EllRay Jakes Stands Tall by Sally Warner Page A

who knows how good I’ll be by Wednesday morning?
    Things can only get better.
    Right?

16
    MR. YEAH BUT
    â€œHey, EllRay,” Marco says, catching up to me as we scuff our way back to class. “Do you like b-ball?”
    â€œYeah,” I say, slowing down a little. “Except no one will ever pass me the ball, I’m so short. Why?” I ask. “Don’t you like it?”
    â€œBasketball’s too noisy,” he says after looking around to make sure no one else can hear. “There’s too much yelling and stuff. It gives me a headache
and
a stomachache.”
    â€œReally?” I say, trying to imagine it.
    I think Marco’s problem is that he’s a kid who needs a lot of peace and quiet. I guess that’s why he likes to play olden days on the grass with his plastic dragons and knights.
    But peace and quiet are like endangered species at Oak Glen Primary School.
    â€œThen don’t play it,” I say, shrugging. “You don’t
have
to play, Marco.”
    â€œYeah, but that’s being a baby,” Marco says. “I’d be eating fruit leather on the teeter-totters before you know it,” he says, quoting Coach. “Kids would laugh at me. And anyway,” he adds, “I like hanging with everyone—when they’re not shouting and stuff, anyway.”
    He really looks miserable. I have a horrible feeling that he’s about to cry.
    And crying at school is every boy’s worst nightmare.
    â€œMaybe you could wear earplugs,” I suggest. “We could make some out of clay.”
    â€œYeah, but then I wouldn’t be able to hear it if someone said, ‘Heads up!’ when they passed me the ball,” Marco says. “And I’d still feel like I was gonna hurl.”
    â€œMaybe you should try yoga,” I say. “That’s supposed to make you feel all relaxed, Ms. Sanchez says. Then the noise and stuff wouldn’t bother you so much.”
    â€œYeah, but yoga’s just for
girls
,” Marco says. “At Oak Glen, anyway.”
    Marco Adair is turning into the type of guy my Dad calls
“Mr. Yeah But.”
    â€œWell, maybe you should ask Coach not to yell so much?” I suggest, starting to run out of ideas.
    â€œYeah, right,” Marco says with a bitter laugh. He shakes his head.
    â€œWhat about if you ask Ms. Sanchez to ask Coach to play b-ball quieter?” I say as we plod down the shiny hall toward class. We’re gonna be late!
    â€œYeah, but that would be like tattling,” Marco says, sounding as if all hope is lost. “Anyway, I don’t think she’s the boss of him.
But thanks for listening
,
EllRay
,” he adds in a whisper. Quietly.
    â€œQuietly” and “Shortly.” That’s Marco and me, I guess.
    But—poor Marco!

17
    FOUL!
    At Monday lunch, it is like we have taken a strange but silent vote:
“No b-ball.”
Instead, we stuff our faces with food, hang by numb arms and burning hands from the cold overhead ladder, and watch the girls compare fancy Japanese erasers from their collections.
    That’s a thing, I guess. This week, anyway.
    Emma has a panda eraser. Annie Pat’s is a tiny dolphin. And Cynthia has a butterfly, which Heather says is the best eraser, because of all the colors. The girls are holding their erasers in the palms of their hands, whispering to them like they are little pets.
    Sometimes, girls are just strange. No offense.
    I would like to have that dolphin eraser, though. I wouldn’t use it, either—even though I am a kid who needs erasers.
    Who needs them a
lot
.

    But it is now afternoon recess, and basketball is creeping back into our brains. The playground monitor—not Mr. Havens today—is busy keeping little kids from walking in front of moving swings and getting clobbered. So “the coast is clear,” as my mom sometimes says.
    That means we third-graders can do what we want.
    Jared is