Emily Jenkins - Toys Come Home

Lumphy wants to go to the party. He has never been to a party before, and he thinks it sounds like something he would like a lot. He wonders if there will be dancing.

StingRay wants to go to the party, too. She wonders if there will be ruffly lace for her to wear.

“Honey!” the mommy calls up the stairs. “Time to go!”

The Girl grabs StingRay and Lumphy and shoves them into the backpack. It smells like—like what?

StingRay thinks it smells like sour milk. Lumphy thinks it smells like pencil shavings.

“Sour milk.”

“No, pencil shavings.”

“Sour milk.”

“No, pencil shavings.”

Lumphy nips StingRay’s plush flipper with his buffalo teeth.

StingRay pokes Lumphy in the eye with the tip of her tail.

Buh-buh bump! The backpack goes down the stairs.

Whoosh! It swings out the door, and—

Plunk! Drops into the trunk of the car.

“Maybe we shouldn’t play that hippo game together anymore,” says Lumphy, feeling sorry and sick to his stomach. “I think it makes me cranky.”

“I think it makes you cranky, too.”

“Bowling will be better.”

“We should definitely bowl.”

Their quarrel over, StingRay wraps her tail around Lumphy’s middle. They wait out the car ride together.

“Hey,” says Lumphy, as the car engine turns off. “What’s bowling again?”

“Bowling is …” StingRay pauses for a moment because she wants to give Lumphy an answer, wants to feel important and helpful, but doesn’t actually know. “Bowling is when everybody drinks ginger ale from bowls instead of cups,” she says, eventually. “And wears bowls on their heads, kind of like hats,

and has their hair cut in the shapes of the bowls!

They all play drums with chopsticks on the bowls on each other’s heads.

Bowling is also when there are especially big bowls filled with warm soapy water,

and people wash their feet in them,

which is a good thing to do at birthday

parties because then everybody has really clean feet after,

plus new haircuts,

so they all feel fresh,

and nobody is ever thirsty because of all the bowls of ginger ale.”

“Okay,” says Lumphy. “Let’s definitely do that.”

“Definitely.”

“Although, not the washing part.”

“No,” says StingRay.

“Or the haircuts.”

“Not the haircuts, either. Just the hats and the drumming.”

“Exactly,” says Lumphy.

. . . . .

At the bowling alley, the Girl opens the backpack and swings Lumphy and StingRay by their tails as the parents greet guests. When everyone is there, the children all change shoes and take turns standing in front of a long wooden pathway, rolling heavy round objects, kind of like giant marbles, toward groups of wooden bottles.

The adults yell “Strike!” and “Spare!” and “Not the gutter, not the gutter!”

A few of the children cry.

Lumphy and StingRay sit on the pile of jackets and watch. Lumphy wonders where the bowls of warm soapy water and ginger ale are, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he asks, in a whisper: “What is the point? With the round things and the bottles. What’s the point?”

“Winning,” says StingRay.

“How do you win?”

StingRay doesn’t know, but she’s embarrassed about the lack of soapy water and ginger ale and doesn’t want Lumphy to lose faith in her. “Whoever’s got the most round things,” she answers, with false confidence.

“But isn’t everyone sharing round things?”

“No.”

“Oh,” says Lumphy. “I thought they were, because. Um. They’re sharing them. See? The Girl is using the same one the boy with the red hair used.”

“They only look like they’re sharing them,” explains StingRay. “It’s a very complicated thing that’s going on.”

“I still don’t see the point,” says Lumphy.

When the rolling of round things is done, everyone moves to a room in the back of the building where they eat pizza and then chocolate peanut-butter birthday cake with frosting roses. The Girl opens her presents in a flurry of colored paper and curls of ribbon.

“Will there be a new friend in there?” Lumphy asks StingRay.

“How should I know?”

“I thought you knew almost everything,” the buffalo says, mildly.

“Oh.” StingRay is pleased. “Well. Thank you for noticing. But I can’t predict the future.”

The Girl unwraps a game called Uncle Wiggily, two Barbie dolls with blank motionless faces, several glittery Barbie dresses and a shiny pink box to keep them in, markers, a beading kit, and a nightgown.

“Nobody,” says Lumphy, forlornly.

“Nobody,” echoes StingRay.

Lumphy thinks maybe now there will be the hats and haircuts and the drumming and washing feet, but no. Some people have seconds on cake, some people are playing with the discarded ribbon, and some people are jumping on the seats, yelling.

And then—the party is over. Each kid gets a paper goody bag to take home. Children pull out swirly lollipops, sticker books, and red bouncy round things.

The Girl gets a goody bag, too, even though she is the hostess. When they leave the bowling alley, she shoves it into the backpack along with Lumphy and StingRay.

Once they are in the trunk of the car, the round thing in the goody bag begins to wiggle.

And roll a tiny bit.

Boing, boing!

It even bounces—tight small bounces inside the bag.

Every time it moves, it’s making a papery crinkling thump.

Boing, boing, crackle!!

Crackle, boing, boing, BOING!

It appears the round thing is somebody.

Not nobody after all.

It will not stop bouncing and wiggling and trying to roll. Inside the paper bag, inside the backpack, inside the trunk of the car.

“Excuse me,” says StingRay, finally. (Lumphy is sick to his stomach and doesn’t feel like talking.) “Excuse me, but you are bonking us in here. There’s not enough room for you to be so hyper.”

“Good morning!” cries the round thing.

“It’s afternoon.”

“Good afternoon!”

“Don’t feel bad you missed the party,” says StingRay, kindly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Party party party!” says the round thing, spinning in place.

“No. You missed the party,” says StingRay. “But don’t feel bad.”

“Isn’t this a party?” the thing asks.

“No.”

“But isn’t a party when three or more people have a good time together? I don’t really know, but somehow I think that’s what a party is!”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Then it’s a party!” cries the thing. “One person, me. Two person, the large guy with legs I can feel over on my left—”

“Buffalo.”

“And three person, you, you nice soft plushy—”

“Marine animal,” says StingRay.

“Mammal!” cries the thing. “And we’re all here together having an excellent time. Party party party!”

“Not mammal. Fish,” corrects StingRay.

“It’s my first party,” says the round thing, bouncing softly. “Lucky me!”

. . . . .

The Girl tries several names for the round thing.

Maria.

No.

LopLop.

No.

Snickers.

No.

Plastic! The Girl says it over and over, as if she likes the sound.

“How about Penny?” says the mother. “Short for Penelope.”

“No. Plastic,” says the Girl.

“Penny’s a real name, but it’s also cute. And pennies are round,” continues the mom, as if she hasn’t heard.

“Plastic!” The Girl plants a kiss on the round thing’s fat red surface.

And the name sticks.

For the next several days, the Girl spends a lot of time throwing Plastic toward the ceiling and catching her again.