Alfie turns around. I know that hopeful look on her face, too—like it’s been raining all Saturday, but the sun just came out.
But then Suzette yanks away the reaching-out girl, and she whirls both girls around like the three of them are on some lame carnival ride.
And Alfie is left just standing there.
Her smile goes behind a cloud. Even her new pink jacket looks sad.
“Rabbit poop girl,” Suzette cries, tossing themean words over her shoulder like a
Die, Creature, Die
grenade. “Stupid pink jacket,” she shouts, piling on the insults. “Poop jacket!” she adds. Then she starts to haul her two captives away.
And these are Alfie’s
friends
?
“Hey, Alfie,” I call out as loud as I can, making sure the other girls can hear me. “Mom’s waiting out front for us. And we’re gonna do something really, really fun! With ice cream at the end of it! After we go shopping for dolls!” I add, inspired.
There. That ought to get ’em.
“EllWay!” Alfie shouts. And she starts running across the playground like she’s never been so happy to see anyone in her whole life.
We’re only talking four years so far, but still.
I am going to have some explaining to do about fun, ice cream, and dolls once Alfie and I are buckled into our sputtering car. But it’ll be worth it, seeing the look that’s pasted on Suzette Monahan’s mean little face right now.
She’s jealous!
Good
.
But what is going on here at Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care?
Probably nothing, I tell myself as Alfie throws her arms around me, giving me a surprisingly strong hug. Most likely, it was just some stupid game they were playing.
They were just having
fun
. Weird girl-fun, but fun. Weren’t they?
And I put the whole thing in another part of my mind as I sign out Alfie and we head for the car.
Level Six, here I come!
2
TACO NIGHT
“What’s up with Alfie?” I ask my mom a week later, after a perfect dinner of tacos, tacos, and more tacos. This happened because tonight was Taco Night, a popular new tradition on Wednesdays in my family. And then we had applesauce. It is my turn to help with the dishes, but instead of Alfie sticking around and pestering Mom and me, like she usually does, she has slumped off to her bedroom like a sad little comma with a dark cloud over its head.
My third grade teacher Ms. Sanchez said today that commas are our friends, because they break up long sentences and make them easier to understand. But I’m a short sentence guy.
I’m eight years old, and we live in Oak Glen, California. I go to Oak Glen Primary School, andas you already know, Alfie goes to Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care, “
featuring computer skills and potty training
,” my dad always likes to read from the big sign out front. He has almost stopped complaining about how they spelled “creative” wrong, because what’s the point?
They must think it’s cute, Mom says.
Alfie goes to day care because Dad teaches about rocks in a San Diego college all day, and my mom writes fantasy books for grown-up ladies.
That fantasy book thing is why Alfie and I have such unusual—okay, WEIRD —names, by the way. “Alfie” is short for “Alfleta,” which means “beautiful elf” in some ancient language hardly anyone speaks anymore. And I’ll tell you about my name some other time. Maybe.
“Alfie’s got the blues, I guess,” my mom tells me, running the water as hot as it will go as I scrape our dirty plates into the trash. There isn’t much garbage to scrape on taco night, I have noticed. Not as much as two nights ago, when we had eggplant lasagna, which is just
wrong
. Eggplants should not pretend to be meat.
By the way, Mom rinses all our dishes sparklingclean before she puts them in the dishwasher, which my dad says is “just like her.” But who else would she be like?
“What does Alfie have to be sad about?” I ask, handing my mom a couple of scraped plates. “She’s four. She doesn’t even have homework.
But then Suzette yanks away the reaching-out girl, and she whirls both girls around like the three of them are on some lame carnival ride.
And Alfie is left just standing there.
Her smile goes behind a cloud. Even her new pink jacket looks sad.
“Rabbit poop girl,” Suzette cries, tossing themean words over her shoulder like a
Die, Creature, Die
grenade. “Stupid pink jacket,” she shouts, piling on the insults. “Poop jacket!” she adds. Then she starts to haul her two captives away.
And these are Alfie’s
friends
?
“Hey, Alfie,” I call out as loud as I can, making sure the other girls can hear me. “Mom’s waiting out front for us. And we’re gonna do something really, really fun! With ice cream at the end of it! After we go shopping for dolls!” I add, inspired.
There. That ought to get ’em.
“EllWay!” Alfie shouts. And she starts running across the playground like she’s never been so happy to see anyone in her whole life.
We’re only talking four years so far, but still.
I am going to have some explaining to do about fun, ice cream, and dolls once Alfie and I are buckled into our sputtering car. But it’ll be worth it, seeing the look that’s pasted on Suzette Monahan’s mean little face right now.
She’s jealous!
Good
.
But what is going on here at Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care?
Probably nothing, I tell myself as Alfie throws her arms around me, giving me a surprisingly strong hug. Most likely, it was just some stupid game they were playing.
They were just having
fun
. Weird girl-fun, but fun. Weren’t they?
And I put the whole thing in another part of my mind as I sign out Alfie and we head for the car.
Level Six, here I come!
2
TACO NIGHT
“What’s up with Alfie?” I ask my mom a week later, after a perfect dinner of tacos, tacos, and more tacos. This happened because tonight was Taco Night, a popular new tradition on Wednesdays in my family. And then we had applesauce. It is my turn to help with the dishes, but instead of Alfie sticking around and pestering Mom and me, like she usually does, she has slumped off to her bedroom like a sad little comma with a dark cloud over its head.
My third grade teacher Ms. Sanchez said today that commas are our friends, because they break up long sentences and make them easier to understand. But I’m a short sentence guy.
I’m eight years old, and we live in Oak Glen, California. I go to Oak Glen Primary School, andas you already know, Alfie goes to Kreative Learning and Playtime Day Care, “
featuring computer skills and potty training
,” my dad always likes to read from the big sign out front. He has almost stopped complaining about how they spelled “creative” wrong, because what’s the point?
They must think it’s cute, Mom says.
Alfie goes to day care because Dad teaches about rocks in a San Diego college all day, and my mom writes fantasy books for grown-up ladies.
That fantasy book thing is why Alfie and I have such unusual—okay, WEIRD —names, by the way. “Alfie” is short for “Alfleta,” which means “beautiful elf” in some ancient language hardly anyone speaks anymore. And I’ll tell you about my name some other time. Maybe.
“Alfie’s got the blues, I guess,” my mom tells me, running the water as hot as it will go as I scrape our dirty plates into the trash. There isn’t much garbage to scrape on taco night, I have noticed. Not as much as two nights ago, when we had eggplant lasagna, which is just
wrong
. Eggplants should not pretend to be meat.
By the way, Mom rinses all our dishes sparklingclean before she puts them in the dishwasher, which my dad says is “just like her.” But who else would she be like?
“What does Alfie have to be sad about?” I ask, handing my mom a couple of scraped plates. “She’s four. She doesn’t even have homework.
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