EllRay Jakes Stands Tall Read online

  I think Jared even added “sir.” Like he thinks he’s in the army, maybe.

  “Okay then,” Coach says. “Balls back in the bag, people. Quick! Quick! Quick!”

  And just as the last ball goes into the big net bag, the buzzer sounds.

  How did Coach know that?

  We kind of shuffle back to class. My legs are numb, but they feel good.

  I feel good.

  “Didn’t Coach say there was gonna be a tea party?” I hear Annie Pat ask Emma.

  “Nuh-uh,” Emma says, shaking her curly head. “He said this wasn’t a tea party. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Annie Pat says. And her red pigtails droop.

  I kinda know how she feels. I could use two or three minutes at the drinking fountain, that’s for sure. Even though the water there always tastes funny.

  But this—this was fun!

  11

  IS THIS HOW IT STARTS?

  “Put down that ball. It’s bothering me,” Alfie says during Saturday morning cartoons. It was her turn to choose them this week, so we are watching Mimi Sparkle Kitties, her new favorite. It’s Japanese anime for little kids. Anime cartoons have those big-eyed guys in them.

  It is a cloudy Saturday. It’s almost dark out, even though it’s nine in the morning. You can just tell it’s about to start pouring in a few minutes. It’s like that in California, Dad says. There’s no rain for months, and then it floods.

  But maybe our family will get to go to a movie together this wet afternoon!

  Sweet.

  “Put that down,” Alfie says again, like she’s the main Mimi Sparkle Kitty, the one with the biggest eyes, and I am just here to obey her.

  That Mimi Sparkle Kitty scowls a lot, but in a cute way. She wears a little sailor suit, for some reason. But you can tell she’s a girl because of the bow in her spiky pink fur.

  “I can’t put the ball down,” I tell Alfie, passing it from hand to hand—fingertips!—as fast as I can. “This basketball is my new best friend,” I say, quoting Coach.

  “It’s just a kickball,” Alfie reminds me. “And kiss it, if you love it so much,” she adds, hurling one of Mom’s many throw pillows at me. “That’s what Suzette says at school,” she informs me, as if that makes it okay to repeat.

  Suzette Monahan. Right.

  Why am I so worried about defending Suzette? She’s worse than Alfie, usually.

  I dodge that pillow using only a tiny pinch of my new athletic skills. And I don’t miss a beat with the ball. Back, forth. Back, forth. Back, forth.

  My left hand is getting stronger, I think!

  “Quit it, EllWay,” Alfie says, reaching for another pillow.

  “Your show’s back on,” I tell her. “I think the Mimi Sparkle Kitties are about to get in a fight with those blue dogs.”

  Back, forth. Back, forth.

  Alfie’s eyes are on the TV screen again.

  “Maybe the Sparkle Kitties won’t let the dogs come to their pretend kindergarten party,” I tease. “Then they can’t practice printing their names and paying attention.”

  Boom! A sudden clap of thunder almost shakes the house, and hard drops of rain hit the windows like tiny BBs. “See?” Alfie says, still watching TV. “That’s what you get, EllWay. And my party should have been happening tomowwow.”

  Tomorrow. “Sunday?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Sunday,” Alfie says. “That’s what I told Suzette, anyway. But nobody else,” she adds. She only looks a little bit worried.

  How goofed-up is she, anyway? Alfie is acting like she still thinks it’s happening, even though Mom said no!

  Alfie twirls the curly end of one of her three soft braids as she watches a Sparkle Kitty dressed like a sailor-ninja creep closer to a sleeping dog. “So ha-ha on Suzette,” she says, smiling a little. “She’ll be sad all day.”

  My sister’s face barely changes expression when she says that.

  Geez, what a brat. What happened to my nice little sister?

  “Listen,” I say. “That’s not cool, Alf—making Suzette sad. What’s up with that?”

  I really want to know. Is Alfie turning mean?

  Is this how it starts? Almost by accident?

  And if so, what am I gonna do to stop it?

  She’s my responsibility! The part of her that plays with other kids is, anyway.

  I know way more about that than Mom and Dad. It’s my area.

  Alfie just twirls her hair some more. I try to figure out the many ways of messing up and being mean, thinking about which is the worst.

  1. First, being mean-on-purpose is always worse than being mean-by-accident, in my opinion. For example, some random kid in your class might hear you talking about a sleepover they’re not invited to. That’s too bad, but it’s an accident. You can make it right. You could apologize, or even invite the kid to come over. To the sleepover, if it’s your party, or some other time.

  2. But if you tell them on purpose that they’re not invited, that’s mean.

  3. And if you totally invent some party just to make a kid feel bad about not being invited, the way Alfie did with Suzette, that’s even worse. Maybe it’s even bullying.

  4. All three times, the left-out kid would feel bad, so there isn’t much difference there.

  5. But what you meant to do to the kid is the big difference, I think. And that counts for a lot! I don’t think Alfie gets that yet, though.

  This is kind of a new way of thinking, even for me. Alfie couldn’t figure it out if she had to. Maybe tossing the basketball is improving my mind! Speeding things up a little.

  But in this case, Alfie is failing the test big-time. She wants Suzette to feel sad all day. That’s why she hasn’t personally canceled her imaginary party yet.

  What can I do to help my little sister, though?

  12

  GETTING IT ALL WRONG

  “You’re not telling Mom,” Alfie says during the next commercial, like that’s the theme song to her own personal TV show.

  And “That’s our deal!” is her motto.

  “Maybe I will tell, and maybe I won’t,” I say, shrugging.

  But I probably won’t tell.

  There’s a chance that keeping secrets should not be our deal, though. Because what if Alfie really is turning into the baby version of a mean girl, or bully-in-training, and she came up with some really goofy—even dangerous—plan, and she told me not to blab? Just because it’s “our deal”?

  That would be a problem. A deal-breaker, even.

  Alfie’s old stunts used to be more like swiping a couple of cookies from the kitchen, or sneaking into Mom’s closet to try on her high heels, or hiding the sweater Grandmama sent that she didn’t want to wear. Not making another little girl cry all day for no reason.

  Even Suzette Monahan probably has feelings.

  I mean, it’s possible.

  Suddenly, Mom is in the room. She holds her cell phone high in the air, like it is proof of something.

  She does not look happy.

  “Guess,” she says to Alfie and me. “Guess.”

  I don’t think we’re really supposed to guess anything, strangely enough.

  “Mrs. Monahan just called me,” Mom says, charging right into her news like a pro basketball player dribbling his way down the court.

  Or her way.

  “Mrs. Monahan is Suzette’s mother,” Mom reminds us. “And she was really upset that Suzette was not invited to Alfie’s kindergarten party. Her imaginary party, that is. I actually had to apologize to the woman,” Mom adds. I can tell how much her mouth hates saying those words. Still holding the cell, her hands go to her hips, which usually means trouble. “Well?” Mom says, waiting.

  “Alfie’s over there,” I say, and I point my newly athletic finger in my sister’s direction.


  “You told Mom what I did?” Alfie shouts, giving me the stink-eye as she springs to her feet.

  “No! I—”

  “You knew about this?” Mom asks me. “EllRay Jakes, I expect better from you.”

  “Me?”

  “You told,” Alfie says, scowling like the fiercest Mimi Sparkle Ninja-Soldier Kitty in the world.

  “You should have informed me, EllRay,” Mom says. “If you knew.”

  So now each one’s mad at me for no reason. Or for opposite reasons.

  I don’t know what to say. “May I please be excused?” I ask after about a thousand seconds.

  “You may,” Mom tells me. “I need to talk to Miss Alfie, here, about letting her imagination run away with her—just because she wanted a party. And I’ll talk to you later, young man.”

  You’re getting it all wrong, Mom, I try to tell Mom without saying any words. That’s not even the worst of what Alfie was trying to do!

  But my silent communication skills don’t seem to be working.

  And I’m not blabbing. Not yet, anyway.

  So I scoop up my fake basketball, now my only friend in the house, not counting Dad. He is probably doing the hard Saturday crossword puzzle in the kitchen, so we can’t disturb him. And I leave the room.

  As fast—and as tall—as I can.

  13

  THE MOVING SIDEWALK

  “Am I in big trouble for not telling you guys about Alfie’s kindergarten party?” I ask Dad the next night, Sunday. It is still raining, but it is warm and cozy inside—except for the cold, nervous feeling in my stomach.

  Mom is upstairs giving Alfie her endless bath, and Dad and I are hanging out in the family room. There’s a nature show on TV, but the sound is off.

  “There was never going to be any party,” Dad says. “And kindergarten is months and months away,” he reminds me, adjusting his glasses as he glances at the screen.

  “Yes,” I say, wanting to agree with him. “So there was nothing to tell, right?” I toss my ball back and forth a few times, wishing the new strength in my fingertips could spread to the rest of me. Then I’d be better able to face The Wrath of Dad—if he’s mad at me, that is.

  Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him.

  The main thing is, I do not want Dad to take away my handheld video game, Die, Creature, Die. That’s my worst punishment.

  “It’s not quite that simple, son,” he says, turning to look at me like I’m some interesting new specimen. Or almost-interesting, anyway. “You knew what was going on with your sister, EllRay, yet you said nothing. And please put down that ball. It’s distracting.”

  Good, I think—because I need all the help I can get in this conversation.

  But of course I put down the ball. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that Coach said he wants us to be two-handed players. We’re supposed to handle the ball all weekend.”

  “Which you have done,” Dad says. “And who is ‘Coach,’ by the way?”

  “Mr. Havens,” I tell him. “He started teaching second grade this year, but he used to be on the basketball team in college. He volunteered to help us third-graders learn how to play better.”

  “That was good of him,” Dad says, nodding his approval.

  “It would be better if I had a real basketball,” I say, looking down at the kickball on the rug. “And no offense, but this family could use a basketball hoop, too,” I add. “Above our garage door.”

  This fancy footwork–style hint might distract him from being mad at me.

  “I know where basketball hoops go,” Dad says. “I may not be the world’s biggest expert on the sport, son—or even very interested in it. But I’m interested in what interests you.”

  “Well, I wish we had a ball and a hoop,” I say, trying not to back down. My heart is pounding, though. I can’t think fast enough to say something nice back to him.

  Even though there are lots of good things I could say.

  “That’s not a totally impossible wish,” Dad says, half smiling. “But sometimes it’s hard to keep up with all your interests, EllRay. I don’t think you ever even mentioned basketball until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Because that’s when us guys started playing it,” I say.

  “But you can’t expect sports equipment simply to appear out of the blue,” Dad says. “Let’s give the game some time, and see if you’re still interested in a month or so.”

  “I will be,” I insist, folding my arms across my chest. “Or I will be if I ever grow tall enough,” I mumble.

  “Yes. Your mom told me you were still worried about that,” Dad says.

  “Because you said I would grow this year,” I remind him. “You promised.”

  Like I already said, it’s not so much the height thing as it is the respect I need—for being good at something. That’s the problem. But it is way too hard to explain.

  “It’s only February, son,” Dad says. “There’s still plenty of time left in the year. I think I was your age when I had my growth spurt. Or I was nine or ten, anyway.”

  “Growth spurt.” That sounds kind of weird, doesn’t it?

  Wait. “Nine or ten?” I yelp. “That’s years from now, Dad! You mean like the fifth grade? I’ll be a whole different person!”

  “You’ll be the same EllRay Jakes, believe me,” Dad says, laughing. “Growing taller is not like climbing stairs, where you just go up, up, up, one step at a time until you’re grown, or like being on an escalator. Instead, sometimes you reach what’s called a plateau.”

  “And plateaus are flat,” I say, remembering some of the geology stuff my dad has taught me.

  “That’s right,” Dad says, pleased. “And at those times, it’s more like you’re on a moving sidewalk for a while, instead of climbing stairs. A moving sidewalk? Like at the airport?” he says, looking at me to see if I’m getting it.

  “I remember,” I say.

  “You’re not climbing, but you are moving forward,” Dad explains anyway. “Maybe those are the times when you’re growing on the inside, son. And then suddenly, you start climbing again. More stairs.”

  “But you’re saying I’m on the moving sidewalk right now?” I ask, making sure I have it right. “On the plateau?”

  “You seem to be,” Dad says. “But there may be a steep flight of stairs just around the corner. And someday, you may very well end up being taller than the boy or girl who’s the tallest person in your class right now.”

  “But now is when it’s embarrassing, Dad,” I say. “Especially because basketball is something I should be naturally good at,” I add.

  Uh-oh. I did not think that last sentence through.

  14

  HERE WE GO

  My fancy footwork has failed me.

  “You say you should naturally be good at basketball,” Dad says, his voice quiet. “And just why is that, son?”

  Unfortunately, I am unable to delete what I just said from Dad’s mental hard drive, so I have to answer his question. “Because just look at the Lakers and the Clippers,” I say, naming Los Angeles’s two professional basketball teams. “They have tons of players with brown skin. They really do. So my friends at school must kind of expect me to be good at it, too. I expect me to be good at it.”

  And—here we go. My dad is really touchy about skin color, mostly because there aren’t that many people with brown skin in Oak Glen, California.

  But he should have thought of that before we moved here, shouldn’t he?

  This is all his fault!

  Dad clears his throat. “You are fortunate enough to have many career paths that will be open to you, son,” he says, pinning me to the back of my chair with a look. “And certainly not just professional sports. You will finish primary school, and middle school, and high school,” he announces. “And then you’ll graduate from college. A
fter that, we’ll see.”

  “But I could be playing basketball that whole time, couldn’t I?” I ask. “Having fun? Getting some exercise?”

  “Sure, if you love the sport,” Dad says. “But not because of the color of your skin, or because of what people expect you to be good at. And there are other sports as well, EllRay. There’s tennis, and golf, and baseball, for example.”

  “Us kids like basketball,” I mumble, not meeting his eyes. “B-ball.”

  “‘We kids like basketball,’” he corrects me. “You would say, ‘We like basketball,’ remember. That’s the test.”

  “And I’m okay at the drills,” I continue, ignoring the grammar lesson. “So far, anyway. But when it comes time for us to play, I’ll be scampering around like a hamster on an exercise wheel while everyone else gets to shoot baskets,” I say.

  “‘Like a hamster,’” Dad repeats, blinking at me from behind his glasses. “That’s how you see yourself, son?”

  “Not all the time,” I say. “Just some of the time.”

  “Well, here’s my advice to you,” Dad says, stretching. “Enjoy the game as much as possible, for now. All the ball-tossing, and the coaching, and so on. Squeeze out every drop of fun that you can, while you can. Because there’s nothing any of us can do about how tall you will grow, or when—no matter how much we love you.”

  “I know you love me,” I mumble, cringing back into my chair.

  Geez. I wasn’t asking for mush.

  “And your mom and I will be on the lookout for some other sports you might enjoy,” Dad says. “With basketball, not instead of basketball,” he adds, before I can object. “It’s always good to have a team sport you enjoy and a solo sport, too. One that will last a lifetime.”

  He sounds pretty sure of himself. “What’s your solo sport, Dad?” I ask, watching my foot move the kickball back and forth on the rug.

  “Hiking and rock climbing, of course,” he says, smiling at me. “Remember the hiking and rock climbing we do on all our camping trips? When we go searching for rocks and fossils for my collection? You’re great at both those sports, by the way. Just so you know.”