EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken

“I have an announcement to make,” a serious-looking Ms. Sanchez says to us later that afternoon, after recess, and we instantly hold still in our seats, because you can never tell. “I’ve been picking up some bad vibes lately,” Ms. Sanchez says, looking hard at us.

We have learned by now that “bad vibes” is her way of saying that something in our class feels wrong to her, but she can’t say exactly what.

Hearing this announcement, we all relax a little, because—what else is new? There is always some bad vibe floating around our class.

1.Sometimes, one of the girls gets her feelings hurt, or a couple of girls get into their version of a fight, and the whole class suffers. Girls know how to spread their misery around better than boys, who like to keep things secret.

2.Or sometimes, we hear about something bad that has happened outside of school, in some other kid’s family—like someone getting sick, or even someone dying, which is what happened to Corey’s grandma before Christmas. That also makes bad vibes, of course, because deep down, we all sort of care about each other. Also, I think we’re afraid some of the bad might rub off on us.

3.And when we heard last fall that Ms. Sanchez’s dog died, those dead dog vibes made us sad for days. Even kids like me who don’t get to have a dog, because Alfie’s allergic. Those vibes were the worst of all.

This bad vibe is different, though, because I have a feeling it’s about me. But no one except Jared, Stanley, and I knows that—and we’re not going to talk.

“Is there anything going on that I should know about?” Ms. Sanchez asks us. “Any problems we should be discussing? Because I wanted our new year to start out right, and it just isn’t.”

Cynthia’s hand shoots up, and Ms. Sanchez calls on her. Cynthia stands up. “Well, I didn’t do anything wrong,” she says loudly. “And neither did Heather.”

Heather wiggles in her seat and smiles, happy to be included in anything Cynthia has to say.

But Ms. Sanchez frowns. “I didn’t say anyone in this class has misbehaved,” she says, trying to clear things up. “I was simply stating that things do not feel right around here.”

And she looks at each boy in the class one at a time with her superpower vision.

Stanley Washington looks down at his desk and starts polishing his glasses like crazy.

Jared Matthews stares straight ahead, his face as stony as one of the pieces of granite on the display shelf in my dad’s home office.

And I, EllRay Jakes, feel as though Ms. Sanchez can tell every single thing that has happened with Jared, Stanley, and me just by looking at my face.

Ms. Sanchez shakes her head, looking disappointed in us. “You know you can come to me with any problem, don’t you?” she says, speaking to everyone in the class this time.

The girls nod, looking very serious, but all the boys just stare at her. Because—who wants to talk about their problems? Not us!

Now Ms. Sanchez sighs. “Well, my door’s always open if anyone has anything they want to share with me,” she tells us.

And that’s just messed up, because we don’t even know where she lives. So what difference does it make whether her door is open or not?

Also, if she means that her door is always open at school, that’s not true either. The custodian locks every single classroom door at the end of the day.

And if she means that we can come talk to her during recess, that’s not true either, because she’s always in the faculty lounge. If a kid ever tried to walk in there, the world would probably come to an end.

“Does everyone have that straight?” Ms. Sanchez asks us, and we all nod again.

“Good,” Ms. Sanchez tells us, not sounding like it’s good at all. “I guess you’d better gather your things,” she says, “because the buzzer is about to sound. And let’s all start out fresh on Friday, shall we?”

And we nod for the third time, except for Cynthia, who says, “We shall! Especially me and Heather!”

“It’s ‘Heather and me,’ Miss Harbison,” Ms. Sanchez says, sounding tired, tired, tired.