so bad after all!
I was hoping Alfie and her friends would be jammed into the playhouse in the covered play area, considering the rain. Instead, though, a couple of other girls and a very small boy are playing there. “No, you have to be the dog,” one of the girls is saying to the boy, who looks like he cut his own hair today with those snub-nosed scissors they make you use in preschool. Boy, is his mom going to be surprised.
I imagine informing those three kids that Suzette Monahan wets her bed.
Naw, they wouldn’t care.
I stand under the patio roof and stare out through the raindrops at the yard. Two soggy boys are using the swings, probably trying to remember how to pump. They are flutter-kicking their chunky little legs and bending forward a lot, but they’re not getting anywhere. “Push us,” one of the boys calls, spotting me.
“Can’t,” I yell back. “I’m looking for Alfie Jakes.”
“She’s over dere,” the other boy says.
He’s looking toward the far corner of the yard.
And out from behind the bush near the rabbit hutch come four little girls, their arms linked—but more in an “I’m not letting go no matter what!” kind of way than a “La-di-dah, we’re having so much fun!” way. There’s a big difference.
Suzette leads the line, of course, wearing a navy blue jacket with the hood up. She is followed by Alfie and the other two friends, Moany and Gnarly. Or Gnarly and Moany. I can’t tell them apart yet. Maybe it’ll be easier once Alfie invites them over to play.
Hey. I’ll have to work on that.
But—Alfie’s wearing her pink jacket again!
It’s wrinkled, and definitely wet, but she’s wearing it with confidence. That little jacket seems to glow in the gloomy playground like it’s lit up from inside.
Ha! In your face, Suzette Monahan.
Alfie’s getting there! Her pride is growing—a little, at least.
She is a rose.
Suzette twists her skinny body as she runs, whipping her followers around like the tail of a dragon. The little girl on the end—the one with the halo of blonde hair—loses her grip and goes flying off the line.
“Bye, Arletty,” Suzette sings out, running hook-armed now with the two other girls in a giant figure eight. It’s like she’s trying to make them dodge the raindrops.
Arletty scrambles over to the covered patio, laughing. “Hi, Alfie’s Brother,” she says, looking up at me.
“Hi,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“I’m all wet,” she tells me, sounding surprised as she looks at her arms and legs.
Now, Suzette is running even faster, ZIG-ZAGGING like a guy on a football field trying to run the ball closer to the goalpost without getting clobbered.
And—there goes Moany, tumbling off the end of the line. She collapses in a giggling heap, despite the rain.
“Mona,” Arletty shouts, holding out her arms. And Mona jumps to her feet and runs to join us.
Now, it’s just Alfie and Suzette, out in the rain.
Suzette pauses to stare at Alfie, as if coming up with a new plan to fit this unexpected and unwel
come situation. Then she clamps her linking arm tight, stands in one place, and starts whirling. It’s like she and Alfie are on ice skates, they’re moving so fast. It’s just a pink and navy blue blur. Who is going to let go first?
“Come on, Alfie. You can do it. Hold on,” I whisper under my breath.
“Al-fie! Al-fie!” Mona and Arletty cheer.
Suzette’s navy blue hood flies back as she spins—and then so does she, bouncing once on her rump—like one of Oak Glen Primary School’s unofficial dodgeballs. “OW,” she cries, but she doesn’t sound hurt. Not really. You can tell.
Still, Mona and Arletty rush back out into the rain, probably wanting to help Suzette to her feet.
But Alfie gets there first.
She’s actually helping Suzette stand up! She’s brushing off Suzette’s rump!
If that was Jared or Stanley out there, I think, scowling, I’d let them just sit in the rain all afternoon. I’d let them melt.
Well, maybe.
I wouldn’t brush off their rumps, though. That’s for sure.
But Alfie’s not me. I guess she gets to decide these things for herself.
“Alfie, c’mon,” I yell, trying to grab her attention away from the eight-armed hug-fest that seems suddenly to be happening in front of my very own eyeballs. “Mom’s waiting in the car!”
“Okay, EllWay,” Alfie calls out. And she gives Suzette, Mona, and Arletty a final squeeze, one big enough to last them all until tomorrow. Whatever is going to happen then.
My head aches just thinking about it.
And Alfie and her pink jacket rush toward me, as sweet as can be.
Sweet for the moment, anyway.
Like—a mouthful of cotton candy.
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