5 5 “Hey, buddy. Got a minute?” Dad says the next night, Friday, coming into my room half an hour before bedtime.
“Sure,” I tell him, already looking forward to his pretend-tough-guy knuckle-rub on my head, which is his version of a hug. I am on my bed, surrounded by a pile of the toy ads that were stuffed in this morning’s newspaper. I’ve been making a holiday wish list and trying to find the perfect Christmas present for Alfie.
I’m thinking of getting my little sister a pink plastic pony with a silky dark mane and tail she can comb. She likes anything cute, and things she can comb, and this one pony I found even has great big green eyes. Perfect. It even has eyelashes.
“The worser the better,” Mom jokes about Alfie’s favorite toys.
Mom groaned at breakfast when she saw the Christmas ads. “Oh, not again,” she said. “It seems like Christmas was just last month.”
I don’t get it! How can grownups feel that way? To me and all my friends, it seems as though last Christmas happened a hundred years ago!
And even if the grownups feel that way about it, they shouldn’t say anything.
Why try to ruin it? Because Christmas is the best.
1. No school.
2. Presents.
3. Lots of parties and good stuff to eat. Chips and dips. Candy. And cookies.
What’s so awful about that?
Dad piles up a few of the colorful ads to get them out of the way, perches on the edge of my bed, and reaches over to knuckle-rub my hair. “Are you making a list and checking it twice?” he asks, smiling as he looks at one of the ads.
“I think it’s supposed to be Santa Claus who does that,” I tell him.
My dad sometimes gets the details wrong on normal person stuff.
“So,” Dad says, followed by—nothing.
Uh-oh. What’s up? “We’re still having Santa at the assembly, aren’t we?” I ask, because that’s probably one of the things they talked about at the P.T.A. meeting last night. And I look forward to those tiny candy canes all year, because you can jam a whole one in your mouth, and then you get a real drool-factory going.
Only you have to remember to keep your mouth shut, because—slur-r-r-r-p!
“It looks that way,” Dad says, laughing. “A few members of the anti-sugar brigade didn’t like the candy cane idea much, but I can’t see Santa passing out celery stalks, can you?”
“Not really,” I say, picturing the celery duels that would take place one second later. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! “I guess Christmas and little candy canes just go together,” I tell him.
“Not that they’re going to be calling the assembly Christmas-anything,” Dad says, sighing. “Principal James suggested ‘A Holly Jolly Holiday’ as one possibility of what to call it. He even mentioned ‘Diversity Day.’ But in the end, we decided to leave it up to you kids. The principal will be taking suggestions on Monday.”
“Right. Us kids will come up with a name for the assembly,” I tell him, angling my head for another knuckle-rub. “But let’s stick with calling it Christmas here, okay? At least at our house.”
“It’s ‘we kids,’ buddy,” Dad tells me. “And it’s a deal. ‘Christmas’ it is. So. How’s Kevin lately?” he asks, leaning back against a pillow. “His dad told me last night that he came home from school yesterday looking kind of down, only he wouldn’t talk about it. But he seemed to think you might know why.”
My heart goes FLOOP. Kevin was still acting a little weird today, I think, remembering. I thought he would have “come to his senses,” as my mom sometimes says, and that his hurt feelings would have blown over by now.
“What happened, buddy?” Dad asks. “Did you and Kevin have a falling-out?”
That’s his way of asking if me and Kevin had a fight, only Dad doesn’t like to say the word.
“I dunno,” I mumble. “Kevin’s okay, as far as I know. I mean, it’s not like I’m the boss of him,” I try to explain, hoping this will get me off the hook. Because no way am I explaining to my dad what happened at school yesterday afternoon.
Me almost making Kevin cry. By accident.
“No-o-o,” Dad says, a thoughtful look on his face. Well, he always has a thoughtful look on his face. That’s because his brain is so gigantic, I guess.
“Maybe Kevin was sad about something else,” I say.
Dad holds very still. “Something else?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Something other than what?”
Uh-oh, part two.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “You know school, Dad. Stuff happens there. You remember.”
“All right,” Dad says. “Things happens at school. But you two have to stick together, EllRay—whether you want to or not.”
Huh? “Why do we have to stick together?” I ask.
“You know why,” Dad tells me.
“Because we both have brown skin?” I say, like I’m answering a test question.
Dad stares at a shark poster on the opposite wall.
“Me and Kevin are friends, Dad,” I tell my father. “So you don’t have to tell me to—”
“Kevin and I,” Dad interrupts, still not looking at me.
“Kevin and I,” I echo.
Dad’s big on talking right. His latest thing is “Mister G.” For example, if Alfie says, “I’m busy playin’!” instead of “playing,” Dad will say, “What happened to Mr. G? Poor old Mr. G!”
To me, he’s more likely to joke, “We paid for all twenty-six letters in the alphabet, buddy. Including Mr. G, who lives at the end of many words. So let’s put him there.”
I know Dad’s right, but it’s hard to remember everything. And isn’t what you say more important than how you say it?
Right now, I can’t remember anything, I’m so nervous. Me and Dad—I mean Dad and I—hardly ever talk about skin color.
To tell the truth, I never used to think about what color I was when I was little.
And when my dad does talk about other people with brown skin, he usually says “the community.” And by that, he does not mean Oak Glen.
“You don’t even like Kevin’s dad,” I remind my father. “Not really. I heard you tell Mom once.”
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, son,” Dad says, giving me a look, and not the fun kind. “I like Kevin’s dad just fine. I mean, we don’t have a lot in common, but I like him.”
“You have something in common,” I say, keeping my voice quiet, to match his.
Dad finally smiles. “That’s right, buddy. We’re linked. And that’s what I’m talking about with you and Kevin. You’re linked, too. And that link will seem more and more important to you as time passes. As you get older. Especially in a town like Oak Glen, where the community is so small.”
Linked. Just like Cynthia Harbison said, Dad means that Kevin and I match—even though Kevin is taller than I am, and better at sports.
Also, Kevin’s obviously a kid who gets his feelings hurt more easily than I do.
I think feelings are just embarrassing. The word “feelings” says it all, doesn’t it? They’re supposed to stay inside you, where they belong. Not get all blabbed about.
And our skin isn’t even the same color brown!
But I guess people would say we officially match.
“Okay,” I tell my dad. “But we don’t have to think about that yet, Dad. Because if Kevin’s mad at me, and I’m not saying he is, it doesn’t have anything to do with skin color. It’s the opposite, even.”
“The opposite of skin color,” Dad repeats, like it’s almost a question.
That does sound kind of weird. I hope he doesn’t ask me to “define my terms.”
That’s always scary with him.
“Well, I’ll take your word for it, EllRay,” Dad says, still smiling. “But I want you to promise to be open with me about what’s going on at school.”
“Okay, Dad,” I say, crossing my fingers under the pink plastic pony ad.
I’ll be a little open.
“Change of topic,” Dad says, perching on the edge of my bed and reaching over to knuckle-rub my scalp. “What do you think about an after-Christmas getaway to Anza-Borrego, EllRay? Just you and I? No girls allowed. Anyway, they’ll be off doing something special, too.”
“Can we camp out?” I ask, my eyes wide.
He nods. “We may. Fingers crossed,” he tells me. “If it’s not too late to get a permit, and if the weather cooperates.”
“Sounds good,” I say, smiling big time. “Only I think I need a new sleeping bag. A mouse chewed up the corner of my old one,” I remind him. “Remember? In the garage?”
“Darn mice,” Dad says. “We’ll keep your new bag in the house. How about that?”
“I’m getting a new sleeping bag?” I ask, eyes wide.
I hope it’s a regular grownup one, not a skimpy bag with cartoon characters all over it. It gets cold in the desert at night!
“Well, Christmas is coming,” Dad reminds me.
Which is completely unnecessary when you are talking to a kid about Christmas.
