EllRay Jakes is a Rock Star!

by Sally Warner

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - TALLER

  Chapter 2 - GETTING READY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY

  Chapter 3 - STRAYING FROM THE TOPIC

  Chapter 4 - KIND OF CRAZY

  Chapter 5 - MY CRYSTAL-CLEAR IDEA

  Chapter 6 - RARE AND VALUABLE

  Chapter 7 - WHAT AM I SAYING?

  Chapter 8 - DADDY’S HOME!

  Chapter 9 - MISSING

  Chapter 10 - ULTIMATUM

  Chapter 11 - EMMA AND ANNIE PAT

  Chapter 12 - TICK-TOCK

  Chapter 13 - NO WAY, ELLRAY!

  Chapter 14 - SOMETHING REALLY MESSED—UP

  Chapter 15 - SCREAMING AND YELLING

  Chapter 16 - OOPS

  Chapter 17 - VALENTINE’S DAY

  Chapter 18 - PROUD

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Text copyright © Sally Warner, 2011

  Illustrations copyright © Jamie Harper, 2011

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54775-5

  Set in ITC Century

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  For Ben Haworth—S.W.

  For Henry—J.H.

  1

  TALLER

  “I grew an inch last weekend,” my friend Kevin McKinley announces at lunch on Friday, smiling like it’s no big deal. But it is.

  Kevin is brown like me, but already he is TALLER than I am, so him growing another inch does not seem fair.

  Why can’t nature make things come out even? I don’t get it.

  It is Valentine’s Day in exactly one week, which means this is almost the middle of February. Just about every kid in Ms. Sanchez’s third grade class is outside, including me, because it is the first sunny day we have had in a long time. Even the birds are having fun. Crows are turning circles in the air.

  “No, you did not grow an inch in one weekend,” Cynthia Harbison says, basically calling Kevin a liar. “THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE.”

  Everyone holds their breath when Cynthia says something like this. She’s usually right, and she likes to boss people around. But mostly, she bosses the girls—especially Emma McGraw and Annie Pat Masterson.

  Cynthia’s dad has a really cool car, though. It’s an Audi. And she’s very neat, if you like that kind of thing, which I do not.

  “It is not impossible to grow that fast,” Corey Robinson says, defending Kevin. He is usually pretty quiet, and he has freckles on his face. Corey smells like chlorine all the time.

  Corey is a champion swimmer, but he’s not that tall. He’s a pretty cool guy. In fact, he’s very cool. He doesn’t threaten to beat me up the way Jared Matthews and his best friend and faithful robot Stanley Washington used to do.

  Jared is widely known as the meanest kid in our class. He is absent today.

  “Yeah,” I chime in, because Kevin’s also my friend. “Maybe he hung upside-down all day long both days, and his legs stretched.”

  As I say the words, I wonder why I didn’t think of this first, because I am the shortest kid—including all the girls!—in our class at Oak Glen Primary School in Oak Glen, California, USA.

  Hanging upside-down! It’s worth a shot, because: 1. I have already tried drinking so much milk that it almost comes out of my nose when I laugh.

  2. And I have tried sleeping straight, not curled up like the shrimp that I am.

  3. And I have tried “thinking positive,” which is something my dad always recommends. He is a champion positive thinker, unlike my mom, who is a worrywart. She also wants to be a writer of fantasy books for grown-ups, which is why my little sister Alfleta—“Alfie”—and I have such weird names.

  My real name is Lancelot Raymond Jakes, in case you didn’t know.

  But please, please, just call me EllRay.

  My dad’s name is Dr. Warren Jakes, and he teaches geology at a college in San Diego. He is very smart, and he is bigger than normal-sized, so maybe there is still hope for me.

  “I believe you, Kevin,” Emma says, daring to argue with Cynthia. “But how do you know you grew an inch?”

  “Because my mom marked it on the wall,” Kevin tells her—and everyone. “And the last time she did that, I was a whole inch shorter.”

  “When was that?” Emma asks.

  “Last summer,” Kevin says. “On the Fourth of July.”

  Cynthia snickers behind her hand. “Kevin’s mom writes on the wall! That’s so messy,” she says to Fiona McNulty, who is the shyest girl in our class. Fiona has weak ankles, she tells us way too often.

  Fiona really admires Cynthia, though. “Yeah. Writing on the wall is so messy,” she says, sounding like an echo.

  Kevin scowls. “You better not be making fun of my mom,” he says in a low and scary voice.

  And he’s right to say that, because kids can say any bad thing they want about another kid, if they have the nerve, but parents are off-limits.

  Also sisters and brothers, unless the kid officially hates them.

  Already-tall Stanley Washington frowns and pushes up his glasses higher on his nose. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” he says, as if he has been dividing numbers in his head.

  “You grew an inch since last summer, Kevin,” Krysten—“Kry”—Rodriguez says, backing Stanley up. “Not over the weekend.”

  Kry is very pretty, and she’s also good at math and at figuring things out.

  “Well, I know that,” Kevin says. He would be looking mad if anyone else had said what Kry did, but everybody in my class likes Kry.

  She’s another positive thinker.

  “That’s what I meant to say the whole time,” Kevin continues. “Only somebody interrupted me.”

  We all turn to look at Cynthia, but Cynthia just shrugs. “Well, who even cares?” she says, straightening the plastic hoop she wea
rs to hold her hair back from her face. “Anyway,” she adds like she is making perfect sense, “my dad’s taller than Kevin’s dad.”

  That doesn’t break the rule about not criticizing parents, but it comes pretty close. We think about it for a while.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Corey finally asks.

  “I’m just saying,” Cynthia says, satisfied, and Fiona gives her an admiring smile.

  “Well, who even cares who’s taller?” Stanley says. “Because Jared’s dad has a lot cooler stuff than all your dads. In fact, he got a brand-new ATV just last week. It’s red, and it has flame decals all over it.”

  “ATV” stands for “All-Terrain Vehicle,” and you can ride them fast in the desert or at the beach. Lots of places. You don’t even need roads.

  My dad would probably never buy an ATV, though, because he likes to protect the environment, I guess mostly because the environment has a lot of rocks in it.

  I like the environment, too, but I really want to ride in that ATV with the flames.

  “Jared’s dad might have cooler stuff,” Kevin says, defending his father, “but I’ll bet my dad has a ton more money than him. Because he doesn’t spend it all on ATVs, that’s why. He saves it.”

  The girls are looking uncomfortable by now, but none of them walks away.

  “Jared’s dad has a lot of money, too,” Stanley argues. “He wears solid gold jewelry and everything.”

  And I am thinking two things. First, Stanley is making Mr. Matthews sound like an ATV-driving rap star, if there is such a thing, only he’s not. Mr. Matthews is just a regular dad—if you can have someone extreme like Jared for your kid and still be regular.

  Second, how did we end up talking about whose dad makes the most money? We were talking about tallness! Then we were talking about stuff. How did this lunch period turn into a bragging contest about whose family is the richest—when so many other kids’ families are having money troubles?

  Maybe even kids here at Oak Glen Primary School.

  I already know I could never win this contest, because college professors like my dad don’t make a ton of money. Not to hear him tell it. Not compared to some people.

  And people who want to write fantasy books for grown-ups make even less.

  So how can I compete?

  What do I have to brag about?

  I have to FIND SOMETHING!

  2

  GETTING READY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY

  “Psst,” Emma whispers later that day. “Are you done with the red marker?”

  “Yeah,” I say gloomily, snapping the lid on and handing it over. I was drawing a huge ladybug with stingers and fangs, but whatever.

  “Isn’t this so much fun?” she asks.

  Valentine’s Day is a huge deal at Oak Glen Primary School—for the girls, anyway.

  All the boys in school say they hate it, not counting the ones in kindergarten—but I think kindergarten boys only like Valentine’s Day because of the treats.

  In the third grade, it’s different. But at least Valentine’s Day is a change, because other than that, nothing interesting happens at school between Christmas vacation and spring break.

  At our school, nobody worries about kids’ feelings getting hurt because they didn’t get enough valentines, which is the way it used to be in the olden days, my mom says. Our school has strict rules about giving people valentines.

  1. If you send a valentine to one kid in your class, you have to send valentines to everyone. Even girls-to-girls and boys-to-boys, which is just embarrassing. But you can send funny ones if you want. Funny, but not too gross.

  2. Also, the valentines can’t have candy or glitter or confetti in them, because of the custodian’s temper.

  3. And you can’t open your cards until the school day is almost over.

  But getting ready for Valentine’s Day is a pain, because I have to figure out what kind of valentines I am going to send—to the kids in my class, to Ms. Sanchez, and to my mom and my little sister.

  Not to my dad, of course. That’s just not us.

  Alfie has already informed me that a card to her is required, and it had better be good.

  We have been making valentines in class today, because Friday is art day. Ms. Sanchez is probably relieved that Valentine’s Day is coming, because she can never figure out what to do when we have art. She gloms on to any theme she can: Thanksgiving, President’s Day, Arbor Day, you name it. We cover all the Days.

  Today is the last Friday we have to work on our cards, though, because like I said, Valentine’s Day is in exactly one week.

  “I’m making mine all the same, so I’ll finish first. I’ll win,” Stanley tells us. He has a stack of folded construction paper pieces in front of him, and he is scrawling a heart on the outside of each one with a black marker, and a question mark on the inside. He’s like a cartoon guy working in a factory, he’s going so fast.

  By the way, the question mark is supposed to stand for “Guess who?” That’s a good way to get around actually signing your name on a valentine.

  Just a hint!

  “It’s not a contest, Stanley,” Annie Pat Masterson says, drawing the world’s fanciest seahorse on one of her cards. Annie Pat is Emma’s best friend, and she always fixes her red hair in two pigtails that look like highway warning cones.

  “Yeah,” Emma says.

  “I think everything’s a contest,” Cynthia ar- gues, not looking up from the card she is working on. “The clothes you wear, how cute your hair is, what you bring for lunch, how late you get to stay up, what your grades are. Only it’s different contests for different people. Like, today, my valentines are in the cute contest, and I’m winning.”

  And she draws another unicorn.

  Yaw-w-w-n.

  Ms. Sanchez is at the end of the table showing Kry how to fold a piece of paper to cut out a perfect heart, so she doesn’t hear what Cynthia is saying.

  Beside Cynthia, Fiona nods to show how much she agrees with her.

  The boys are just listening, because drawing is hard enough, isn’t it? You can’t talk at the same time.

  Well, Stanley can, but look

  at his valentines.

  Kevin is drawing UFOs, and Corey is drawing Christmas trees, because that’s what he learned how to do almost perfectly last December.

  But he’s putting hearts on them.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Emma tells Cynthia. “Because how do you know who else is in the same contest as you?”

  “You just know, that’s all,” Cynthia tells her, smiling in a superior way. “At least I do. I know when I’m winning. Like now,” she adds, looking at the valentine Emma is working on as if someone just blew their nose on it.

  “Yours is good, Emma,” Annie Pat says, defending her friend’s drawing of a frog sitting on a lily pad. Or a green meatball with eyes, sitting on a plate. “It’s cute. Here,” she adds. “Use my pink marker. It smells like cherries.”

  “I’ll take that,” Cynthia says, snatching the pink marker from Annie Pat’s hand in mid-air. “I need it first. Ahhh,” she says, sniffing in the cherry smell like she wants to use it all up.

  “That’s okay,” Emma says to Annie Pat, whose dark blue eyes are looking angry. Annie Pat is quiet, but she can be dangerous. “I don’t even need pink for a frog,” Emma says. “And look,” she adds in a whisper, jerking her head toward Cynthia, who is snuffling the marker again.

  There is a bright pink dot on the end of Cynthia’s stuck-up nose, where she sniffed the marker too close.

  It looks like a great big measle!

  Annie Pat bites back a smile, and so do Corey, Stanley, and I.

  And Fiona’s afraid to say anything to Cynthia, because she and Cynthia aren’t exactly equal. Cynthia’s already won that contest.

  “Now, today is even more fun than before,” Emma says, bending low over her frog. Or green meatball. Whatever it is.

  “Finish up, people,” Ms. Sanchez calls out, s
ounding happy. I guess she’s proud of the perfect heart she just cut out.

  And so we do. Finish up, I mean.

  3

  STRAYING FROM THE TOPIC

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask my mom when Alfie and I sit down to dinner that night—at six o’clock, as usual.

  “Oh, EllRay,” Mom says, carrying a bowl of spaghetti to the table. “Don’t you ever listen to me? I told you this morning. He’s speaking at a conference in Utah over the weekend, and then going hiking with a buddy. He’ll be home late Tuesday.”

  “He went to Utah?” Alfie says, almost squawking the question. “Without me?”

  “Why? What would you do in Utah?” I ask my little sister. “We don’t know anyone there.”

  “I’d have fun, that’s what,” Alfie says, staring hard at the spaghetti bowl. “I always have fun. Do I have to eat salad too, or can I just eat this?” she asks my mom. “I had carrot sticks for lunch,” she reminds her.

  Alfie is an optimist, which means she is another positive thinker. She’s only four, exactly half my age, so she hasn’t had that much experience with life yet.

  “You have to eat salad too,” Mom tells her.

  “Okay,” Alfie says. “But don’t put anything weird on it. Please,” she adds quickly, seeing the look on our mother’s face.

  Mom frowns. “Just because it’s Friday night and your father is away for the weekend,” she says, “that doesn’t mean important things such as manners can go flying out the window.”

  “Yeah, EllWay,” Alfie says, trying to kick me under the table. That’s Alfie-speak for EllRay.

  “She was talking to you,” I tell her, moving my legs away.

  “I’m talking to both of you,” Mom says, putting some bare salad in a little bowl for Alfie, and then tossing the rest of the torn-up lettuce with salad dressing. “There,” she says, sitting down. “You may begin.”