by Sally Warner
“Not enough,” Kevin says. “Anyway, that would only make you look better and me look worse, EllRay. And you know it! No, you gotta do a challenge. At least one. And I get to say what it is.”
“A CHALLENGE?” I say, echoing his words. “Is that like a dare? Because we’re not allowed to do dares. Remember? It’s against official Oak Glen Primary School rules.”
“A challenge is different from a dare,” Kevin says.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, thinking about it. Because you can challenge yourself, can’t you? To do better at something: a spelling test, jumping far, raising your score in a game. Or you can challenge a friend to do something as well as you can, like in a contest, or to do better at something than he did before. But throwing down a dare is trying to make someone do something he does not want to do.
“Of course I’m right,” Kevin says, looking prissy as he lifts his chin in the air.
His brown chin.
“Listen,” I tell him, inspired. “We gotta stick together, Kev—because of the community. Because we’re linked.”
I don’t really see it, not the way Dad means. At least not yet.
But hey. Anything’s worth a try.
“What are you talking about?” he says, looking madder than before, even.
“I mean, we both have brown skin,” I inform him—as if he didn’t already know.
“Oh, that,” Kevin says, shrugging. “I thought you were talking about us being friends.”
“We’re linked that way too,” I say, nodding.
“Well, we’re not linked like anything until you do my challenges,” Kevin announces. “You must successfully complete them,” he adds, as if he has just been given magical wizard powers.
And did you notice? Now, it’s definitely more than one challenge!
“Whatever, dog,” I tell him, a hopeless feeling settling over me like a pile of too-heavy blankets on a hot night. “Just tell me what I have to do.”
“I’m not done thinking them up yet,” he says, chin still high in the air. “But I’ll let you know when I do. Now, let’s go, before Ms. Sanchez starts looking for us.”
And even though I’m the one holding the envelope, Kevin leads the way down the empty hall to Principal James’s office. And here’s me trotting along behind him, deeper down the rabbit hole.
Man, I think, struggling to keep my legs going.
This is going to be one bad week.
8
PRINCIPAL HAIRY JAMES
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t EllRay Jakes and the Kevinator,” Principal James says as we slink into his holiday-decorated office. “I’ve been wondering where you two were. I was about to send out a search party,” he adds, glancing at his watch.
Yes, he still wears a watch instead of just looking at his cell. So does my dad.
I think Principal James is joking about the search party. But if there was one, I can imagine what the flyers he would hand out might say.
LOST!
THE ONLY TWO BOYS WITH BROWN SKIN IN MS. SANCHEZ’S THIRD GRADE CLASS!
“I’m sorry we’re late,” I tell him. “It was—the hall.”
“Yeah. Sorry. The hall,” Kevin—the Kevinator?—echoes.
“The other class representatives have come and gone,” Principal James says, ignoring our lame excuse. “May I have the envelope, please?”
I hand it over, knowing what’s inside.
Principal James reads the two pieces of paper that were inside the envelope as Kevin and I edge toward the door, hoping to make our getaway. But no such luck.
“Have a seat, boys,” he tells us, still reading. “Hmm. I like both these ideas. I’ll give Ms. Sanchez a jingle so she doesn’t worry, because I’d like you to stick around for a moment,” he adds, reaching for the phone on his desk.
Cool! Maybe.
Principal Harry James—which I secretly spell Principal Hairy James, because of the beard on his face—is okay for such a big, scary guy.
Well, he’s only scary because you have to go to his office for a talking-to if you get in trouble. But most of the time, he’s nice. He stands on the school’s front steps every morning, greeting each of us by name. I think he must study flash cards at home. And he’s there when school lets out, too, to say good-bye. Alfie calls him the “hello and good-bye man.”
She’ll learn how important he is soon enough. Next year, in fact.
Watch out, Oak Glen Primary School!
The principal murmurs into the phone for a few seconds, then perches his skinny rear end on his desk and faces Kevin and me.
“Relax,” he says, smiling through his beard as he rearranges a couple of the snow globes on his desk. “You’re not in any trouble, guys. But you came all this way down that hall,” he says, fake-shuddering.
Wait. Is he making fun of my lame excuse for being late to his office?
“So, you might as well stay so we can talk about Friday’s assembly,” he continues. “Because planning it this year has been a real headache, let me tell you. But your class has saved the day. We’ll call it An Oak Glen Winter Wonderland, just to make it our own. That has a real ring to it, don’t you think?”
He isn’t worried by the fact that there isn’t anything very Winter Wonderland-y at all about Oak Glen in the winter. Sometimes the weather pours down rain and wrecks people’s outside decorations. Sometimes there’s a Santa Ana windstorm, and pitiful dried-up old Christmas trees roll around in the gutters, making Alfie want to adopt them and take them home, even though Christmas is over. Sometimes it gets strangely cold, and plants keel over and die.
That’s about it.
FA LA LA LA LA.
“I was thinking of dividing the morning up into two assemblies,” Principal James tells us. “That way, we’ll have enough room in the back of the auditorium for your families to be comfortably seated. So the first assembly will be kindergarten through third grade, and the second will be fourth through sixth grades. Good idea, right?”
Kevin gives me a blank look.
“Sure,” I tell the principal. “And each assembly will be shorter, too. So that makes it a great idea.”
“And here’s where you two come into the picture,” Principal James says, springing it on us. “Since the third graders will be top dogs in the first assembly, I thought I’d ask one of you two boys to be the emcee.”
“What’s an emcee?” Kevin asks, sounding suspicious.
“It stands for M. C., ‘Master of Ceremonies,’” Principal James tells us. “That means you welcome everyone to the show, introduce each act, then say good-bye at the end of our Winter Wonderland assembly.”
“Kevin would be great at that,” I say, hoping that this act of generosity will convince Kevin that we’re friends again.
Not to mention that being emcee of anything is the last thing I’d ever want to do.
Being an emcee is almost the definition of sticking out. Of not blending in.
So, “win-win,” as my dad sometimes says.
“Yeah, I would be great,” Kevin agrees. “Only I think EllRay should do it.”
What?
“And he really wants to do it, too,” Kevin continues, sliding me an evil grin. “Don’t you, EllRay?”
“I—I—”
“Don’t you?” Kevin asks again, giving me another look.
A look that says, This is one of your challenges, dude. And you have to do it.
“I guess so,” I tell Principal Hairy James. “I mean, sure. I’ll do it.”
“And you’ll do a terrific job, too, EllRay,” our principal informs me, unaware of the fainting, the hurling, or the other body calamities that might happen once I’m up there on the stage.
HO, HO, HO.
“So, good,” Principal James says. “That’s settled. Now, I think it’s about time for you two boys to get back to class, don’t you? And watch out for that hall,” he pretend-warns.
“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
HANGING OUT IN THE KITCHEN
“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 . . .
1. Jared uses the same musical note for every word he sings. He sounds like someone using a buzz saw.
2. Corey has decided to just move his lips and pretend to sing.
3. Stanley sings really loud, but he never gets the words right.
4. And so on.
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
OFFICIALLY BROWN
“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.
It’s like the cherry on the sundae.
“And then Dad said he was pwoud of you,” Alfie says, thinking it over.
Proud of me? For accidentally being named the emcee?
Listen. There’s tons of good stuff I’ve done that he doesn’t even know about!
1. I was nice a few times to this goofy kid in second grade who everyone was making fun of for dragging his blankie to school. In fact, I told them to cut it out.
2. And once, I secretly gave Annie Pat my sweatshirt to wear when she got the extreme shivers on the playground.
3. But I didn’t make any lame excuses to my mom when Annie Pat forgot to give it back. I just took the heat.
4. And I watch Alfie’s back all the time.
But Dad’s proud of this? Me being named the emcee—almost by accident?
“He’s pwoud of me, too,” Alfie hurries to tell me. “All the time, not just on assembly day. And I’m coming to your Winter Wonderland show, by the way,” she adds, bouncing on to yet another topic.