can’t help it! And that’s
all
I need, to laugh like a preschool girl in front of just about everyone.
I would have to move away from Oak Glen
forever
. Maybe to some foreign land.
You can do this, I tell myself as Jared’s horrible fingers are almost touching me. Just hang in there, dude. Just—
BRI-I-I-N-N-N-G! goes the buzzer.
And I, EllRay Jakes, have officially been saved by the bell.
I have
completed my challenge
.
I drop to the sand with a
thunk
and just lie there, trying to remember how to move. I see some legs walking up to me. “I guess you did it, dog,” Kevin’s voice says.
I think I almost hear some admiration in his words!
And then he’s gone.
“C’mon, EllRay,” Emma urges. “We gotta get to class.” She sounds both confused and worried.
I guess boys are a mystery to her.
It’s because we do stuff for different reasons than girls do, that’s the thing.
Our reasons are good. Theirs are random.
“Yeah. C’mon,” Corey says. And he hauls me to my feet.
Corey is abnormally strong, even though he’s a skinny guy. It’s probably because of all that swimming. His muscles are hiding out, but they’re
there.
“You gotta walk, EllRay,” he tells me. “Left, right. Left, right. Move!”
“How long was I hanging there?” I ask as I scuffle my too-heavy feet through the sand, my sore arms hanging down like logs.
My hands are
killing
me. Each one feels as big as a bunch of bananas.
Hot
bananas.
And I’ve got blisters! They’re popping up like grapes.
“I dunno,” Corey says. “A couple of minutes, maybe?”
“It had to be ten minutes,
easy
,” I argue with as much strength as I can pull together. “Maybe even fifteen.”
“Whatever you say, dog,” Corey says. But I can tell he’s just humoring me.
Who cares, though?
I did it!
13
THURSDAY’S CHALLENGE
“What’s with all the blisters, buddy?” Dad asks me at dinner Wednesday night, reaching over to examine my hands. “Your mom mentioned you were hurting.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “We were just playing. You know, grabbing stuff.”
“It looks like you’ve been out chopping down Christmas trees,” he jokes. “Which reminds me,” he adds, raising a finger. “I thought it might be fun for us to harvest our own tree this weekend, after the assembly—EllRay’s big day—is behind us.”
“It’s not my big day,” I object. “And you’re not coming, are you? You just went to the P.T.A. meeting. Don’t you have to work?”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Dad says. “I moved some appointments around. I don’t want to miss seeing you do us proud, son.”
Do us proud
.
Does he mean
our-family
-us, or
the-community
-us?
I can’t ask. But either way, YOW .
Too much pressure.
“What do you mean, ‘harvest our own twee’?” Alfie asks, frowning.
“You know,” Dad explains. “Saw it down ourselves. There’s a Christmas tree farm not too far out of town. There was a feature in the local paper about it.”
“That sounds like fun,” Mom says. She likes having a real, live—well, dead—Christmas tree in the house each year. “I could pack a picnic,” she adds. “And we can take some pictures.”
Events are very well photographed in our family, thanks to my mom. First time crawling, first steps, first days of school, birthdays, new clothes. Special assemblies, for sure. You name it, and Mom’s been there with a camera.
Alfie’s fork droops. “Saw it down?” she asks, sounding like Dad has just suggested going out and strangling a turkey for our holiday dinner. “Instead of buying it at the Christmas twee store?”
“But Alfie,” I say, trying to reason with her. “Where do you think all the trees in the Christmas tree stores come from? Christmas tree farms, that’s where. People make their living growing them. So it’s the same thing, really.”
“No. They come from the North Pole,” Alfie says, like she’s answering an especially lame riddle. “
Weally
,” she
all
I need, to laugh like a preschool girl in front of just about everyone.
I would have to move away from Oak Glen
forever
. Maybe to some foreign land.
You can do this, I tell myself as Jared’s horrible fingers are almost touching me. Just hang in there, dude. Just—
BRI-I-I-N-N-N-G! goes the buzzer.
And I, EllRay Jakes, have officially been saved by the bell.
I have
completed my challenge
.
I drop to the sand with a
thunk
and just lie there, trying to remember how to move. I see some legs walking up to me. “I guess you did it, dog,” Kevin’s voice says.
I think I almost hear some admiration in his words!
And then he’s gone.
“C’mon, EllRay,” Emma urges. “We gotta get to class.” She sounds both confused and worried.
I guess boys are a mystery to her.
It’s because we do stuff for different reasons than girls do, that’s the thing.
Our reasons are good. Theirs are random.
“Yeah. C’mon,” Corey says. And he hauls me to my feet.
Corey is abnormally strong, even though he’s a skinny guy. It’s probably because of all that swimming. His muscles are hiding out, but they’re
there.
“You gotta walk, EllRay,” he tells me. “Left, right. Left, right. Move!”
“How long was I hanging there?” I ask as I scuffle my too-heavy feet through the sand, my sore arms hanging down like logs.
My hands are
killing
me. Each one feels as big as a bunch of bananas.
Hot
bananas.
And I’ve got blisters! They’re popping up like grapes.
“I dunno,” Corey says. “A couple of minutes, maybe?”
“It had to be ten minutes,
easy
,” I argue with as much strength as I can pull together. “Maybe even fifteen.”
“Whatever you say, dog,” Corey says. But I can tell he’s just humoring me.
Who cares, though?
I did it!
13
THURSDAY’S CHALLENGE
“What’s with all the blisters, buddy?” Dad asks me at dinner Wednesday night, reaching over to examine my hands. “Your mom mentioned you were hurting.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “We were just playing. You know, grabbing stuff.”
“It looks like you’ve been out chopping down Christmas trees,” he jokes. “Which reminds me,” he adds, raising a finger. “I thought it might be fun for us to harvest our own tree this weekend, after the assembly—EllRay’s big day—is behind us.”
“It’s not my big day,” I object. “And you’re not coming, are you? You just went to the P.T.A. meeting. Don’t you have to work?”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Dad says. “I moved some appointments around. I don’t want to miss seeing you do us proud, son.”
Do us proud
.
Does he mean
our-family
-us, or
the-community
-us?
I can’t ask. But either way, YOW .
Too much pressure.
“What do you mean, ‘harvest our own twee’?” Alfie asks, frowning.
“You know,” Dad explains. “Saw it down ourselves. There’s a Christmas tree farm not too far out of town. There was a feature in the local paper about it.”
“That sounds like fun,” Mom says. She likes having a real, live—well, dead—Christmas tree in the house each year. “I could pack a picnic,” she adds. “And we can take some pictures.”
Events are very well photographed in our family, thanks to my mom. First time crawling, first steps, first days of school, birthdays, new clothes. Special assemblies, for sure. You name it, and Mom’s been there with a camera.
Alfie’s fork droops. “Saw it down?” she asks, sounding like Dad has just suggested going out and strangling a turkey for our holiday dinner. “Instead of buying it at the Christmas twee store?”
“But Alfie,” I say, trying to reason with her. “Where do you think all the trees in the Christmas tree stores come from? Christmas tree farms, that’s where. People make their living growing them. So it’s the same thing, really.”
“No. They come from the North Pole,” Alfie says, like she’s answering an especially lame riddle. “
Weally
,” she
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