EllRay Jakes The Recess King! (9 page)

16

NERVOUS

“Pile in, honey,” Mom says later that afternoon, through the partly open passenger side car window.

It has started raining again, so I am glad to do it. But when I open the rear door, I am surprised to see a wall of plastic-wrapped toilet paper between my seat and Alfie's. “I'm over here, EllWay,” she calls out. “Don't wowwy.”

Which means “
worry.
” Too bad Cynthia, Heather, and Fiona missed out on that one today, on
Baby Talk Thursday
.

Another two huge packages of TP are on the car floor in front of Alfie. They are basically blocking her in. Sweet!

“We don't even need seat-belts anymore,” Alfie tells me.

“Yes, you do,” Mom says from the front seat. “Buckle up,” she reminds me.

“I'm buckled,” I say. “You went shopping.”

Now
I'm
Einstein.

“Sure did,” Mom says, signaling to pull away from the curb.

“Did you get any fun stuff?” I ask. “Is it in the trunk?”

“Nuh-uh,” Alfie calls out, answering the question. “This is it. And it's a present for your school!”

“Alfie,” Mom pretend-scolds. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I got a few families to make donations,” she explains to me.

Oh, geez.

“I'm not even
going
to kindergarten if they don't have toilet paper when I get there,” Alfie announces from behind her cushiony wall. “And nobody can make me,” she adds. Just for good measure, I guess.

She's pretty brave when she's inside a TP fortress.

I shrink back into my seat. “How many other families did you call?” I ask my mom.

“Oh, three or four,” Mom says, her signal
tick-tick-ticking
as she changes lanes. “But I left messages on a couple of other answering machines. One of the families has a big van, so they'll be picking up all the packages over the weekend. We'll surprise Principal James with it on Monday morning.”

You sure will, I think, imagining the scene. Pretty soon, I'll be able to find my way to his office with a blindfold on. “
Mom
,” I say, trying to sound normal. “Why?”

“How can you even ask?” Mom says, flashing me a smile in the rearview mirror. “I'm not going to let you children get tummyaches and what-not because you don't want to use the bathrooms at school.”

“I never said kids were getting tummyaches,” I remind her. “And those aren't even gonna fit,” I mumble, looking at the plump rolls of paper. I picture the silver metal boxes that hold the waxy squares of TP we use at school.

“We'll solve each problem as it arises,” Mom promises me. “Parent power, EllRay. We are here for your school! Never fear.”

I chew my lower lip. One or two problems are going to come up a little sooner than she is expecting, I think. Like the truth about Oak Glen Primary School's so-called toilet paper shortage, for one.

And what happened to my expensive library book today, for two.

But I'll just let it all unroll naturally—like a really long piece of soft white paper.

What choice do I have?

“Um, listen. There's something I have to say,” I tell Mom and Dad after dinner. The three of us are still sitting at the table. Alfie asked to be excused so she could squeeze in some horsie time before her bath.

“I thought there might be,” Mom says. “The state you came home in.”

“What?
California
?” I ask, frowning, because—what state did she
expect
me to come home in?

Dad clears his throat a couple of times.

“No. Covered in mud,” Mom explains. “And looking like you lost your best friend in the world. Rough day, honey?”

If she gets any nicer, I'm gonna start crying.

Wait until she hears what
really
happened—apart from the whole mummy zombie thing, which they already know about.

1. First, there's the TP-shortage-at-school misunderstanding. Okay, fib. Okay, lie.

2. And then there's me sneaking that library book into school.

3. This is followed by the book getting ruined. Oh, and by ten of us boys getting called into Principal James's office for supposedly fighting during lunch.

Not to mention the complete failure of my spare friend goal—and what a bad example I'm setting for Alfie. You know, about making friends in primary school.

Mom's not gonna be so nice to me
then.

“A rough
two
days,” I say. I brush a few crumbs from the table into my hand. I look around, not knowing what to do with them. So I eat them.

“Want to talk about it here? Now?” Dad asks. “Or should the three of us meet in the family room in half an hour, after Alfie gets tucked into bed?”

In
half an hour
? What planet is my dad living on? Getting Alfie into bed takes forever. She is the world's slowest bath-taker, for one thing. First, you have to talk her
into
the tub. And then she won't get
out,
she's having so much fun. Also, Alfie has a ton of nighty-night routines that have to go just right, or she'll say she can't sleep.

Or let anyone else sleep, either.

But even though I'm the one who told Mom and Dad we should talk, I'm nervous about it. So I don't mind the delay.

“We can wait,” I tell my dad.

“EllRay,” Mom says, leaning forward as if she just got the best idea in the world. “You go talk to your little sister, okay? Just kind of ease her toward the idea of bath-time. Get her calmed down. She's all excited about the show tomorrow at Kreative Learning and Daycare.”

“Listen. We all are,” Dad says, and Mom starts to giggle.

“Warren,” she says, giving him a look.

“I am
not
giving her a bath, even if it's an emergency,” I inform my mom. “
Or
staying in the bathroom with her when she's in the tub, either. So please don't ask me to.”

“Not a problem, buddy,” Dad says, laughing.

“That's right, honey-bun,” Mom agrees. “I'm just asking you to talk to Alfie in her room. Ask her how the
Brown Bear, Brown Bear
rehearsal went today. That sort of thing.”

“I guess I could talk to her,” I tell them.

Maybe I can really drag it out, I think, already plotting.
I know.
I'll ask Alfie what it's like being the red bird in the skit. I mean in the
play.

That ought to chew up an hour or two.

With any luck, Mom and Dad will be too tired to meet later in the family room. And they will never find out what's been happening at school.

But at least I can say I tried to tell them.

17

MR. BRIGHT IDEA

“Knock, knock,” I say at Alfie's bedroom door.

“Come in,” Alfie says. “
I see a lellow duck looking at me
,” she announces in a loud and gloomy voice as I enter her room. “That's my whole speech for tomowwow.
Supposedly,
” she adds. “And then I have to just stand there quietly and pwetend I'm listening to everyone else,” she finishes, shaking her head in disgust.

Yeah.
That's
gonna happen. And she's mixing up her Ls and Ys again, like she did a couple of years ago. Is it going to be
Baby Talk Friday
at Kreative Learning and Daycare tomorrow night?

Alfie is wearing striped leggings, a tutu, and a shrunken T-shirt. In other words, she is not ready to take a bath. Instead, she is putting two of her plastic horses to bed—but on their sides, under a tiny quilt. “Want to practice your speech again?” I ask. “You were perfect, Alfie,” I tell her. “Only it's ‘
yellow,
' not ‘
lellow.
' Remember how you learned to say it? ‘
Yes, yes,
yellow
.
'”

“Yes, yes,
lellow
,
” Alfie repeats, as if she's cooperating with me. “There. Are you happy now, EllWay?”

“Sure,” I say, sitting down next to her on the fluffy rug.

I'm happy except for the part where I have to tell Mom and Dad what's been going on at school, that is. Let Alfie say her line however she wants—as long as she doesn't wreck the skit. Or embarrass Mom and Dad. “Hey, Alf,” I say. “You know what would be fun?” Mr. Bright Idea, here.

“What?”

“A bath,” I say. “A
bubble
bath. With lots of toys.”

“Go ahead and take one, then,” Alfie says, shrugging. “Only don't play with my seahorse.”

“I meant
you
,” I tell her.
Yeesh!

“I'm busy,” Alfie says, and she tugs up the horses' quilt under their chins—if horses even have chins. “Is a fwend coming with you to my
Brown Bear
show?” she asks, looking up. “Like maybe Corey?”

Alfie
loves
Corey. He told her once that her shoes were pretty, and that was it for her.

“He can't come,” I say. “He has to get up early the next day, when it's still dark out, because of swimming. So he has to go to bed right after dinner, almost.”

“Aw,” she says, drooping. “Who wants to swim in the wain?”

That's “
In the rain.
”

“I think there's a big roof over the aquatics center,” I say. “But I have lots of other friends who might come,” I fib. “I was gonna ask Jason Leffer, but—but that didn't work out,” I fumble. “He was busy.”

Okay, it's a lie, but just a little one. Jason
has
been busy,
trying to avoid me
, ever since the toilet paper thing.

“Huh,” Alfie says. “
I see a lellow duck looking at me.
”

“Then I thought maybe Diego Romero could come,” I say, ignoring the news about the nosy yellow duck. “Only he's already doing something.”

Reading, probably. And staying away from kids who wreck library books.

Some recess king
I
turned out to be!

“Huh,” Alfie says again. “I don't even know him. But sometimes Suzette and Mona and Arletty are too busy for me, too.” She droops even more.

Those are her three best friends at Kreative Learning and Daycare.

“But only
sometimes
,” I point out. “Because you play with them a lot. Mostly one at a time.”

“I play with Arletty, anyway,” Alfie agrees. “She gets to be the green fwog in our play. That big
lucky.
”

“That's cool,” I say. I'm wondering when I can give up and leave.

Bath or no bath—
I
don't care!

And maybe Mom and Dad have forgotten all about the whole “There's-something-I-have-to-tell-you” thing. Which was my own bright idea, of course.

Another good one, EllRay.

“Alfie-kins,” Mom says, popping her head into the room. “Bath's all ready, sweetheart. Come with me.”

“But I'm putting my horsies to bed,” Alfie says.

I can tell she's not really into the argument, though—and that bath-time will happen in a couple of minutes, tops.

Mom gives me a wink and a thumbs-up as I slip out the door.