9

WHACKED ON WEDNESDAY

It is now noon, and even though the top half of me is covered with mud, or—excuse me—soil, I have made it almost halfway through the week without getting into trouble.

Disneyland, here I come! Maybe.

“Did Jared throw mud at you this morning on purpose?” Kevin McKinley asks me.

“Huh?” I say. We are the only ones sitting at the third grade boys’ lunch table so far. When the bell rang, I ran outside fast, so I could finish my lunch early and then go wash my hands for half an hour.

I guess Kevin was just hungry.

Kevin takes a big bite of his big sandwich, chews slowly, swallows the bite, and then takes a long swig of his chocolate milk without even using a straw.

Milk dribbles down my shirt whenever I try that, but I guess today it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

Kevin clears his throat. “Corey said that Emma told him it looked like Jared threw that mud on you on purpose during the experiment,” he says, and he gets ready to take another bite of his sandwich.

Wow! I didn’t know news traveled so fast around here. Or that boys listened to girls. “Why would Jared do that?” I ask, not really answering Kevin’s question.

“’Cause he’s mean?” Kevin guesses, his mouth full again.

Corey slides onto the bench. “Who’s mean?” he asks, opening his lunch sack and peering eagerly into it—even though he’s already eaten half of what was inside. All that’s probably left is a sack of carrot sticks and the same box of raisins his mom keeps packing every day, even though Corey never eats them.

Those raisins are practically antiques.

But don’t worry, we’ll share our food with him.

“News flash. Jared’s mean,” Kevin says, filling him in.

“Duh,” Corey says, making a face. “Emma says she thought you were going to sock Jared right in the mouth this morning, EllRay.”

“Only he’s so short he couldn’t reach my mouth,” Jared said, flinging himself so hard onto the bench on the other side of the table that everything shakes: table, benches, antique raisins, little sacks of carrot sticks, us. “EllRay socking me,” he sneers in a loud voice. “Like that’s gonna happen. Right, Stanley?”

“Right,” Stanley says, sliding in next to him.

“You sound kind of like a robot, Stanley,” Kevin says thoughtfully, after taking another slurp of his chocolate milk.

Everyone at the table—even Jared and Stanley—is quiet for a second, because Kevin is nearly as big as Jared, so what does that mean in terms of a possible fight? And Kevin is one of those guys who almost never gets mad, but when he does, watch out.

“You got a problem with me, McKinley?” Jared finally asks, because everyone is waiting for him to say something.

“Not yet,” Kevin says calmly, and he takes another bite of his sandwich.

I wish I could say something like that. Maybe if I was bigger, a lot bigger, like half a person bigger, I could.

This talk between Kevin and Jared was almost worth sticking around to hear, but my plan to avoid getting whacked on Wednesday has now been ruined—because I’m sitting here with Jared Matthews and Stanley Washington instead of being in the bathroom washing my hands, and Kevin McKinley can’t be everywhere, not for the whole rest of the day.

Or the two school days left in the week.

“Oops,” Jared says, and then—after he says “Oops”—he knocks his open carton of milk in my direction. The milk splashes on my peanut butter sandwich and floods the table. It creeps toward the edge of the table—where it will look like I wet my pants if it dribbles onto my lap.

And so even though I don’t want to, I scramble to my feet to get out of its way.

“Look at EllRay run,” Jared says, laughing, even though I haven’t run anywhere—yet.

Everyone waits for me to say something or do something to get even with Jared, but I just clamp my mouth shut and think about Disneyland.

It better be worth it.

“BUK, BUK, BUK,” Jared murmurs softly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Dude, you owe him lunch,” Kevin says, and SWOOP! He grabs the sandwich from Jared’s big square paw and hands it over to me.

“Oops,” I say, and then I drop Jared’s sandwich on the ground, and I stomp on it. “Sorry, Jared,” I tell him, not sounding sorry at all.

Jared is halfway to his feet, looking really, really mad, and also hungry, but there is no way he can complain without looking dumb in front of everyone, including a few girls—Emma, Heather, and Annie Pat—who are watching us from a nearby table with worried eyes.

After all, Jared made a “mistake,” spilling his milk, and I made a “mistake,” dropping the sandwich on the ground and stomping on it, so we’re even, right?

But I know that somehow, somewhere, I’m going to have to pay double for this.

I just hope it’s not until next week, that’s all.