Ellray Jakes the Dragon Slayer Read online

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  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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

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

  First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2013

  Text copyright © Sally Warner, 2013

  Illustrations copyright © Brian Biggs, 2013

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Warner, Sally, date–

  EllRay Jakes is a dragon slayer / by Sally Warner ; illustrated by Brian Biggs.

  pages cm

  Summary: A mischievous eight-year-old boy helps his sister with a bully problem, while facing a bully of his own at school.

  ISBN: 978-0-698-14269-5

  [1. Behavior—Fiction. 2. Bullies—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Family life—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Biggs, Brian, illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.W24644Elm 2013

  [Fic]—dc23 2012034406

  Manufactured in China Book design by Nancy Brennan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  To Mrs. Yvette Miller,

  my beloved teacher in fifth and sixth grades,

  and the inspiration for the beautiful Ms. Sanchez — S.W.

  For Wilson and Elliot —B.B.

  CONTENTS

  1 THAT HOPEFUL LOOK

  2 TACO NIGHT

  3 OVER THERE

  4 BUSY BEES

  5 MY PERSONAL NARRATIVE

  6 MR. NOBODY

  7 STILL INVISIBLE?

  8 IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE CLASS

  9 EXTREME DODGEBALL

  10 A GOOD DEAL?

  11 BEING PROUD

  12 UPROAR

  13 BABYISH

  14 AN UNUSUALLY QUIET DINNER

  15 MIRROR LAND

  16 BULLY MATERIAL

  17 AN APOLOGY

  18 COTTON CANDY

  1

  THAT HOPEFUL LOOK

  “Are you paying any attention to me at all, EllRay Jakes?” Mom asks from the driver’s seat of our car, a Toyota so old they don’t even make them anymore. It’s the middle of April, and we are waiting in a humming line of cars in front of my little sister’s day care.

  “Wait. Yeah,” I say, pushing Pause on Die, Creature, Die, my favorite handheld video game. I am almost at Level Six. “What?”

  “I was saying, go inside and sign Alfie out,” Mom says. “And tell her to hurry, please. I’m afraid to turn the engine off. Darn car battery,” she adds. I can see the scowl on her face in the rearview mirror. “I have to call the auto club when we get home,” she says. “If we can make it home without having to be towed.”

  “Do I have to get Alfie?” I ask, matching Mom’s scowl with one of my own. “I had a sore throat yesterday. And last time you sent me in there, the little kids made me judge a contest out on the playground. Remember?”

  Picture a combination of preschool versions of a TV singing contest and a wrestling match and you’ll be close. It was terrible. One kid bit his best friend.

  I’m working that sore throat, by the way. It’s the reason I didn’t walk home from school. Now, of course, I wish I had.

  “You have to,” Mom tells me, inching our car forward as the line moves. “She’s not standing by the front door, naturally. Not our Alfie. That would be too easy. She’ll be out back with her friends.”

  And she REVS the engine a little, as if reminding it what it’s supposed to do.

  Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care is very strict about letting its little kids leave. They either have to be waiting right next to the front door, so the frazzled teacher with the clipboard can check off their names and then watch them go straight out to their car, or you have to walk all the way in and find the right little kid yourself. And then you have to sign them out, but only if you’re on the approved list. That means parking the car, though, not waiting in line at the curb. And today, my mom’s afraid to turn off our car.

  When I grow up, I want to be so rich that I can buy a new car every time I get close to needing a new battery. Car batteries are boring things to buy.

  “EllRay. Move,” Mom says, her voice growing sharp.

  And my mom is usually a very quiet lady.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, turning off my game and sliding it under my backpack so no bad guy can leap into the car and steal it when I’m gone.

  It’s my favorite thing!

  “And make sure Alfie doesn’t forget her new pink jacket,” Mom tells me.

  “She hasn’t taken it off in three days,” I remind her as I wrestle myself out of my seat belt. “I don’t see how she could forget it.”

  And into Kreative Learning and Day Care I go.

  I can’t see Alfie anywhere in the main playroom— naturally, like my mom said. So I head out back. The whole rear play area is more like a giant cage with a fence around it than it is a playground, only there are so many fun things to do there that the kids don’t notice.

  I was hoping my sister would be in the covered patio where the battered playhouse and most of the girls are, but oh, no. And Alfie isn’t on the slide or the swings, either. Those are pretty much being swarmed by leftover day care boys, including the kid who bit his friend that other time. A second teacher is trying to keep the boys from clogging up the slide. “One at a time!” she keeps calling out.

  There’s a job I never want to have.

  “Alfie!” I call out, but she doesn’t answer.

  I search the playground with my LASER-BEAM EYES, the ones I use to score so high in Die, Creature, Die. And there she is with three other girls, over in the far corner of the yard, of course, by the tree, the bush, and the rabbit hutch. Alfie’s golden-brown face has a funny expression on it.

  I start to yell for her again, so I won’t have to walk all the way over there to get her, but then I stop to watch, because I can’t figure out what’s going on. At first, it looks like all four girls are playing together. But then I see that it’s really three girls who are together, with Alfie on the side, near the hutch. It reminds me of when my mom says, “Dressing on the side, please,” when she’s ordering salad in a restaurant.

  The tallest of the three clumped-together girls is Suzette Monahan, who is a real pain, in my opinion, even though Alfie thinks she’s so great. Suzette cam
e over to our house one day, and my mom’s still talking about it.

  To say that Suzette is used to getting her own way is putting it mildly.

  Today, Suzette has a long arm slung over each of the other two girls’ necks. Alfie is turned away from them, staring down at the ground. Her shoulders are slumped. She’s kicking at the dirt like that’s the most interesting thing in the world to do, and some stuff goes flying through the air.

  And I suddenly remember my old nursery school in San Diego, and the rabbit hutch we had there, and Fuzz-Bunny, who was so kicky and grouchy that no one could even go near him. Hutches use heavy screens instead of regular hard floors on the bottom, so the rabbit poop—little pellets—just drops down onto the ground, where it’s easy for teachers to rake it up. Rabbits’ tidy poop is probably the only reason they are such popular day-care pets.

  You’re not supposed to play with the pellets, though. Or even kick them around.

  And Alfie is usually so easily grossed-out. What’s the deal?

  One of the girls who has Suzette’s arm hooked around her neck has a fluffy halo of brown hair. She reaches out toward Alfie, and she starts to say something. Alfie turns around. I know that hopeful look on her face, too—like it’s been raining all Saturday, but the sun just came out.

  But then Suzette yanks away the reaching-out girl, and she whirls both girls around like the three of them are on some lame carnival ride.

  And Alfie is left just standing there.

  Her smile goes behind a cloud. Even her new pink jacket looks sad.

  “Rabbit poop girl,” Suzette cries, tossing the mean words over her shoulder like a Die, Creature, Die grenade. “Stupid pink jacket,” she shouts, piling on the insults. “Poop jacket!” she adds. Then she starts to haul her two captives away.

  And these are Alfie’s friends?

  “Hey, Alfie,” I call out as loud as I can, making sure the other girls can hear me. “Mom’s waiting out front for us. And we’re gonna do something really, really fun! With ice cream at the end of it! After we go shopping for dolls!” I add, inspired.

  There. That ought to get ’em.

  “EllWay!” Alfie shouts. And she starts running across the playground like she’s never been so happy to see anyone in her whole life.

  We’re only talking four years so far, but still.

  I am going to have some explaining to do about fun, ice cream, and dolls once Alfie and I are buckled into our sputtering car. But it’ll be worth it, seeing the look that’s pasted on Suzette Monahan’s mean little face right now.

  She’s jealous! Good.

  But what is going on here at Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care?

  Probably nothing, I tell myself as Alfie throws her arms around me, giving me a surprisingly strong hug. Most likely, it was just some stupid game they were playing.

  They were just having fun. Weird girl-fun, but fun. Weren’t they?

  And I put the whole thing in another part of my mind as I sign out Alfie and we head for the car.

  Level Six, here I come!

  2

  TACO NIGHT

  “What’s up with Alfie?” I ask my mom a week later, after a perfect dinner of tacos, tacos, and more tacos. This happened because tonight was Taco Night, a popular new tradition on Wednesdays in my family. And then we had applesauce. It is my turn to help with the dishes, but instead of Alfie sticking around and pestering Mom and me, like she usually does, she has slumped off to her bedroom like a sad little comma with a dark cloud over its head.

  My third grade teacher Ms. Sanchez said today that commas are our friends, because they break up long sentences and make them easier to understand. But I’m a short sentence guy.

  I’m eight years old, and we live in Oak Glen, California. I go to Oak Glen Primary School, and as you already know, Alfie goes to Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care, “featuring computer skills and potty training,” my dad always likes to read from the big sign out front. He has almost stopped complaining about how they spelled “creative” wrong, because what’s the point?

  They must think it’s cute, Mom says.

  Alfie goes to day care because Dad teaches about rocks in a San Diego college all day, and my mom writes fantasy books for grown-up ladies.

  That fantasy book thing is why Alfie and I have such unusual—okay, WEIRD—names, by the way. “Alfie” is short for “Alfleta,” which means “beautiful elf” in some ancient language hardly anyone speaks anymore. And I’ll tell you about my name some other time. Maybe.

  “Alfie’s got the blues, I guess,” my mom tells me, running the water as hot as it will go as I scrape our dirty plates into the trash. There isn’t much garbage to scrape on taco night, I have noticed. Not as much as two nights ago, when we had eggplant lasagna, which is just wrong. Eggplants should not pretend to be meat.

  By the way, Mom rinses all our dishes sparkling clean before she puts them in the dishwasher, which my dad says is “just like her.” But who else would she be like?

  “What does Alfie have to be sad about?” I ask, handing my mom a couple of scraped plates. “She’s four. She doesn’t even have homework. Her life is perfect.”

  “And you’re the expert on other people’s lives,” Mom announces with a laugh, like she’s narrating a TV show.

  “What’s her problem, then?” I ask. “Why is she so sad? Did a new Barbie come out a minute ago and she doesn’t have it yet?”

  “No,” Mom says, scrubbing hard at an invisible spot on a dinner plate. “I think it’s Suzette Monahan again, that little dickens.”

  A “little dickens” is not a good thing to be. Not the way Mom says it.

  And—I suddenly remember Suzette being mean to Alfie last week.

  Suzette Monahan is Alfie’s worst enemy and best friend rolled into one pinchy-faced, curly-haired package. Well, it’s more like Suzette is Alfie’s friend one day and her enemy the next day, with no reason behind the change. I can’t keep up with it. Alfie usually jabbers about Suzette and her other friends at dinner so much that I don’t really pay any attention. It’s kind of just noise to me.

  She hasn’t been talking about them lately, though.

  “What did Suzette do now?” I ask, feeling uneasy.

  “She told the other little girls to act like Alfie’s not there,” Mom says, scowling into the sink. “Like she’s invisible.”

  “But Alfie’s not invisible,” I say. “Even when we wish she was. That’s just dumb.”

  “Well, you know that, and I know that,” my mom says. “But I think the other little girls are scared of Suzette, so they go along with whatever she says. And Alfie sure couldn’t do anything to change their minds today.”

  “You should tell one of the teachers on Suzette,” I say, thinking of some of the other bad things she’s done—not even counting what I saw her do last week.

  She’s a DRAGON, that’s what Suzette Monahan is. A small, brown-haired dragon with mean green eyes.

  Once she came over to our house for a play date, and when it was snack time, she demanded McDonald’s. She didn’t get it, but she demanded it.

  And that very same time, she and Alfie snuck into my room to snoop around, which Alfie would never dare to do on her own. And Suzette messed up my bookcase and put a tutu on one of my soldier action figures.

  And another time, before the rabbit poop day, Suzette threw torn-up paper in Alfie’s hair at Kreative Learning, and Alfie didn’t know it for like half an hour. And some girls laughed at her, and Alfie cried when she got home, because she thought they were making fun of her hair.

  And a few weeks ago, Suzette said Alfie couldn’t be the cutest girl in day care anymore, because she wanted to be the cutest from now on.

  I don’t know what the teachers are doing at that day care, besides guarding the front door and the slide. At Oak Glen, my teacher Ms. Sanchez might miss a few things here and there, but not big things like that. Not dragon things.

  Suzette even scratched Alfie once wi
th her claws, to make her let go of a puzzle piece! I’m the only one Alfie told about that.

  Mom sighs as she wipes her hands dry. “It’s usually better if kids can work out these things on their own,” she informs me. “Unless there’s some major bullying going on, I mean.”

  “What do you call this?” I ask. I can feel my face getting hot and my hands getting clenchy, which is a sure sign that I’m really mad.

  See, I have to get mad for Alfie sometimes, because for some reason she doesn’t know how to get mad on her own. Except at me, when I won’t play dolls with her, which I have decided will be always.

  Sometimes I even get mad at Alfie for not getting mad.

  “It’s not quite bullying yet,” Mom says, like she knows this for a fact.

  Of course, I have a little more information than she does. “Well, tell me when you think it is bullying,” I tell her. “Because then I’m gonna kick me some Suzette Monahan—”

  “EllRay Jakes!”

  “Bootie,” I finish, laughing.

  By now, Mom is laughing too. “But you would never kick a girl,” she reminds me, not that I need any reminding.

  “I know,” I say. But I narrow my eyes to look jokey-mean.

  “Why don’t you go talk to your little sister right now?” Mom says, her voice getting soft. “I think she could use some cheering up, don’t you?”

  “I guess,” I say, hiding my sigh, because cheering up Alfie usually involves a whole lotta listening to a whole lotta Alfie-talk.

  But sometimes, like my dad says, you just have to “man up.”

  And this is probably one of those times.

  3

  OVER THERE

  Alfie’s bedroom door is open, but I pretend-knock anyway because I’m trying to train my little sister to knock before she barges into my room. Fat chance. “KNOCK, KNOCK,” I call out.

  Alfie’s room is an explosion of pink and purple, her two favorite colors. I’m not against a person having favorite colors, even if they’re not sports team colors. But that doesn’t mean you have to decorate your whole life with them. That’s what Mom did, though, repainting Alfie’s baby room when she turned four. And Alfie’s got silver stars on her ceiling now, too.