EllRay Jakes Is Magic

by Sally Warner

  “So why did they ask you to be in the show?” Dad asks, frowning.

  “That’s what I can’t figure out!” I say, the words almost falling out of my mouth. “Because like I said, nobody will be able to see what I’m doing! I guess it’s because I was the only one in the show.”

  “The only one?” my dad asks, his voice tight again.

  “The only magician,” I tell him as calmly as I can.

  GEEZ.

  “But you like doing magic,” he says, like he’s trying to get something straight inside his brain.

  “Yes,” I say. “More than I thought I would. And like I said, those are good tricks to do,” I add, since, he was the one who found them and taught me how to do them. “But not in front of the whole school at once.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind being in the show if you had better—bigger—tricks,” he says, still figuring it out.

  “But I don’t,” I say. “And the show is this Friday afternoon.”

  “Want me to talk to the principal for you?” Dad asks. “Explain things?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’d better do it myself. Tomorrow morning. He’ll understand.”

  Maybe.

  But the last thing I need is my dad making a big deal out of this.

  “Are you disappointed?” I ask him, even though the question makes me feel kind of shy. “You know, that I won’t be in the show?”

  “Not at all, son,” Dad says, giving me a smile. “Because you would be stepping aside for a logical reason, not because you were scared.”

  He still sounds proud of me!

  “I’d be a little scared, even if everything went right,” I admit.

  “That’s only natural,” my dad says, smiling again. “In fact, stage fright is probably the mark of a great performer.”

  I think about it for a second. “I wouldn’t say those tricks were great, exactly,” I finally tell him, trying to be honest. “Or that I’m such an amazing magician. Not yet, anyway.”

  Dad nods his agreement. “These things take time, EllRay,” he says. “That, and the right equipment, and a whole lot of practice.”

  “So, you’ll tell Mom what I decided?” I ask, looking at my knees again.

  I hate the thought of disappointing my mom—more than anything, just about.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Dad says. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and jump in the shower? I have a few things to take care of in here, and then I’ll come tuck you and Alfie in.”

  “But don’t say anything to Alfie about leaving the lights on,” I remind him. “Because I think she needs at least one more night before she backs down.”

  “Got it,” my dad says with one quick nod. “See, I do listen to you, son. Now, scoot.”

  And I scoot.

  14

  MAN-TO-MAN

  Grown-ups call Wednesday “Hump Day” because it’s in the middle of the Monday to Friday work week. You have to get over it—the invisible “hump”—to be able to coast down the other side of the hill toward Friday and, best of all, the weekend.

  I think it’s the same for kids, because Wednesday mornings are always a pain.

  1. It’s hard to get up on time.

  2. It’s hard to pry your little sister out of the bathroom so you can at least brush your teeth.

  3. It’s hard to find a shirt you want to wear that’s clean, or nearly clean.

  4. It’s hard to get all your school stuff together so you don’t forget anything and get in trouble in front of the whole class.

  But today, Wednesday, I wanted to get to school early enough to talk to the principal, so I pulled it together. And here I am, one of many kids swarming up Oak Glen Primary School’s wide front steps.

  And there he is, planted right in the center of the middle step where he “sees all,” as he sometimes tells us at assemblies. “Mr. Jakes!” he calls out through his beard.

  But today, instead of ducking my head, waving hello, and hurrying past him, as usual, I stop.

  “Penny! David. Hey, Kelli, what’s up? Bryce,” the principal is calling out. “What’s happening, Mai? What’s shakin’, bacon?”

  I clear my throat a couple of times, the way my half-friend Kevin sometimes does to get attention. But the principal can’t hear me AHEM-ING over the roar that surrounds us. “Excuse me,” I say, but my voice is still too quiet for him to hear.

  “Looking good, Leonard,” he yells. “Morning, Miss Daisy Liu!”

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” I shout in a way-too-loud voice. A couple of older kids turn, point, and laugh.

  So does the principal. “‘Your Honor,’” he says like he’s quoting me. “That’s a good one, EllRay! You’re priceless, d’you know that? How can I help you, son?”

  “I can’t be in the talent show on Friday,” I tell him louder than I’d like to.

  “And why is that?” he asks, focusing his famous laser-beam look at me. “Cold feet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Stage fright,” he explains, telling me what the expression means.

  Oh. That’s what Dad thought, too. And he was right, even if I didn’t admit it.

  “No,” I tell the principal, staring at his beard to make talking to him easier. “It’s because my two illusions are meant for small groups, like one or two people, not a big assembly. No one will be able to see them. So I have to—to step aside,” I say, using my dad’s words. “Sorry,” I add, trying to look like I mean it.

  “And yet you tried out for the show with those two tricks,” the principal points out, petting his beard.

  “I had to think up something fast,” I explain. “I mean, the whole talent show idea was kind of last-minute.”

  Wait. Does that sound like I’m criticizing him?

  “I like to come up with something fun for my students toward the end of the year, when things start to sag a little,” the principal tells me, like he’s talking man to man. “Only there’s no money left in the PTA Special Events Fund. So a talent show seemed like a good option.”

  “You mean because it’s free,” I say. “That’s fine, except my illusions won’t work. Like I said before, they’re too small. So I’ll have to step aside,” I tell him again.

  I like saying “step aside.” It sounds better than “quit.”

  “No one’s going to be stepping anywhere at this point, except onto the auditorium stage this Friday afternoon,” the principal says, a that’s-that look settling on his hairy face. “And you’re our show’s only magic act,” he adds. “Don’t worry, EllRay. You’ll do fine. Just relax.”

  Whenever someone tells you to “just relax,” exactly the opposite happens.

  So far, Hump Day isn’t going so great.

  “I won’t do fine,” I say, not backing down. “I’ll do awful. And I can’t relax! I’ll be a flop. Everyone will laugh at me, or boo me off the stage. And I’ll never live it down, ever—for three more years. Even my dad understands,” I add, bringing out my best ammunition. Because I think the only thing that really counts with teachers and principals is kids’ parents.

  And that’s messed up.

  “Your dad,” the principal says, echoing my words.

  “Dr. Warren Jakes,” I remind him.

  They’ve talked before. The principal looks like he’s getting a headache.

  He sighs. “Well, EllRay, I understand what you’re saying, and I’m sorry,” he says. “I’d like to let you off the hook, believe me. But the program is already being printed up, and your name’s on it.”

  That’s no reason at all! Programs are just pieces of paper, and I’m a person. “You could make an announcement saying sorry, but there’s no time for my magic act,” I say, almost begging, as a couple of sixth-graders shove past me.

  DO. NOT. CRY, I tell myself, making it an order.

  “Tell you what,” the principal says. “When I introduce your act, I will explain about the tricks being meant for smaller venues. And then you can go ahead and do them.”

 
Venues? Now, I don’t know what he’s saying—except that he’s not gonna let me out of this stupid talent show.

  “And rest easy,” the principal assures me. “No one is going to boo. Not at my school.”

  His students. His school. What is up with this guy?

  “I really don’t wanna do it,” I say, my voice barely there. “Please don’t make me.”

  “What was that?” the principal says, cupping a big hand behind one of his ears as he leans over to get down to my shrimpy level. “I didn’t hear that last part.”

  “Nothing,” I mumble. “It was nothing.”

  I’m nothing. He’s not even trying to understand. And he thinks he’s such a great principal, saying hi to everyone!

  “Then you’d better run along to class,” he tells me. “And don’t worry about Friday, EllRay. You’ll do great.”

  15

  SOME VERY GOOD ADVICE

  “Okay,” Fiona says, taking charge for once, even though she is usually the shyest kid in our class. It is Thursday lunch, which is the deadline to hand in our pages for Ms. Sanchez’s wedding shower book. We are all huddled around the girls’ picnic table. “Who goes first?” she asks.

  “Here’s mine,” Kry says, putting a piece of paper on Fiona’s sweater, which she has spread on the table to keep our pages clean.

  “What’s your wedding advice?” Cynthia asks. Kry is the only girl Cynthia looks up to. I guess that’s why she asked.

  “It says, ‘Play outside with your husband every day,’” Kry reports. “But what I wrote about why I like Ms. Sanchez is private.”

  Good, I think—because I feel the same way.

  “I’ll go next,” Heather says, eager to get it over with. “My advice is, ‘Don’t ever cut your hair short. My mom says that men love long hair.’”

  Huh. I never knew ladies had official ideas about stuff like that.

  “Next?” Fiona asks.

  Kevin clears his throat. “Here’s my advice,” he says. “‘Save up. Don’t spend all your money.’ My dad helped me with that one,” he adds, making a face.

  Ms. Sanchez and that guy she’s marrying—okay, Mr. Timberlake, but the one who runs a sporting goods store, not the famous one—both have jobs, so they must already be pretty rich. But whatever.

  “Good,” Fiona says, straightening the pile of papers as if she’s the teacher. “Stanley?”

  “I think Ms. Sanchez saw him writing it this morning,” Cynthia says, tattling.

  “She did not,” Stanley says, glaring at Cynthia through his smudged glasses. “Anyway, mind your own business. My advice is, ‘Make chocolate chip cookies for Mr. Timberlake every week.’”

  I think that’s some very good advice. Excellent advice. And oatmeal cookies are good, too—if you leave out the raisins.

  “Corey?” Fiona asks.

  “Okay,” Corey says, blushing underneath his freckles. “My advice says, ‘Call your husband “honey” and “sweetie” and “darling” a lot, in case you forget his name.’”

  “Ooo, ‘darling,’” Stanley jeers. “Smoochy, smoochy,” he adds, kissing his hand.

  “You and your hand,” I say, teasing him. Corey’s my best friend, so Stanley should lay off. “What’s up with that? Are you in love with your hand, Stanley? Kissy, kissy, kissy?”

  A couple of girls giggle.

  “Shut up, EllRay,” Stanley mumbles, even though we aren’t allowed to say that.

  “Yeah. Shut up,” Jared says. “Here’s my advice for Ms. Sanchez. ‘Don’t fight in front of your kids.’”

  I feel kind of bad about that one, because Jared’s parents do fight in front of their kids. And their kids’ friends. I heard them do it once. I wanted to go home—and I hugged my own mom and dad when I got there.

  “That’s a good one,” I tell Jared.

  “What’s yours?” Jared challenges me, in case I’m making fun of him—which I’m not.

  I am instantly so embarrassed that my ears buzz. But of course this won’t be anywhere near as bad as the talent show tomorrow, I remind myself. “My advice says, ‘Learn how to play your husband’s favorite video games. And do whatever you want at night,’” I add, thinking of my parents.

  “Also good ones,” Corey congratulates me.

  “No, they aren’t,” Heather scoffs. “They’re opposites! Because how is Ms. Sanchez going to play her husband’s video games and do whatever she wants at night? He should do what she wants, for a change.”

  “She could do both,” Corey says, defending me. “Maybe playing video games is what Ms. Sanchez really likes to do.”

  I kinda don’t think so. But I still think she could follow both pieces of advice.

  “Cynthia?” Fiona says, probably to change the subject—even though she’s usually so scared of her that she almost turns invisible when Cynthia and Heather are around. I guess being chosen to do the fancy cover for our class’s book has made her braver, somehow.

  “Okay,” Cynthia says, looking important. “Here’s my advice. ‘Instead of saying, “For richer or poorer, for better or worse,” which my mom says is in the wedding vows, you should say, “For richer and richer, for better and better.” Because why go asking for trouble?’”

  “Good advice,” her assistant Heather says, nodding her head.

  Which proves that she would congratulate Cynthia on anything.

  “But it’s long advice,” Emma says, frowning. “And I don’t think you can go changing stuff that’s in the Bible,” she adds.

  “It’s not in the Bible,” Cynthia tells her, her nose in the air. “Heather checked. Someone just made it up. What’s your wedding advice for Ms. Sanchez, if you’re so smart?”

  “Mine is, ‘Get lots of pets so you can practice for having babies,’” Emma tells us. “Because I think they should have more than one. Baby, I mean.”

  Emma is an only child, she told me once. I guess that’s why she thinks that.

  I should lend her Alfie for a while.

  Annie Pat laughs. “That’s funny,” she says. “Because my advice is, ‘Go to the beach whenever you can. And only have one baby.’”

  And Annie Pat’s mom has a baby at home!

  Annie Pat and Emma are best friends, but they gave OPPOSITE advice about having babies. That’s strange.

  “And here’s my advice,” Fiona says. “‘Always wear darling shoes.’”

  “Good one,” Emma says, smiling.

  The girls in our class are all big fans of Ms. Sanchez’s clothes—especially her shoes, which are mostly high heels.

  “Everyone who hasn’t turned their paper in yet has to get it to me by the end of the day,” Fiona announces to the rest of the kids. “Or they won’t be in the book. But don’t let Ms. Sanchez catch you writing stuff down,” she warns. “Or you’ll wreck the secret.”

  “What about the cover?” Cynthia asks. “Let’s see it.”

  “You can’t, because it isn’t done yet,” Fiona says. “The glue for the lace and pearls hasn’t dried. But I’m finishing it tonight.”

  “Ooh. Lace and pearls,” Annie Pat says, her eyes wide.

  “You better finish,” Cynthia says, just to keep in practice for being mean, I guess.

  “Yeah,” Heather says. “I second that. Maybe we should vote on it.”

  “Nah,” Cynthia says, and Heather blushes.

  Jared looks worried.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask him.

  “I dunno,” he says, shaking his big head. “I think some of our advice is kind of weird.”

  “Well, but so are we,” Emma says, laughing.

  “You, maybe,” Cynthia says.

  “It’s okay,” I tell Jared. “Ms. Sanchez is pretty much used to us. I think she’ll expect weird.”

  “And she’ll love the book,” Kry—the optimist—assures him.

  “Yeah,” Jared grumbles. “She’ll like it the way some parents say they like their kids’ scribble-scrabbles, when they put them up on the fridge with magnets. Bu
t everyone will laugh at us.”

  “They might laugh,” I say, thinking more about the talent show than the wedding shower book. “But it’s too late now to do anything else. So just forget about it, dude.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Jared says, making himself look big, which isn’t hard.

  “Maybe I wasn’t talking to you,” I tell him.

  And P.S., I wasn’t.

  I was talking to myself.

  16

  TOGETHER

  “Daddy’s home!” Alfie shouts a few hours later.

  I have been practicing my two TEENY-TINY magic illusions in my room. I’m sick of them, and I know I’m gonna flop tomorrow. But if I have to perform those illusions at the talent show, I might as well do them right.

  It’s not their fault they’re small.

  Maybe their father tells them that they’ll grow bigger any day now.

  “Go give him a big hug,” Mom tells my little sister. “Why don’t you go too, EllRay?” she adds, smiling as if she knows a secret. “Give him a hand with his briefcase, maybe. Or whatever he needs help with. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

  So I wander out the kitchen door after Alfie to greet my dad.

  He’s carrying a white FedEx box under one arm, which probably means he had something delivered to his office at the college. He claims that things get to San Diego faster than they do to Oak Glen, and he’s probably right. San Diego is a big city, and it has an airport.

  I like FedEx. Their packages always make things look important.

  “EllRay,” Dad says, smiling. “Help me out here, would you, son?”

  Alfie has wrapped her pudgy golden arms around his legs as part of her big hug. But I think he wants me to take the box he’s carrying, not unwrap Alfie from his legs.

  I just hope that box isn’t full of rocks!

  It’s not. It’s pretty light, in fact.

  “Want me to put this in your office?” I ask as Dad hobble-walks to the kitchen door, Alfie still attached to him like a starfish. She likes to walk—and sometimes dance—while standing on his feet.