by Sally Warner
“I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “You’ll probably be busy having too much fun over at Kreative Learning and—”
“I’m coming,” she informs me. “You may be the king of the show, EllWay. But I get to be the king’s sister.”
“Okay, good,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “That’s just fine. See you there, Alf. And it’s your bath time, by the way.”
“But you didn’t give me the five-minute warning,” Alfie tells me, shaking her head. “Or the one-minute warning.” And she busily switches a couple of Barbies around—so that the stuck-up, mean one is at the very end of the line.
Take that, Vanessa-Suzette.
“I’ll let Mom give you those two warnings,” I say, feeling fed up and sad at the same time.
Because—Dad probably thinks that me being an emcee at the assembly will be good for the community. For everyone with brown skin. I just figured that out. And it makes me feel terrible! I can’t live up to that. I’m just an ordinary kid, with good parts and bad parts all scrambled together.
What if I accidentally mess up, like I did with Kevin’s friendship?
And what about what’s good for me?
11
CHALLENGE
“Hey, EllRay-dude,” Kevin says, coming up to me after lunch.
It is Wednesday, December seventeenth, and most of us ate outside—even though it is kind of cold, and the wind is blowing leaves and escaped sandwich bags around in circles, and puffy clouds are whizzing across the sky.
It’s actually great playing weather, though. We should get to stay outside the whole rest of the day, just flinging ourselves around. Most of us boys are allergic to sitting still, except when we’re playing video games.
And guys crashing into each other can be awesome.
“What, Kevin-dude?” I say, trying for a regular smile.
But I have been dreading this moment. What goofy thing is he going to come up with next for me to do?
“I got one,” Kevin tells me. “Your first challenge.” And a small crowd of guys quickly gathers around, as if they can somehow tell that something unusual—maybe even interesting!—is about to make their lunch break more lively.
Jared. Stanley. Even a worried-looking Corey.
“Wait. Wait,” I say. “I already agreed to be the emcee for the assembly. I thought that was my first challenge. How many are there gonna be? You can’t keep adding on,” I say, trying to act like I have a choice about doing them.
Which I don’t. Not if I want to make it up to Kevin so we can be friends again.
I really do owe him, even though it was an accident that I embarrassed him.
And with Kevin, once we’re even, it’ll be over.
Done with.
Forgotten.
Gone.
He’s cool that way.
“Three challenges, not counting being the emcee,” Kevin announces. “Because in books, everything happens in threes, doesn’t it? Three wishes. The three wise men.”
“But I think the wise men were from the Christmas story,” I say cautiously, not wanting to set him off again.
“Well, that’s in a book,” Kevin says.
No arguing with him there. “Okay,” I tell him in my most soothing voice. “What do I have to do?”
“Hang from the middle of the overhead ladder for a real long time,” Kevin says. “Until the buzzer sounds. Starting—now.”
And I try to hide my smile as our windblown posse heads toward the overhead ladder. Kevin’s first challenge will be an easy one for me! I’m really good at overhead ladder stuff.
I mean, I’ve never tried just hanging from it, but it sounds easy.
Oak Glen Primary School’s overhead ladder is metal, and it’s tall. There’s sand underneath. A couple of rungs on each side serve as steps. You climb up and then reach over to grab on to one of the top rungs. Then you swing hand over hand across all the top rungs of the structure until you get to the other side.
It’s more fun than it sounds, which is true of most things us kids like to do.
But Kevin doesn’t want me to swing my way across the overhead ladder. He wants me to swing my way to the middle and then stay there, holding on like crazy. The only problem will be that other kids—mostly first- and second-graders—are already using it. So I get in the line and wait my turn to swing to the middle and hold on, no matter what.
Okay. It’s my turn.
And—I’m up the side rungs.
I grab hold of the first top rung—it’s cold!—and start swinging toward the middle rung. I can almost taste the cold metal in my mouth, which is weird.
Swinging, swinging, swinging, swinging, STOP.
And—I’m hanging, holding on with my too-small, puny hands.
Little hamster paws, they feel like.
And that’s when the “hold on, no matter what” part turns out to be harder than I thought. Because once I’m hanging there, the little kids keep trying to swarm past me.
They don’t get it yet, that this is a big-deal, third grade challenge!
1. One chunky first-grader with red hair comes chugging past like I’m invisible, his legs flailing as he kicks my shins. Not on purpose, but it still hurts.
2. Two tiny girls swing right by me, one on either side, chattering the whole way. They couldn’t stop talking for a minute, even? Why do girls talk so much? At least it’s not just Alfie who does it! I was starting to think there was something wrong with her.
3. A feisty second-grader with a mean glint in his eye swings his way toward me from the wrong direction, and then tries to go through me, basically. “Move it! Move it!” he keeps yelling as he kicks at me, even though I’m older than he is. “You’re hogging the whole thing! No fairsies!”
Meanwhile, down on the sand, Kevin, Corey, Jared, and Stanley are watching me. Corey looks like he’s counting under his breath. His lips are moving. And then up come Emma, Annie Pat, and Kry.
Oh, great, I think, as my hands start to sweat and burn at the same time, and as my head starts to feel like a water balloon about to explode.
Witnesses.
12
TICKLISH?
A-million-and-one.
A-million-and-two.
A-million-and three.
That’s what it seems like, anyway.
At least I don’t have to use the restroom!
And the second I think that, I do need to use the restroom. Why does that always happen?
Think of something else, I order myself. Anything else. Think about the broiling hot Anza-Borrego desert in the summer, or Christmas morning, or decorating cookies with a whole bottle of sprinkles—and then eating them. Think about being a superhero in the game of Die, Creature, Die, and about staying up late, and no school.
Do not think about having to use the restroom.
Do not think of how much your hands hurt.
I already have calluses, sure. But they’re tiny, the size of Alfie’s fingernail clippings.
My arms feel hot and heavy, and my feet are numb. I’d kick them, just to get them back to normal, but then I’d fall to the ground for sure.
And so I just hang there.
A-million-and-twenty.
A-million-and-twenty-one.
Jared’s getting bored, I can tell. And then he gets this look on his face. “I wonder if EllRay’s ticklish?” he asks no one in particular.
But he asks it loud.
And he shoves to the front of the little-kid-line, climbs up a rung, then grabs on to an overhead rung with both gigantic hands. He swings my way. “Here I come, EllRay,” he calls out. “Are you ticklish, dog? TICKA, TICKA, TICKA! And you’d better hang on, or your stupid, show-off trick—whatever it is—won’t count. And you’ll have to start all over.”
Start all over? No way! But I’m too worn out to argue.
Now Jared is hanging at my side. I can smell bologna on his breath.
He lets go of the rung with one hand and reaches his grimy fingers toward
my poor, defenseless armpit.
Okay. I’m not gonna lie, I’m extremely ticklish. As in laugh-like-a-little-girl ticklish. I can’t help it! And that’s all I need, to laugh like a preschool girl in front of just about everyone.
I would have to move away from Oak Glen forever. Maybe to some foreign land.
You can do this, I tell myself as Jared’s horrible fingers are almost touching me. Just hang in there, dude. Just—
BRI-I-I-N-N-N-G! goes the buzzer.
And I, EllRay Jakes, have officially been saved by the bell.
I have completed my challenge.
I drop to the sand with a thunk and just lie there, trying to remember how to move. I see some legs walking up to me. “I guess you did it, dog,” Kevin’s voice says.
I think I almost hear some admiration in his words!
And then he’s gone.
“C’mon, EllRay,” Emma urges. “We gotta get to class.” She sounds both confused and worried.
I guess boys are a mystery to her.
It’s because we do stuff for different reasons than girls do, that’s the thing.
Our reasons are good. Theirs are random.
“Yeah. C’mon,” Corey says. And he hauls me to my feet.
Corey is abnormally strong, even though he’s a skinny guy. It’s probably because of all that swimming. His muscles are hiding out, but they’re there.
“You gotta walk, EllRay,” he tells me. “Left, right. Left, right. Move!”
“How long was I hanging there?” I ask as I scuffle my too-heavy feet through the sand, my sore arms hanging down like logs.
My hands are killing me. Each one feels as big as a bunch of bananas.
Hot bananas.
And I’ve got blisters! They’re popping up like grapes.
“I dunno,” Corey says. “A couple of minutes, maybe?”
“It had to be ten minutes, easy,” I argue with as much strength as I can pull together. “Maybe even fifteen.”
“Whatever you say, dog,” Corey says. But I can tell he’s just humoring me.
Who cares, though?
I did it!
13
THURSDAY’S CHALLENGE
“What’s with all the blisters, buddy?” Dad asks me at dinner Wednesday night, reaching over to examine my hands. “Your mom mentioned you were hurting.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “We were just playing. You know, grabbing stuff.”
“It looks like you’ve been out chopping down Christmas trees,” he jokes. “Which reminds me,” he adds, raising a finger. “I thought it might be fun for us to harvest our own tree this weekend, after the assembly—EllRay’s big day—is behind us.”
“It’s not my big day,” I object. “And you’re not coming, are you? You just went to the P.T.A. meeting. Don’t you have to work?”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Dad says. “I moved some appointments around. I don’t want to miss seeing you do us proud, son.”
Do us proud.
Does he mean our-family-us, or the-community-us?
I can’t ask. But either way, YOW.
Too much pressure.
“What do you mean, ‘harvest our own twee’?” Alfie asks, frowning.
“You know,” Dad explains. “Saw it down ourselves. There’s a Christmas tree farm not too far out of town. There was a feature in the local paper about it.”
“That sounds like fun,” Mom says. She likes having a real, live—well, dead—Christmas tree in the house each year. “I could pack a picnic,” she adds. “And we can take some pictures.”
Events are very well photographed in our family, thanks to my mom. First time crawling, first steps, first days of school, birthdays, new clothes. Special assemblies, for sure. You name it, and Mom’s been there with a camera.
Alfie’s fork droops. “Saw it down?” she asks, sounding like Dad has just suggested going out and strangling a turkey for our holiday dinner. “Instead of buying it at the Christmas twee store?”
“But Alfie,” I say, trying to reason with her. “Where do you think all the trees in the Christmas tree stores come from? Christmas tree farms, that’s where. People make their living growing them. So it’s the same thing, really.”
“No. They come from the North Pole,” Alfie says, like she’s answering an especially lame riddle. “Weally,” she adds, determined to have the last word.
Mom, Dad, and I exchange quick, secret looks, trying silently to figure out what to say next to avoid one of her meltdowns. “Well, moving on,” Mom finally says. “Who wants some dessert? We have applesauce or ice cream.”
Guess which one I choose?
It is now Thursday morning, the day before the big assembly, An Oak Glen Winter Wonderland. But I have a feeling that today is going to be a big day, too—because I’m pretty sure Kevin’s going to come up with a Thursday challenge for me.
What’s it gonna be?
It’s raining out, hard, so at least my poor hands will get off easy this time.
“Let’s go through our song, girls and boys,” Ms. Sanchez says after taking attendance. Each class has just started practicing its song, so there won’t be time for a big group rehearsal. But since I will be the emcee for the first assembly, I know what the songs will be. Ms. Sanchez gave me a list so I could learn how to announce them.
1. The kindergarteners will sing “Jingle Bells,” complete with construction paper antlers tied around their heads—though I’m not sure why they always pretend to be reindeer. Because it’s tradition, I guess.
2. The first grade is singing “Frosty the Snowman.” No drama there.
3. Second grade will sing “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” which should be funny. I wish we’d gotten that song!
4. And we third-graders are singing “Jingle Bell Rock,” like we planned, only we’re singing the whole thing twice. The girls will do their jingle bell dance in the middle of it. Seeing their moves, Ms. Sanchez has already warned them to “tone it down a little.” But judging from their rehearsals at recess, anything could happen.
So, perfect! There’s nothing about religion—or sugar—in any of the songs, which I guess will make Principal James and any grouchy parents happy.
Ms. Sanchez says the words to a song are called “lyrics.” “Jingle Bell Rock” has some weird lyrics, no offense. I’ve heard the song before and one of the first lines says, “Blowing up bushels of fun.” I’m not even kidding! I’m surprised we’re allowed to sing about blowing things up, much less at Christmastime. I mean, at Winter Wonderland time. But us boys will probably sing that line the loudest.
KA-BLAMMM-O!
“EllRay. Listen up,” Kevin whispers as Fiona McNulty passes out the lyrics—which we are supposed to have memorized by tomorrow, ha, ha. “Challenge number two, dude. You have to say ‘I love you’ to Fiona when she hands you the paper.”
“What?” I say, trying not to squawk. “Dude. This is really challenge number three, counting the emcee thing.”
“And you have to say it so she can hear you,” Kevin adds, ignoring my argument. “No whispering.”
A couple of guys—Jared and Stanley, anyway—must have been given the heads-up on this second challenge, because they’re grinning big-time, watching and waiting.
So, I guess they’re in on what’s happening, now.
And Fiona and her weak ankles are getting closer.
Look. I like Fiona McNulty just fine, especially when we’re doing art. You get good ideas just from spying on what she does. But Kevin’s the one who kind of likes her. So this is just weird!
And now, she is nearing my desk.
And I have to say I love her.
Only doing this, and then completing the final challenge, using Kevin’s messed-up arithmetic, will balance things out between me and him.
And then we can be friends, and everything will blend together again.
She’s getting closer.
Closer.
Closer.
She han
ds one of the papers to Emma, who sits next to me. Fiona is acting important, I notice—as if she has been appointed Ms. Sanchez’s official Vice Teacher. Maybe permanently.
“Here you go, EllRay,” she says, handing me a piece of paper.
I guess the jingle hop has begun.
“Thanks, Fiona,” I say. “I love you. Have a nice day,” I add, all in the exact same tone of voice.
Fiona, who is already handing the lyrics to Kry Rodriguez, stops.
She just stops.
And then she backs up a few steps, as if she has thrown herself into reverse. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
“What did you just say to me?” she asks. It’s like my words just gave her an electric shock.
Well, she’s not the only one. I can’t even feel my face.
“I said, ‘Thanks, Fiona,’” I tell her, studying the words to the song. Supposedly.
“I mean after that,” Fiona says.
“After that, what?” I ask, looking up at her and blinking, to show how innocent I am.
Hey. I said it once. No one said anything about saying it twice.
“What did you say after that?” she asks.
“I said, ‘Have a nice day,’” I tell Fiona.
She narrows her eyes. “You’d better not be making fun of me, EllRay Jakes, or you’re gonna get it,” she whispers.
Right. What’s she going to do? Crayon all over me with feathery strokes until I apologize?
But I have to admit, she looks like she’s on the edge of hurt feelings. “I’m not making fun,” I tell her quietly.
And that’s the solid truth. I’m not.
I’m just trying to complete this challenge.
“Fiona! Finish up, if you please, so we can all start singing,” Ms. Sanchez calls out. And Fiona shoots me one last look.
I sneak a glance at Kevin, who is shaking with silent laughter. He gives me a thumbs-up, though.
He would be high-fiving Jared and Stanley, if he could.
But who cares? I completed the second—third!—challenge.