by Sally Warner
14
PAYING CLOSE ATTENTION
“EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez says at two-thirty, just after recess. “Can you stay after school for just a bit?”
It is an hour before class lets out for the day, and we are each working on a Personal Timeline, even though tomorrow is the last day of school before Christmas vacation. I mean before Winter Wonderland vacation. But I guess Ms. Sanchez is determined to get some schoolwork done today.
A timeline is a graph that uses a line to show the passage of time. We get to make any kind of timeline we want, which is pretty cool. I am making a timeline of the third grade so far, from September to now. Emma McGraw wants to be a nature scientist someday, so she is making a timeline showing the life of a typical mouse. Spoiler alert: it does not have a happy ending.
Corey Robinson—the champion swimmer—is making a timeline that will start when he first learned to dog-paddle. It will probably end in the future, at the Olympics. And Cynthia Harbison is doing a timeline she is calling “Cynthia Harbison’s History of the Universe,” only I don’t think she’ll finish in time to hand it in.
“I thought you and I might run through what you’re going to say at the assembly tomorrow morning,” Ms. Sanchez says.
“Sure. But can you call my mom and ask her to pick me up late?” I ask.
See, Mom’s driving me home today because of the rain. But I know she won’t mind picking me up later than usual, She and Alfie will probably go out for hot chocolate at Grounds for Fun, Mom’s favorite place to hang with other writers. “Can you please tell her that I want hot chocolate, if she gets any? With whipped cream on top?” I ask.
“Will do,” Ms. Sanchez says, making an invisible check mark in the air. “And I’ll give her my order as well,” she adds, joking.
“Mom would get something for you,” I tell her. “Really. She’d be happy to.”
“I know she would, sweetie,” Ms. Sanchez says, laughing. “She’s a peach. I guess it runs in the family.”
“Huh,” I say, trying to figure out whether or not that is a compliment.
But I decide to decide that it is.
I think that’s the best way to handle comments like that, when you’re not sure.
“Okay,” Ms. Sanchez says after the last kid has shuffled out the door. “Only one more day to go, Mr. Jakes, and then we’re off. For seventeen whole days!”
“Huh,” I say again, even though Dad doesn’t like me to say “huh” at home. I’m supposed to say, “Oh,” I guess. Only I don’t really get the difference. They’re both just sounds.
But—Ms. Sanchez seems so happy about school letting out! I mean, I’m glad that school’s going to be over for so long. But I didn’t think a teacher would be happy about it. Not our teacher.
We’re not that bad, are we? Us kids?
Won’t she miss us, at least a little?
“Listen, EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez begins. “Our assembly is going to start at around nine-thirty tomorrow morning, so right after attendance, we’ll do one last run-through of the song, and then begin our calm, orderly trek to the auditorium.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I think she was being sarcastic with that last part.
“Then we’ll probably all say the Pledge of Allegiance,” she says. “And Principal James will welcome everyone to Oak Glen Primary School. Then he’ll introduce you, the emcee.”
“Okay,” I say again, starting to feel kind of hot and tingly.
I am really going to have to do this.
“So, what were you planning to say?” Ms. Sanchez asks, tilting her head. The shiny black hair in her bun is falling down a little, the way it does at the end of the day, and her brown eyes look tired. But she is paying close attention to me.
“I was gonna say ‘Hi,’” I tell her. “And then I was gonna say, ‘Here are the kindergarten kids, singing something just for you.’ And, like, do that for all the grades.”
Ms. Sanchez thinks for a few seconds. “Maybe a little more preparation might not be a bad thing,” she finally suggests.
That means more preparation would be a good thing. Grownups sometimes say things backward. You have to learn to translate.
“How much preparation?” I ask. Because I’m no good at memorizing things—especially stuff I’m going to have to say in front of a zillion people. Including strangers.
“Just a little,” she assures me. “For instance, you need a nice, short opening, and a good strong closing so people will know An Oak Glen Winter Wonderland is really and truly over, and they can go home. And, as you said, there should be a brief introduction for the song each of the four grades will perform.”
Ms. Sanchez really wants me to do a good job. I can tell!
This makes me feel happy and nervous at the same time.
“I don’t have to tell any jokes, do I?” I say.
“Heavens, no,” Ms. Sanchez says, shaking her head. “Just, ‘Hello, and welcome to An Oak Glen Winter Wonderland. Right into the mic, and speak slowly. Because rushing through the words is the number-one mistake most people make when speaking to a crowd. Now, you give it a try.”
“Hello-o-o!” I say, my voice sounding robot-slow as I form the first word. “Welcome to a Winter Wonderland. In Oak Glen,” I finish. And then I wonder where I went wrong. It seemed so easy when she said it.
“Welcome to An Oak Glen Winter Wonderland,” Ms. Sanchez tells me again.
“Okay. I got it. ‘Hello,” I say, shouting the word. “And welcome to a Winter Wonderland! At Oak Glen Primary School! No, wait.”
“That would work just fine, EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez says, smiling. “That’s basically right.”
“But I want to be exactly right,” I tell her. “My dad’s gonna be there! And my mom. And Alfie,” I add.
I think Ms. Sanchez gets it about my dad. “Well, if you want to memorize the first part exactly,” she says, “just remember that O comes before W in the alphabet. See? ‘Oak Glen’ comes before ‘Winter Wonderland.’”
“Hello, Oak Glen! And welcome to a Winter Wonderland,” I SHOUT again—a moment before stomping my foot. “Dang!” I say, scolding myself.
“But see, that was just fine, too,” Ms. Sanchez tells me. “And then if you add a nice, loud ‘Thanks for coming!’ at the end of our song, you’ll be home free. It’s not like you have to be word perfect.”
Hey. Is she giving up on me already?
“I don’t even get why he chose me, anyway,” I mumble. “Or why you chose me,’ I add, my voice getting stronger. “I mean, why you chose me and Kevin to take the envelope to Principal James’s office. You could have chosen anyone! A girl would have begged to take it. She would have been honored.”
Emma. Annie Pat. Fiona. Kry. Cynthia.
Ms. Sanchez looks up, as if the answer might be written on the ceiling. “I can’t honestly remember why I chose you that day,” she finally says.
And I believe her. I really do.
15
BEING SINGLED OUT
I take a deep breath before speaking again. “But you do know why the principal wanted Kevin or me to be the emcee, don’t you?” I say, daring to look her in the eye.
“I’m not sure—” she begins, protesting.
“It’s because we have brown skin, right?” I say, interrupting Ms. Sanchez for the first time in my life. “I mean, I think the principal’s the one who came up with the idea of maybe calling the assembly Diversity Day,” I add, my heart pounding. “You know, at the P.T.A. meeting. My dad told me. And me and Kevin are just about the only diversity the principal’s got. In the third grade, anyway.”
“It just happened to work out that way this year,” Ms. Sanchez says, shaking her head. “But maybe skin color was on his mind when he chose you,” she tells me. “I don’t know, EllRay. I honestly don’t think it was, but I can’t speak for Principal James. You could always ask him. But would it be such a bad thing if it was true? Principal James wants more diversity at Oak Glen. And he knows you’ll do a f
ine job. So why not you?”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I say, looking away.
“I don’t know what it’s like?” she asks. “EllRay, please, I, Yvette Carolina Angela Sanchez Verdugo, don’t know what it’s like being singled out because of the color of my skin?”
OOPS. Big-time. “Verdugo?” I ask, just for something to say.
“Verdugo was my mother’s maiden name,” she explains. “And that’s the traditional way to say it. But I go by Sanchez, to make things easier for people.”
“Oh. But you’re barely even brown,” I say, trying too late to defend myself.
“And you’re not as brown as Kevin,” Ms. Sanchez says. “And Kevin’s not as brown as Mrs. Jenkins in the office. It’s not a contest, EllRay.”
“Did kids used to pick on you when you were little?” I ask, afraid of what her answer might be. Because we all really like Ms. Sanchez. Who would ever have wanted to be mean to her?
They wouldn’t dare!
Ms. Sanchez frowns, scaring me for a second. “Are kids picking on you, EllRay? Because of your skin color, I mean?”
“No,” I say. “If they yell at me, it’s for other reasons. Like, maybe I get on someone’s nerves. Or I hog the kickball. Or I step on their foot.”
Or I hurt their feelings in front of other kids.
“Well, they’d better not not pick on you,” she says, looking kind of fierce for the prettiest teacher at Oak Glen Primary School.
“But they picked on you?” I ask again.
And she nods. “I was born in the nineteen eighties, EllRay, and things had changed for the better by then, at least a little. But there were still plenty of bad times,” she tells me. “I think things are better now, though. Not perfect, but better.”
“That’s good, I guess,” I mumble.
“So, yes, children did pick on me,” Ms. Sanchez says, a faraway look in her eyes. “Un poquito. A little. My older brothers came in for more of it, I’m sure. But there were a couple of bad names kids still used, even then,” she tells me. “And once, an adult told me to go back where I came from.”
“Why? Where did you come from?” I ask, curious.
San Diego? Pasadena? Cucamonga?
Ms. Sanchez laughs. “Well, Los Angeles, as it happens. In fact, my mother’s side of the family were landowners here in California long before it was even a state,” she says. “Only she brought us up never to boast. Not that the man trying to insult me would have known anything about Old California history, or Los Californianos.”
“I hate him,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to hate people like that, sweetie,” Ms. Sanchez says, smiling. “Just hate what they say. And feel sorry about those empty minds they have to lug around all day long.”
“But—you’re getting married next summer,” I remind her. “And then you won’t even be Ms. Sanchez anymore. You’ll be Mrs. Timberlake, only not the famous one.”
“He’s famous with me, EllRay,” she says, laughing. “And I’ll still have brown skin. But in my heart, I will always be Yvette Carolina Angela Sanchez Verdugo. And proud, too, no matter how modest and polite my mama was. And I’d be just as proud if my family had come here much more recently, by the way.”
“Your skin’s more caramel than brown,” I say, trying to think how Fiona the artist would describe it in official crayon colors.
And I’m also thinking that my name, Lancelot Raymond Jakes, may be weird, or even the “EllRay” part, but at least it’s not long. That long, anyway. It would take forever to write it! “Wait a minute. I’m almost finished,” I picture Ms. Sanchez saying, whenever she has to write her name.
“My skin color is brown, EllRay. Just like yours,” Ms. Sanchez insists.
“I guess it is,” I say. And a warm, happy, proud feeling spreads through my chest.
Maybe Principal James did choose me to emcee for some complicated grownup reason of his own, or maybe it was pure accident. But I’ll do a good job anyway.
“And you, young man, are going to do a fine job at the assembly tomorrow morning,” Ms. Sanchez says, reading my mind as usual. “Listen,” she adds, inspired. “I have a special marker we can use. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll print the four songs you have to announce on the palm of your hand.”
“But what about the introduction?” I ask. “Hello to a Winter Wonderland Welcome in Oak Glen, California,” I say, trying again.
“That would work just fine,” Ms. Sanchez tells me. “But I’ll write down the correct sentence now, so you can practice it tonight. If you want to.”
She prints fast, then glances up at the wall clock. “Oops,” she says, surprised. “Your mom will be waiting for you, sweetie. Tell her I’m sorry I kept you so long, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
But I’m not sorry.
Not even one little bit.
16
LAST CHALLENGE
“We’re supposed to wear red today,” I yell into Mom and Dad’s bedroom about five seconds after I wake up on Friday morning. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Way-y-y ahead of you, EllRay,” Mom says, coming out of her room. She is holding a newly-ironed red sweatshirt as if it is a masterpiece she just finished painting.
And who—besides my mom—irons a sweatshirt?
That’s how important today is to her. And to Dad. And maybe even to Alfie.
“Red enough for you?” Mom jokes. “Listen,” she adds, seeing my surprise. “I’m the room parent, remember. I’m the one who sent out the e-mail last week about wearing a red top, if possible.”
Alfie stumbles out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes. “Where’s mine?” she asks Mom.
“Still on the ironing board,” Mom says.
“You mean we’re gonna be dressed alike?” I say, but Mom just laughs.
“You know Miss Alfie would never wear a plain old sweatshirt,” she tells me, shaking her head. “Hers has a beautiful brown angel on the front, with lacy white wings that stick out a little. It’s adorable.”
Alfie beams. “My angel’s got a sparkly halo, too,” she tells me. “If Santa Claus is spying on me, he’ll think I look cute. And good, EllWay, because of the halo. So no tattling.”
“Nervous?” Mom asks me, draping the red sweatshirt over my arm with care. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
“I got a bad night’s sleep,” I inform her. And it’s true, because I had weird dreams all night long. I don’t remember them, but I could use a nap. And I haven’t even had breakfast yet.
“Well, let me finish up with Alfie’s outfit, then I’ll scramble some eggs. You need some protein in that tummy,” Mom tells me.
I’m afraid that if I put anything in “that tummy,” as Mom called it, there’s gonna be a tummy-related disaster. Maybe all over the Oak Glen Primary School stage.
BLAR-R-R-R-T!
But I’m too tired to argue with her, so I keep my mouth shut.
“All right, everyone,” Ms. Sanchez calls out, clapping her hands to get our attention after the last in-class rehearsal. “It’s time to walk to the auditorium. Quietly,” she adds, raising a warning finger. “Muffle your jingle bells, ladies.”
And the girls clasp their bells to their chests so they won’t give away our class’s noisy surprise.
We are feeling excited for three reasons. First, today is different from other school days. Second, we are about to perform onstage, in front of a lot of strangers. And third, winter break is about to start. And you can add a fourth excitement for me, because I’m the emcee.
As she promised, Ms. Sanchez used a special pen to print short versions of the four acts on one of my palms.
1. K: Jingle Bells.
2. First: Frosty.
3. Second: Mean Grinch.
4. Third: Jingle Bell Rock.
And on my other palm, she printed, very small, “Welcome to Wonderland!” and “Thanks for coming!” This is followed by “NICE AND SLOW.”
Now, all I hav
e to do is to not sweat, because I want to be able to read her writing. And because I want to do a good job.
I really do! I know that now.
1. I want to do a good job for Oak Glen Primary School.
2. And I want to do a good job for Ms. Sanchez, and for our bright-red third grade class.
3. And I want to do a good job for my mom and dad and little sister.
4. I even want to do a good job for the community, as Dad calls it. Not that the community will notice.
5. But I especially want to do a good job for myself.
Maybe I am a natural leader! Who knows? But if I am, I have to start someplace.
Who cares what Principal Hairy James’s reason was when he said that either Kevin or I had to be the emcee? And who cares why Kevin told me I should do it?
None of that matters anymore.
“Dude, listen,” Kevin McKinley whispers as we work our way down the main hall, which is still decorated with those Frisbee-sized snowflakes.
“What?” I say, interrupting my silent practice.
“I figured out your last challenge,” he says. He has a funny look on his face, like he wants to apologize ahead of time for something.
“I already did three,” I remind him.
“Tell him,” Jared urges in his version of a quiet voice.
“Yeah. Tell him,” Stanley says, grinning like a hyena.
Oh. So that’s how it is. Jared and Stanley are running things, now!
A couple of girls are looking at us as we whisper and walk, but we ignore them.
“Okay,” Kevin says, his voice shaking a little. “At the end of the show, right after you say, ‘Thanks for coming,’ you have to yell out a swear.”
“A good one, too,” Jared says.
He means a bad one. A bad swear word.
I’m doomed.
If I do it, I’m doomed.
This challenge is definitely coming from Jared, and maybe from Stanley, too. Not Kevin. And it’s more of a dare than a challenge, if you ask me. Because this is not something I would ever want to do.