7
IT’S DIFFERENT WITH MY MOM
My mom thinks there is always a reason when people—especially kids—are mean, but even though I am only eight years old, I know better.
I think some people—especially kids—are mean for no reason.
What about when a mean person shoves someone in the hall? Or “accidentally” knocks the back of that person’s head when he is drinking at the water fountain? Or grabs his lunch and plays keep-away with it?
That person does it because he can.
But I don’t tell my mom that, because it would only make her sad. Even though she likes to write books about pretend-wonderful things that could have happened in a long-ago time, in real life she is a little bit of a worrywart when it comes to Alfie and me. She wants us never to get hurt.
Just as I think this thought, Mom pops her head around the door to my bedroom. “Can I tuck you in, EllRay?” she asks, smiling.
“Sure,” I tell her, scootching over in bed to make room for her to sit next to me. “Good,” my mom says, settling in for a before-bedtime visit, which is secretly one of my favorite things, because:
1. It’s not like when I’m at school, where I can never really relax because I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.
2. And it’s not like when I’m with Alfie, where I always have to watch her to make sure she doesn’t try to fly down the stairs or something crazy like that.
3. And it’s not like when I’m with my dad, where he is either trying to keep me from messing up in the future or scolding me for messing up in the past. Sometimes I think I must be a disappointment to him, he is so important and smart. And strong. And tall.
It’s different with my mom. My mom is usually a very relaxing person, and she likes me no matter what. She even likes the old EllRay Jakes.
“Your daddy told me about your Disneyland deal,” Mom says, arranging my covers more neatly under my chin. “I guess you’re pretty happy about that, hmm?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If I don’t mess it up for everyone. Don’t tell Alfie about it yet, okay? Just in case.”
“Okay,” Mom promises. “But I know you can do it, honey bun.”
“It’s—it’s kind of like a bribe, though, isn’t it?” I ask. “Us getting to go to Disneyland, but only if I’m good. And I thought you guys said that bribing people was wrong. Even bribing kids.”
My mom laughs a little. “I might have handled things differently,” she says quietly. “But whatever works, EllRay—because I want everyone at Oak Glen Primary School to see the same wonderful boy I see whenever I look at you.”
“I’m not always wonderful,” I admit in the dark.
“To me you are,” Mom says. “Deep down inside. But—what’s going on?”
“Like, in the world?” I ask, pretending I don’t know what she means.
“Not in the world,” she says. “Just in your world.”
“My world’s fine,” I lie.
But it’s the kind of lie that is meant to keep someone from feeling bad, like if a person asks, “How does my new haircut look?” and you say, “Perfectly normal,” instead of “Like somebody went after you with broken kindergarten scissors .”
“Oh, come on,” Mom says in her softest voice. “I know you better than that, EllRay Jakes. And something is troubling you. Is it your progress report?”
“Yeah, it’s that,” I say, taking the easy way out—because she offered it to me.
Mom leans over to kiss my on my forehead, which is all wrinkled from fibbing. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” she tells me. “Time passes, doesn’t it? I’ll bet your work has already improved since Ms. Sanchez wrote that report.”
“But it’s hard,” I say, telling the truth for the first time since she sat down.
“What’s hard?” Mom asks.
“Paying attention in class,” I tell her. “And remembering all the rules. And sitting in my chair without wiggling. And not bothering my neighbor, even when she wants to be bothered. And not getting mad on the playground. It’s hard just being me, Mom.”
“Oh, EllRay, I know it is,” she says, scooping me into a hug. “But like I said before, being you is also a wonderful thing, honey bun.”
“Not so far it isn’t,” I try to say, but my mouth is smooshed against her sweater and she probably doesn’t even hear me.
Mom kisses me on my forehead again and pulls the covers up to my chin. “Well, nighty-night,” she says, as if every problem in every world, not just mine, has now been solved. “Close your eyes and go to sleep,” she tells me. “Because tomorrow’s going to be a beautiful day, EllRay.”
Today has been a nervous Tuesday for me, I think, lying in the dark, especially because of what happened at lunch. But Mom has made it better, somehow. And I did make it through the afternoon without getting twisted, pounded, or whomped again.
So that’s been one whole day without getting into trouble.
Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I can do it!
