Free Toys Come Home by Emily Jenkins Page A

StingRay on a low shelf and trots out of the room. She has a playdate.
    When the family bangs the front door behind them and the toys can hear the rumble of the car starting in the driveway, the walrus galumphs himself to the edge of the bed, then hurls himself off. He executes a spectacular flip with a twist—and lands right side up.
    Whomp!
    He’s a little larger than StingRay, and his plush is a satiny walnut brown. His soft tusks and hairy gray whiskers are fresh and clean. The tag on his hind flipper reads DRY CLEAN ONLY .
    The walrus shakes his head with a “Blubba-la blubba-la” sound, and the thick pudge of his neck rolls and shakes. Then he scoots over and snuffs his whiskery nose over the edge of the shelf where StingRay sits.
    He doesn’t speak.
    StingRay doesn’t speak.
    StingRay has never spoken, though she would dearly like to. In fact, she thinks she might have a really huge amount to say. But she doesn’t know how to get going, somehow.
    “You say ‘How dya do?’ is what you say,” the walrus announces eventually.
    “Haaak,” croaks out StingRay.
    “No,” snaps the walrus.
“ ‘How dya do?’ ”
He repeats the phrase as if StingRay is stupid.
    “How dya do?” StingRay manages.
    “Splendiferous, thank you. And yourself?”
    “Splendiferous.” StingRay likes that word. It sounds grand.
    “You can’t say ‘splendiferous’ if I said ‘splendiferous,’ ” complains the walrus. “You’re doing it wrong.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I say ‘splendiferous’ and you say something
else.
Then you’re not copying. Try again. How dya do?”
    “Blue,” says StingRay. “I’m blue, thank you.”
    “You’re still doing it wrong,” says the walrus. “It’s not a question about color. But let’s move on. My name is Bobby Dot. I was a birthday present and I arrived in the middle of an enormous party. The Girl really likes me and she sleeps with me on the high bed.”
    “My name is StingRay. I’m a birthday present, too.”
    “Stingray’s not your name,” says Bobby Dot. “Stingray’s what you are.”
    “StingRay is too my name.”
    “Really?” Bobby Dot looks at her, pityingly.
    “Yes.” StingRay tries to hold her chin high, but she is wishing she were indeed called Sweetie Pie or Sugar Puff. Or even Sophia.
    “Well. We can’t all have real names, I suppose,” says Bobby Dot as he hurls himself up onto the shelf with a thump. “Sheep is just called Sheep.” He makes himself comfortable next to StingRay. “I don’t think you
are
a birthday present, by the way.”
    StingRay is starting to find Bobby Dot unpleasant. “Why not?”
    “Birthday presents come at birthday parties.”
    “The mommy said I was a birthday present.”
    “Well, maybe she said that to make you feel good. But if you were really a birthday present you would have arrived at the party.”
    StingRay knows he is right. She heard the people talking about how she’d failed to be at the party.
    It is a bad feeling, this failure. Right at the start of everything. So she pretends to know something she does not.
    “I’m the Actual Day of Birth Present,” she tells Bobby Dot. “Haven’t you heard of that?”
    The walrus draws his tiny bit of chin back toward his neck. “No.”
    “Oh.” StingRay gives a shrill laugh. “I thought everybody knew about those! The Actual Day of Birth Present is this very special kind of blue present
    that arrives, of course, on the actual day of birth,
    not just on the day of the party, which is not very important,
    no offense.
    And the Actual Day of Birth Present is the present the kid wanted the most,
    in her very favorite color,
    in the best color in the world,
    not walnut brown or anything boring like that,
    no offense.
    I can’t believe you didn’t know about those.
    I thought it was common knowledge.”
    StingRay has spoken so convincingly, she almost believes herself. Bobby Dot’s bright new eyes dim slightly, and she feels a puff of satisfaction.
    “Let’s move