EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken (8 page)

 

This bad vibe is different, though, because I have a feeling it's about me. But no one except Jared, Stanley, and I knows that—and we're not going to talk.

“Is there anything going on that I should know about?” Ms. Sanchez asks us. “Any problems we should be discussing? Because I wanted our new year to start out right, and it just
isn't
.”

Cynthia's hand shoots up, and Ms. Sanchez calls on her. Cynthia stands up. “Well,
I
didn't do anything wrong,” she says loudly. “And neither did Heather.”

Heather wiggles in her seat and smiles, happy to be included in anything Cynthia has to say.

But Ms. Sanchez frowns. “I didn't say anyone in this class has misbehaved,” she says, trying to clear things up. “I was simply stating that things do not feel right around here.”

And she looks at each boy in the class one at a time with her superpower vision.

I guess Ms. Sanchez has narrowed down that bad vibe.

Corey Robinson blushes under his freckles.

Kevin McKinley looks like he wants to run out of the room.

Stanley Washington looks down at his desk and starts polishing his glasses like crazy.

Jared Matthews stares straight ahead, his face as stony as one of the pieces of granite on the display shelf in my dad's home office.

And I, EllRay Jakes, feel as though Ms. Sanchez can tell every single thing that has happened with Jared, Stanley, and me just by looking at my face.

But she can't, I keep telling myself. She
can't.

Ms. Sanchez shakes her head, looking disappointed in us. “You know you can come to me with any problem, don't you?” she says, speaking to everyone in the class this time.

The girls nod, looking very serious, but all the boys just stare at her. Because—who wants to talk about their problems? Not us!

Boys just want their problems to go away, and the sooner the better.

Now Ms. Sanchez sighs. “Well, my door's always open if anyone has anything they want to share with me,” she tells us.

And that's just messed up, because we don't even know where she lives. So what difference does it make whether her door is open or not?

Also, if she means that her door is always open
at school
, that's not true either. The custodian locks every single classroom door at the end of the day.

And if she means that we can come talk to her during recess, that's not true
either
, because she's always in the faculty lounge. If a kid ever tried to walk in there, the world would probably come to an end.

“Does everyone have that straight?” Ms. Sanchez asks us, and we all nod again.

Especially the boys this time.

Especially Jared, Stanley, and me.

“Good,” Ms. Sanchez tells us, not sounding like it's good at all. “I guess you'd better gather your things,” she says, “because the buzzer is about to sound. And let's all start out fresh on Friday, shall we?”

And we nod for the third time, except for Cynthia, who says, “We shall! Especially me and Heather!”

You can always count on Cynthia to get the last word.

Only she doesn't, this time.

“It's ‘
Heather and me
,' Miss Harbison,” Ms. Sanchez says, sounding tired, tired, tired.

But I feel pretty excited, because—only one more day to go!

“So, Alfie,” my dad says at dinner that night as he helps himself to some rice. “Give us your report.”

See, our family has this dinner tradition my mom and dad call “civilized conversation,” where each person says the best and worst thing that happened to them that day.

Of course, I have not been telling the truth about my worst things ever since Jared and Stanley started picking on me for no reason a couple of weeks ago.

Alfie twiddles one of her braids, thinking. “Well, my good things are that Suzette wants to be my friend again, and I painted a beautiful picture about a flower,” she finally announces.

Suzette is that bossy little girl in my sister's day care, remember?

“You're supposed to choose just one good thing,” I tell Alfie, because rules are rules.

And what is the point of a tradition if you do the rules wrong?

“I can choose two things if I want,” she tells me, scowling. “Are you saying my beautiful flower picture isn't good?”

“No, he's not saying that, Alfie,” my mom says in her
calm-down
voice. “What was your worst thing, honey?”

Alfie scowls, which makes her look like an angry kitten. This is probably not the effect she was hoping for. “My worst thing was when my brother was mean to me at dinner,” she tells us.

“All right, then,” my dad says. “Moving right along. What about you, Louise?”

It's no fair that my mom and dad have normal names like Louise and Warren when my sister and I get stuck with Alfleta and Lancelot Raymond.

Mom pats her lips with her napkin and looks up at the ceiling. “My good news is that I got a nice rejection letter today for that book I wrote about the enchanted princess who lives in the undersea kingdom,” she tells us.

Okay. Now that is just sad, because “rejection” means “no,” no matter how good you try to make it sound.

I feel like punching those rejection guys in the nose for insulting my mom!

But instead, I eat another bite of chicken and stare hard at my plate, because one of our rules is that you can't argue about another person's good and bad.

“What did the letter say?” my dad asks.

“That they wanted to see more of my work in the future,” Mom tells him, smiling. She looks shy but proud. “And my bad news is that I left the ice cream out on the counter by accident when I got home from the store,” she confesses.

There goes dessert, which is bad news for everyone.

“And what about you, son?” Dad asks.

Did I mention that he is still wearing his tie, even though it's just us?

I have been silently rehearsing my answer for the last ten minutes. “My best thing is that I told about the layers of soil in the experiment without messing up,” I report. “And the worst—”

“What
about
the layers of soil?” Dad asks, leaning forward as if this is the most interesting thing he has heard all night—which it probably is, because he likes rocks and crystals and minerals better than anything in the world, except us.

“Well,” I say, trying hard to remember, “one jar had lots of sand in it, and Ms. Sanchez said that sample was from the desert. And another jar had mostly silt, and that was from some river. And one jar was the perfect mix of sand and silt and clay, which means you could grow stuff in it, Ms. Sanchez said.”

“Excellent, EllRay,” Dad tells me, beaming. “And what was the worst thing that happened to you today?”

“I dropped my sandwich at lunch,” I lie.

Dad looks at me, and his eyes look extra-big behind his glasses. “And that's it?” he asks. “That is absolutely the worst thing that happened to you today?”

I can feel my ears getting hot. “Yes sir,” I lie again.

“Then I need to speak to you after dinner, son,” Dad says, his voice changing from curious to serious in one second flat. “In my office.”

My mom clears her throat, and Alfie looks at me with big sad eyes, like she's feeling really, really sorry for me.

My father is sitting behind his shiny desk, only now he looks like Dr. Warren Jakes, not Dad.

I close the door behind me and listen to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

It's no fair to have bad things happen to you at school
and
at home.

It should be one place—at the very most
.

I'm not even sure what I have done wrong that my dad is so mad about. It could be so many things!

1. For instance, I didn't brush my teeth this morning, even though I wet my toothbrush so my mom would think I did.

2. And I pulled my bedspread up over the wrinkled sheet and blanket this morning without really making my bed.

3. And I wore a T
-
shirt that was in the dirty clothes hamper, because I didn't like any of the shirts that were clean.

“Ms. Sanchez called,” my dad says. “Just before dinner.”

He waits.

This telephone conference thing has gone
too far
.

And why did she pretend she didn't know who was causing that bad vibe?

“But I didn't behave wrong,” I say in a croaky, guilty-sounding voice.

I don't even mention Disneyland, because I don't want to give my dad any ideas about canceling our trip. He is the strict kind of dad who might do that.

“I know,” my dad says, frowning. “But Ms. Sanchez told me you fell down in class, and she says Jared Matthews might have tripped you on purpose. She wasn't sure, because her back was turned.”

I hold my breath and don't say a word.

“
Did
he trip you, son?” Dad asks gently. “Is there something going on at Oak Glen that we should know about?”

Okay
.

When we moved to Oak Glen three years ago, my mom and dad were a little worried, because there aren't that many other families in this town who are African-American. Just about ten or eleven of them, something like that. And at first, my parents were on the lookout for any little thing that would tell them people had some problem with us. But so far, so good—except sometimes I wish there
were
more black kids at our school, just so it would come out even.

Oh, and Alfie told me once that Suzette at day care keeps wanting to touch her braids. But that's a secret, we decided, because we don't want our dad to freak.