Ellis Johnson Might Be Famous, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Shawn Amos
Illustrations copyright © 2023 by Tracy Nishimura Bishop
Cover art copyright © 2023 by Talia Skyles. Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Interior design by Carla Weise.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Amos, Shawn, author. | Bishop, Tracy Nishimura, illustrator.
Title: Ellis Johnson might be famous / Shawn Amos ; illustrated by Tracy Nishimura Bishop.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2023. | Series: Cookies & milk ; 2 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: After twelve-year-old Ellis’s big break turns into his most embarrassing moment ever and his relationship with his dad and their cookie store starts to change, Ellis hatches plans to get his life back on track.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023012134 | ISBN 9780759556836 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780759556829 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Fame—Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A499 El 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023012134
ISBNs: 978-0-7595-5683-6 (hardcover), 978-0-7595-5682-9 (ebook)
E3-20230823-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1: Everyone’s a Star
2: Right-Hand Man
3: Changes
4: Upgrade
5: Flying High in the Friendly Skies
6: Dancing in the Street
7: Paying Our Dues
8: Let’s Have a Parade
9: Back of the Line
10: Quitters
11: Pushed Out
12: The Clumsy Star
13: Funny Business
14: Get Out the Vote
15: Vs.
16: First Date?
17: Love and Happiness
18: The Unbearable Weight of Lies
19: Changing the Subject
20: Pressure Drop
21: The Mothership Has Landed (Again)
22: Scared Straight
23: Disco Bites!
24: Breathe In. Breathe Out.
25: Grandma Takes a Swing
26: The Dinosaur Rises
27: Disco Rules!
28: Dinner Date
29: An Unlikely Ally
30: The Taste Test
31: Operation Dating Bust
32: Grandma Gets a Break
33: Play It Again, Ellis
34: A Different Kind of Chip
35: A Place for Everyone
A Note from the Author
Butterscotch Cookie Recipe
How to Play Harmonica
Howlin’ Johnson’s Playlist
About the Author
For Roderick Sykes
who taught me to do what I love
and love what I do.
Everyone’s a Star
Middle school is not for the weak.
I’ve been in sixth grade for ninety-one days. The way I see it, I’m already halfway to high school. High school is halfway to college. And college is halfway to a job. I’m almost a grown-up. Sometimes I can barely remember elementary school—or that little kid at the cookie store grand opening. Hollywood Middle School is changing me. But not fast enough.
My pranks don’t work like they did in elementary school. Pranks are for kids. In middle school, you’ve gotta step up your game. Middle school is about talent. Talent gets attention. And attention makes you famous. It seems like everyone in Hollywood Middle School is on their way to being famous.
Just look around this classroom. Over in the second row is Diane Clark, studying her sides. “Sides” are a few pages from a movie or TV script. Diane is always reading her sides in Mr. Thomas’s history class. She goes on auditions almost every day after school. By the time she was a fifth grader, Diane was already in five TV commercials, two plays, and one TV show. She’s definitely going to be famous.
Sitting right in front of me is James Vance. He’s going to be a famous football player. How can you not be a famous football player with a name like James Vance? All he does is draw football plays on his notebook. James is really good at pretending like he’s taking class notes. He even looks up every now and then, nodding his head and looking closely at the board. He could be an actor, too.
What no one does in Mr. Thomas’s history class is pay attention. Everyone is doing something else. Mr. Thomas is so in love with his history, he doesn’t even notice. Currently, he’s writing one more of his timelines with another bunch of really old dates.
How does learning about 1540 BC help me now, in 1976?
“We have to learn where we’ve come from to help us understand where we are headed,” Mr. Thomas says as he keeps writing more numbers on the board. His sideburns are plastered to the sides of his head like fuzzy pork chops.
I pull my harmonica out of my pocket and set it on my desk. It’s a lot more interesting than Mr. Thomas’s timeline. The harmonica is the best company you can keep. One day, I’m going to be a famous harmonica player, I know it. I already have my blues name: Howlin’ Johnson. Muddy Waters gave it to me when he came into my cookie store. He’s the greatest blues singer in the world, so he knows something about blues names.
The clock on the wall gives me two minutes until the bell rings. Now’s the time. This isn’t a prank. Technically, it’s a rehearsal before my first big performance. I mostly play harmonica in my room, at Alex’s house, or in my clubhouse at the cookie store. But it’s been ninety-one days. I’ve gotta get serious.
Sometimes you gotta take a chance.
I pick up my harmonica. My left hand holds it like a sandwich, and my right hand cups it like a baseball glove. I do my best to ignore the tingling in my fingers. Alex looks over at me, his eyes widening. He shakes his head. I nod mine. It’s time. This class is about to hear what a serious blues riff sounds like. I slowly bring my shaking hands to my mouth, draw a deep breath on the left side of my harmonica, and blow. A fat chord of three low notes rolls across the classroom. I take another deep breath so I can quickly follow with a second chord. I want to get that train chugging sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a few kids looking at me just as Mr. Thomas whips around. Now, I’ve lost my concentration—and my breath. My middle school harmonica debut is cut short. Darn it, I totally flubbed it. That didn’t sound like a blues riff at all. It sounded like a… prank. A lame prank. There’s the bell. I grab my backpack off my chair and stand up.
What the…?!
My harmonica clatters to the floor. I go blank for a second then quickly pick it up. There’s no way I can afford to break this before my big performance. It looks okay, though. I check the engraving on the top cover plate: BLUES BUDDY.
BIG uh-oh. Mr. Thomas is standing over my desk. That’s not okay. He’s yanked my Blues Buddy harmonica from my tingly hands. Alex shakes his head as he hightails it out of class. He whispers, “Told you not to do it, Ellis.”
Mr. Thomas hands my harmonica to me but doesn’t let go. We’re both in a Blues Buddy tug-of-war.
“Did you know the harmonica is based on an old Chinese instrument, the sheng? 1100 BC. The Europeans learned about the sheng over two thousand nine hundred years later and made the first harmonica in 1824. And here you are playing your Blues Buddy harmonica in my history class 152 years later. Isn’t history amazing?”
“Uh… yes?” My hands are getting sweaty. I’m losing my grip.
“I suggest you join Ms. Francis’s music class if you want to perform. And if you don’t want to lose this for good.” Mr. Thomas frees my harmonica. “Have a good Thanksgiving break, Mr. Johnson.”
“Yes, Mr. Thomas.” I throw my backpack on my shoulder and get out of class as quickly as I can.
“Nice tone, by the way.”
I smile before I can help it. “Thanks, Mr. Thomas.” One day, I’m going to be a famous harmonica player. A VIP. I know it. Everyone will know my name.
No one in the cafeteria pays any attention to me. I blew it. It sounded more like a harmonica prank than a harmonica riff. And if I was going for a prank, I would have been muc
“You only played one note,” Alex says. “What did you expect?”
Alex is my best friend, but sometimes he can be too honest. Besides, “It was one chord, not one note,” I say.
“Whatever. You gotta play more notes and chords if you want people to know how good you are. Playing one note isn’t taking much of a chance.”
“Chord. Not note.”
“Whatever! You gotta play more. Are you going to eat your tater tots?”
I look down at my cafeteria tray. Alex’s index finger and thumb are clamped onto the edge of my paper plate. He’s slowly reeling in my tater tots. I grab the other end with all of my fingers and reel it back.
“Hey!” Alex protests. “You don’t have to be rude.”
“And you don’t have to take my tater tots without asking.”
“I did ask.”
“You asked and took at the same time. That’s the same as not asking at all. Here.” I put four tater tots on his tray. “That’s all you get.”
Alex pops a tater tot in his mouth then immediately ejects it. “It’s cold.”
I pluck one from my plate. Yep. It’s cold. “Dip it in the ketchup. That’s warm.”
“Gross. You spend all your time spacing out instead of eating.”
“I’m thinking.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Thinking is searching. Spacing out is getting lost.”
“If you’re searching, doesn’t that mean you are lost?”
“No, it means you’re looking for something.” Like my dad. He was searching for lots of things before he found Sunset Cookies.
“Whatever, I need to get to soccer practice. Are we going to the cookie store after school?”
“I guess.”
It’s okay that my botched harmonica riff didn’t get anyone’s attention, because I know what will. In just a few days, I’m going to be the most famous harmonica player in the world.
Right-Hand Man
“You got chocolate on Muddy Waters’s face.”
I hold the album cover up to Alex. There it is. I point to it. Smack in the middle of the light reflecting off his shiny skin. “You got chocolate on Muddy Waters’s left cheek.”
Alex takes the album and sits down on a sack of flour. He examines the blemish. It looks like Muddy is crying a chocolate teardrop. Alex tries to wipe his cheek. “How do you know this was me? We’re surrounded by chocolate chips. It could have been anybody.”
There are a million ways I know this was Alex. “First of all, everyone knows our clubhouse is private. The only people allowed are Dad and Hershel. Second, they don’t open bags of chocolate chips in here. Or flour. Or sugar. Or anything else. They take them to the kitchen, where cookies are made. Third, I always clean my hands before I touch our albums. Fourth, look at your hands right now.”
Alex’s fingers are covered with chocolate from the cookies he’s been eating. He licks them clean. “Sorry, Ellis. I’ll be more careful.”
I put the Muddy Waters vinyl on the turntable and drop the needle. Side one, song three. “Just to Be with You.” The harmonica notes spin off the vinyl and fly out of the speakers. I don’t why, but everything sounds better in the clubhouse—our albums, my harmonica. I grab my Blues Buddy and catch up to the recording. Alex taps his foot to the groove.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Ellis. You’re definitely going to be famous. You sound so good. Just like Muddy’s harmonica player, Little Milton.”
Little Milton? Was he serious? This cannot go ignored. I lift the needle right before the harmonica solo starts. “Muddy Waters’s harmonica player is Little Walter—the greatest harmonica player of all time. It’s not Little Milton.”
Alex takes the last two cookies from the bowl. “Right. Sorry. I forgot.”
I give Alex the stink eye I learned from Grandma.
“What? Why are you giving me the stink eye? I said I was sorry.”
I shrug and place the needle back down. “Thanks for saying I sound good.”
“You do.”
I continue to follow Little Walter’s solo. Some of the notes I still can’t figure out—like when he makes his harmonica sound like a merry-go-round. It’s like he plays a low note and a high note at the same time while leaving out all the notes in between. I lift up the needle again and try to figure out the part on my own. There’s something about playing in the clubhouse. I never get nervous. For some reason, nothing else matters in here. It’s the one place where Alex and I don’t have to worry about anything.
“How come you didn’t play like that in class today?”
I bend my last note then explain, “I dunno. I got embarrassed when some of the class started looking at me.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yeah, but harmonica is still kind of a private thing. I can’t explain it. Plus, if I played longer, Mr. Thomas would have busted me for sure.”
“He did bust you.” Alex hands me one of his cookies. “How can you be a famous harmonica player if you won’t play for anyone?”
Ow! That hurt. I bit the inside of my mouth chewing my cookie. I stick my finger inside. It’s bleeding. “I play for you. And I play in my store.”
Alex picks at the chocolate under his nails. “Hey, why do keep calling it your store? It’s your dad’s cookie store.”
Ow! That hurt, too. How could Alex say that? I spent my whole summer working with Dad to open this store. It’s our picture hanging above the counter. I’m the one selling cookies in the front. I even hired Hershel.
“Why are you being so mean, Alex?”
“I’m not being mean. I just don’t understand you sometimes.”
“There’s nothing to understand. This is my store with Dad. We opened it together and it’s ours. He says the same thing. I’m his right-hand man. And I am going to be a famous harmonica player. I have a plan. It’s gonna make me and the store famous.”
“What is it?”
I don’t respond.
I can’t tell him. Alex is my best friend, but this is too important to tell anyone. Sometimes, it’s better to keep your plans to yourself. People start giving you their opinions, and it gets confusing. Suddenly, you start doubting your plan. Sometimes, keeping quiet keeps things clear.
Alex gets up from the flour sacks and heads for the door. “Whatever. I just think it’s hard to be a famous harmonica player if you don’t play harmonica for anybody.” Alex steps out of the clubhouse and closes the door behind him. A few seconds later, he reappears.
“Hey, Ellis, speaking of famous, your dad’s interview is about to start.”
The front of the store looks like a movie set. A video camera is perched on top of a tripod. A man in a plaid shirt adjusts a light sitting on a metal stand while another man attaches a small microphone to Dad’s shirt. Dad spots me standing at the kitchen door. He’s parked at one of the square wooden tables with a bowl of cookies and a carton of milk in front of him. He scratches his salt-and-pepper beard before calling over to me.
“Everyone, meet my right-hand man.” Dad introduces me to the news crew. Then he explains to me, “Eyewitness News wants to talk Sunset Cookies.” Dad points to the front glass door and reads the words for the crew. “‘The finest in chocolate chip cookies since 1976.’ You might want to get that on your camera.”
Dad pats his hand on the chair next to him at the table. There are usually four around the table, but two have been moved.
I see what’s happening. Dad wants his right-hand man to be on the news with him. I’m going to be on the news! It only makes sense. Sunset Cookies is our store. I sit down next to Dad.
“Do me a favor, my man,” he says, pointing to the photo of us above the counter. “Use this chair to crawl up and get rid of that picture.”
“Huh?”
The cameraman explains some more. “It’s in our shot, and there’s a glare on it. No time to adjust lighting.”
I do my best to act like it’s no big deal. Dad always says there’s no job too small. Now the news reporter steps in. His face looks spray-tanned. His hair is shiny and stiff.
