EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - TWO FOR FLINCHING

  Chapter 2 - I CAN’T EXPLAIN

  Chapter 3 - “BEHAVIOR: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT”

  Chapter 4 - WHO’S THE BOSS?

  Chapter 5 - GLOM

  Chapter 6 - BUK, BUK, BUK

  Chapter 7 - IT’S DIFFERENT WITH MY MOM

  Chapter 8 - MS. SANCHEZ SAYS

  Chapter 9 - WHACKED ON WEDNESDAY

  Chapter 10 - THUMPED ON THURSDAY

  Chapter 11 - BAD VIBES

  Chapter 12 - NOT THAT!

  Chapter 13 - FWACKED ON FRIDAY

  Chapter 14 - EUSTACE B. PENNYPACKER MEMORIAL PARK

  Chapter 15 - SURPRISE

  Chapter 16 - TEMPORARY

  WHAT HAPPENS TO ELLRAY IN HIS NEXT ADVENTURE? TURN THE PAGE TO READ A CHAPTER FROM

  MY CRYSTAL—CLEAR IDEA

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U. S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  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

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Warner, Sally.

  EllRay Jakes is not a chicken / by Sally Warner ; illustrated by Jamie Harper.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Eight-year-old EllRay’s father has promised a family trip to Disneyland if EllRay can stay out of trouble for a week, but not defending himself against Jared, the class bully, proves to be a real challenge.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-56458-5

  [1. Behavior—Fiction. 2. Bullies—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Family life—California—Fiction.

  5. California—Fiction.] I. Harper, Jamie, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.W24644Em 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010025106

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my long-time editor, Tracy Gates,

  with affection and gratitude—S.W.

  For Peter and Charles—J.H.

  1

  TWO FOR FLINCHING

  “Two for flinching,” Jared Matthews says at lunch one MONDAY in January. BOP! He punches me really hard on my right arm muscle—which is not very big, it’s true.

  It looks like a ping-pong ball, only brown.

  “I didn’t flinch,” I argue, rubbing my arm to make the sting go away.

  My name is EllRay Jakes, and I am eight years old. I am the smallest kid in Ms. Sanchez’s third grade class, even counting the girls, and Jared is the biggest.

  It’s like I am made out of sticks, and Jared is made out of logs.

  My dad says I’m going to get bigger someday, but when?

  “Here’s one to grow on, EllRay,” Jared’s kiss-up friend Stanley Washington says, his glasses gleaming like mean lizard eyes.

  And— BOP!

  “EllRay wishes he would grow,” Jared says—because I’m so short. Great joke, Jared.

  And then Jared laughs like a cartoon donkey: “HAW, HAW, HAW!”

  It’s just another relaxing lunch on an ordinary day at Oak Glen Primary School, in Oak Glen, California.

  There is a third grade boys’ war going on at our school, but the three kids in the war—Jared Matthews, Stanley Washington, and me, EllRay Jakes—all act like nothing is wrong.

  Our teacher, Ms. Sanchez, doesn’t have a clue.

  Ms. Sanchez is smart about what goes on inside her classroom, but she doesn’t know what goes on outside—before school and during nutrition break, lunch, and afternoon recess.

  And outside is when school really happens for kids.

  “Good one, Stanley,” Jared says after Stanley insults me, and Jared high-fives him.

  “Bad one, Stanley,” I echo, trying to make fun of them.

  Stanley Washington is like Jared’s shadow. He wears glasses, like I said, and he has straight brown hair that flops over his forehead as if it has given up trying.

  Jared is chunky and strong, and he has frowning eyes, and his brown hair sticks up all over the place like a cat just licked it.

  His hair does whatever it wants, just like Jared.

  A couple of girls hop by, holding hands. Jared and Stanley step back, looking all innocent—because girls tell. Especially these girls, Cynthia Harbison and her kiss-up friend Heather Patton.

  “Icky boys,” Cynthia calls out over her shoulder.

  Cynthia is the cleanest person I have ever met. She is strangely clean.

  For instance, Cynthia’s fingernails never have any dirt under them. Also, her clothes never get any food, poster paint, or grass stains on them, no matter what. I don’t think she has very much fun, and what’s the point in being that clean if it means you never get to have any fun?

  Cynthia has short, straight hair that she holds back with a plastic hoop, and Heather pulls her long hair back so tight in a ponytail that her eyes always look scared. But maybe Heather really is scared—from hanging around mean, bossy Cynthia all the time!

  Cynthia is like Jared, only without the hitting.

  “Hey, EllRay, why don’t you go sit on the grass with the rest of the girls?” Jared asks me when Cynthia and Heather have hopped away to the other side of the playground.

  “Yeah, crybaby,” Stanley says. “Go sit with the girls.”

  “I’m not even crying, Stanley-ella,” I say, pretending he is the girl.

  It’s the best put-down I can come up with on such short notice.

  “That’s not even my name, so duh,” Stanley says.

  “DUH,” I say back at him.

  I want to turn around and walk away. But if I do, Jared will probably grab me from the back, tight, and start grinding his knuckles into my ribs.

  This is one of his favorite things to do, because from far away, you can’t tell anything bad is going on.

  Jared’s supreme goal is to make me cry someday—in front of the entire class.

  So I have to wait for Jared and Stanley to be the ones to walk away first.

  I would rather
be playing kickball with Corey Robinson and Kevin McKinley, who are my friends, but it’s not exactly like I have a choice right now.

  “Duh,” I say again. I don’t know why.

  Finally, finally, finally the recess bell rings, and Jared gives Stanley a friendly pretend-shove, and Stanley gives Jared a shove too, only not as hard, because Jared is the boss. And they walk away without even looking at me.

  Like I’m nothing!

  “Come on, EllRay,” Emma McGraw says as she skips by with red-haired Annie Pat Masterson. “We have Spanish this afternoon, and Ms. Sanchez is going to talk about food. Taquitos, burritos, and enchiladas and stuff. Yum!”

  Emma is the second-littlest kid in our class, but she loves to eat. I think it’s her main hobby.

  “Hurry up,” Annie Pat calls out, and she and Emma skip away.

  And so I hurry up. But I don’t skip, because boys just don’t. Not at Oak Glen Primary School, anyway.

  And probably not anywhere.

  Not when they have arm muscles the size of ping-pong balls.

  2

  I CAN’T EXPLAIN

  Okay. I can’t explain why Jared and Stanley started their war against me, but who cares why the war started? Details like that don’t really matter, not when someone is secretly grinding his fist into your ribs.

  I know when it began, though. It began two weeks ago, right after Christmas vacation.

  Why don’t I tell somebody what is happening?

  Because it wouldn’t do any good, and here’s why:1. If the other boys in our class knew about this three-person war, they would take sides, and then it would just turn into a bigger war. But it wouldn’t be over for me.

  2. If the girls in our class knew, they would whisper and stare, and I hate that.

  3. If my mom knew what was happening, she would probably call Jared’s mother and complain. And of course that would only make things worse for me in the long run.

  4. If my dad knew about our war, he would FREAK OUT. First, he would call Ms. Sanchez or the principal. Then they would make a big announcement to the whole class about fighting, and then the grown-ups would study the problem to death, because studying things is what my dad likes best in the whole wide world.

  But there’s nothing to study about why Jared hates me. I think he’s just bored, and he is taking it out on me.

  Or maybe beating me up was Jared’s New Year’s resolution.

  Our war started for no reason, and it will probably end for no reason.

  I just have to live through it, that’s all.

  But the point is, this is a terrible Monday. And I know it sounds dumb, but I am a kid who usually likes Mondays—because Monday gives you a brand-new start.

  Monday is like a spelling test that your teacher has just passed out, and you haven’t had time yet to make any mistakes. It’s like a blank piece of art paper that you haven’t messed up. Monday is like the second after your teacher asks you a mental math question in front of the whole class—but you haven’t given the wrong answer. Yet.

  Any good thing can happen on a Monday!

  Not this Monday, though.

  3

  “BEHAVIOR: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT”

  “You don’t have to keep saying it, Dad, because I already promised,” I tell my father that night after dinner, which was pork chops and mashed potatoes, and some kind of vegetable that I spread around on my plate so it at least looked half-eaten.

  I am trying to keep my voice calm, steady, and well-behaved.

  Dr. Warren Jakes—also known as Dad—is giving me a “talking-to,” which is the same talking-to I’ve been getting from him ever since my progress report came out last week.

  “Behavior: Needs improvement,” Ms. Sanchez wrote.

  Teachers never think about what happens after they send home a report card or a note, because writing that comment in my progress report was like telling my dad that his hair was on fire.

  My father is a big, strong guy who wears glasses. He is also very smart. He is a college professor who teaches geology in San Diego.

  Geology is rocks, basically.

  Teaching about rocks must be the most boring job in the whole world. Do not tell anyone I said this! But I wish he were a fireman—or a professional extreme snowboarder.

  That would be a whole lot cooler, if you ask me.

  But even though his job is usually pretty boring, like I just said, my dad and I sometimes get to go on really fun camping trips to Utah, Arizona, and Nevada, where we collect specimens and eat hot dogs and s’mores.

  We’ve seen rattlesnakes and tarantulas and wild pigs called javelinas!

  I love to do alone stuff with my dad.

  The only bad thing about my dad is that I think he wants me to be a shorter version of him: smart, serious, and sensible.

  I think he might even want me to become a geologist some day.

  Don’t get your hopes up, Dad!

  “Pay attention, son,” my father tells me, scowling.

  “I’m bringing up this unpleasant subject for a reason. Ms. Sanchez called to say you were bothering your neighbor in class this afternoon.”

  “Ms. Sanchez tattled on me?” I ask.

  I am really, really mad at my teacher when I hear this, because you can get in trouble at school for something, and you can get in trouble at home, but you should never get in trouble both places for the same thing.

  I think it’s a rule.

  It ought to be!

  Also, Ms. Sanchez never calls my parents on the days when I’m good. So it’s not fair twice.

  “Ms. Sanchez and your mother and I decided to hold regular telephone conferences, ever since your progress report,” my dad tells me. “We want to handle problems as each one arises.”

  “Well, what about if my neighbor wanted to be bothered, did you ever think about that?” I ask, angry enough to talk back to my dad. This is never a good idea, even on a good day.

  Which this is not.

  “Manners,” Dad says, almost growling the word.

  But my neighbor in class is Annie Pat Masterson, I want to explain, and she loves it when I make her laugh in class! She’s bored, that’s why.

  “Make that face again,” she whispers, and so I do—just to be polite.

  But does anyone except Annie Pat thank me? NO!

  My dad is telling me something else. “And Ms. Sanchez said that you teased Emma McGraw during Spanish, when she tried to say ‘arroz con pol-lo ,’” he says, continuing his invisible list of Things That My Son EllRay Has Done Wrong.

  He pronounces it right, of course: “Ah-rose cone POY-yoh.”

  “The way Emma said it was funny,” I object, remembering how mad she looked when she kept saying “polo” by accident.

  And I kept saying “Marco!” like in the swimming pool game. “Marco! Polo! Marco! Polo!”

  It made me feel good when everyone laughed, even Emma, and it kind of erased the memory of Jared and Stanley grinding my ribs and giving me “two for flinching” at recess.

  That’s why I did it.

  “But listen, son,” my dad says, leaning forward. “You cannot joke around if it’s going to disrupt the class. The good of the class always comes first.”

  He’s a teacher, so of course he thinks that.

  “I know,” I mumble.

  “But it will be hard to change the way you behave at school,” my father says. “So I’m going to make it interesting for you, son.”

  I look at him and wonder what he is up to. “Interesting, like how?” I ask.

  “Interesting, like Disneyland, next Saturday,” he tells me, smiling. He loosens his tie—yes, my father almost always wears a tie—as if he’s about to get on a ride this very minute.

  Disneyland!

  We went once with relatives, when I was four, and then we tried to go again two years ago, but my little sister got an earache during the drive to Anaheim, which ruined everything. We had to turn around and drive back home, and my dad has been too b
usy to go again since.

  But added to my father’s busyness is the fact that he is not the type of person who likes to have fun. Not regular people fun.

  “Do you think you can keep your nose clean for an entire week, EllRay?” my dad asks. “With no more bad news during telephone conferences?”

  “Keeping my nose clean” means not messing up.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say, nodding. I am pinching my lips together in case I accidentally say something that needs improvement. I don’t want my dad to change his mind—because I really, really, really want to go to Disneyland.

  I am already choosing what ride I want to go on first. Alfie can go on the baby rides, but I want to go on the scary ones.

  I sort of want to, anyway.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say again, humming my agreement.

  Dad laughs. “Well, okay, then,” he says, rubbing my head with the flat of his big hand. “We’ll see if you can behave well at school the rest of this week. And that will be the new Ellray Jakes from now on.”

  The new EllRay Jakes. I guess he’s tired of the old one.

  But I have a feeling Jared and Stanley will probably hate me even more if I act perfect for a whole week. Then what will happen?

  Or

  And then I’ll lose my temper, and Ms. Sanchez will find out, and she’ll tattle to my parents, and bye-bye Disneyland.

  I cannot let that happen.

  4

  WHO’S THE BOSS?

  “Play dolls with me, EllWay,” my little sister says a few minutes later, popping her head out of her room as I walk down the hall. She pronounces some words a little bit wrong, but that’s okay, because she’s only four years old.

  “No way, Alfie,” I say. “But me and my video game will keep you company.” And I go get Die, Creature, Die, which my mom thinks is too violent, but it’s not.

  Last summer, when I was still trying to be nice about playing dolls, mostly to keep Alfie out of my room, a doll head came off in my hand for no reason, and she freaked, like I’d done it on purpose. And I was just trying to be nice.