I stood up, folded the pamphlet in half, and slid it in my front pocket. I quickly rolled the chair back to Mrs. Harrington’s classroom.
CHAPTER 13
TOO MUCH
That afternoon, I clicked on the light in our apartment at Villa De La Fountaine. My stomach had been growling on the bus, so I headed for the pantry: trash bags, Fabulosa cleaner, and a jar of Dollar-Store Pe-nutt Sandwich Spread. (Yes, that was how peanut was spelled. I guessed you couldn’t legally call it peanut butter unless it had peanuts in it.)
Anyway, it had been a take-the-jar-with-you kind of day, so I grabbed the fake peanut butter and a clean spoon. I took the silver phone off the charger next to Dad’s bed. He wouldn’t be home from work for at least another hour.
Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, I pulled the pamphlet from my pocket and unfolded it. I unscrewed the lid of the “peanut butter” and dug a heaping spoonful from the jar. While I ate, I stared at the cover of the TOO MUCH pamphlet. The organization’s name was spelled out with words:
At the bottom, I found the phone number: Call 1-555-TOO-MUCH and speak to a qualified psychiatric technician.
I dialed.
After three rings, that recorded-voice lady answered, “Have your problems become … TOO MUCH? Hello, this is TOO MUCH: the addiction helpline. If you want to continue in English, please press 1.”
So I did.
“If you are a health professional or health care provider, please press 3.”
I didn’t.
“If you’re in need of immediate help with a life-threatening matter, please hang up and dial 911.”
I couldn’t.
I knew to stay on the line. I had called 911 a few years ago when the cable went out. Let’s just say I learned that “life threatening” had a very specific meaning.
With the spoon, I burrowed out another mound of Pe-nutt Spread.
Every few seconds the recorded voice lady came back and said how important my call was. I kept studying the information in the pamphlet.
Finally, the voice said, “Thank you for waiting. If you are over eighteen and want to speak to a counselor, please press 4. If you’re under eighteen, please hang up and call back with an adult on the line with you.”
What?
I was already in too deep. But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like not being eighteen stop me from getting help.
My finger hung above the 4 button.
“To hear the menu again,” the voice insisted, “press the pound key, or press 9 to hang up.”
I lightly traced the edges of the 4 button with my finger.
“Are you still there?”
The voice was getting downright bossy. It practically forced me to press the 4.
“You’re now being connected to a TOO MUCH specialist. For quality assurance, your phone call may be recorded.”
“Good afternoon,” a gentle voice said. “This is Amanda. May I help you on the road to recovery?”
The spoon clanged when it dropped on the metal bedside table.
“It’s okay,” Amanda encouraged, “I was where you are once. You’ve taken the first step. You placed this phone call, which means you’re ready to be helped.”
“Oh, it’s not for me.”
“Oh … I see.”
“It’s a friend.”
“Okay. A friend. What’s this friend’s name?” Amanda said friend all in italics.
“She’s not really a friend, but her name is Janie,” Two can italicize, Amanda.
“Okay, let’s call her Janie then.”
“That would be good, because that’s her name.”
“Of course it is. What are her problems?”
“Janie ate all of the Nation’s Best chocolate bars that she was supposed to sell for the dance fund-raiser—eight boxes.”
“Are we really talking about chocolate bars?”
“Yes.”
“So, Janie ate all the chocolate bars, and now she feels out of control.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The problem is she doesn’t have the two hundred bucks to pay for what she ate. Now the whole sixth grade won’t be able to go to the Night at the Alamo dance unless you help me figure out a solution.”
I picked up the spoon from the table and then ate a whole spoonful of fake peanut butter all at once.
“You’re really upset,” she said.
I tried like heck to swallow it.
“Well, yeah, they’re going to blame it all on me.” My voice was muffled by the gunk in my mouth.
“Are you eating right now?”
I froze. “No.”
“What’s your name, sweetie? Are you Janie?”
“No!”
“What’s your name then?”
I worried TOO MUCH might be tracking me down, and I wasn’t eighteen, so I’d have to go to jail. Last time the 911 operator warned me that I could be prosecuted, and I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but all words that end in “ooted” are bad: tooted, booted, electrocuted. I dropped the empty spoon on the carpet and leaped up.
“Mrs. Darling!” The words left my mouth before I could grab them back.
“Are you eighteen? If you’re under eighteen, you must call with a parent or guardian.”
I paced.
“Yes, indeedy.” I spoke as high as I could, making a last-ditch effort at Mrs. Darling’s voice. I tried so hard I ended up sounding British for some reason. “Right-o.”
“Is your mom there?” Amanda asked.
“No, my parents just got a divorce, and Dad’s still at the Instant Lube.”
I gasped.
I had told her facts about me. And they weren’t Mrs. Darling facts. What had I done? Amanda must’ve been some kind of addiction special agent.
“Is that what you are upset over? Your parents’ divorce?”
“No.” I paced faster. “I mean, yes, I mean, no …” I lifted the blinds to see if the SWAT team was racing into the Villa De La Fountaine parking lot.
“Calm down. You’ve come to the right place, Janie.”
“I’m not Janie!” I dropped the blinds.
“Of course you’re not,” Amanda said. “Now, let’s put first things first. We need to talk to your mom or dad. When will your dad be home? I can call back.”
That was it.
This lady was doing all she could to keep me on the line, acting all sugary sweet just so she could put a trace on the call. I watched TV. I knew how it all went down. I bet her name wasn’t even Amanda.
“Janie, you should really call back with your dad or mom …”
It was all TOO MUCH.
“Um … I think I dialed the wrong number. I was trying to call the Golden Wok for takeout. Sorry!”
I hung up.
And to be sure no one could trace the call, I ripped the battery out of the handset and unplugged the charging station.
I grabbed the jar of Pe-nutt sandwich spread off the bed and knelt to get the spoon off the carpet. I wiped the spoon on the edge of Dad’s sheet. I walked to the living room, turned out the lights, and slid down the living room wall to the carpet. Sitting in the dark, I finished the jar.
CHAPTER 14
ONE WEBPAGE AT A TIME
I didn’t know if my stomach hurt because of all the worrying—or from all of whatever was actually in fake peanut butter.
I got off the floor to throw away the empty jar and noticed Dad’s laptop sitting on the kitchen counter. I remembered TOO MUCH had a website.
I powered up Dad’s computer, even though I wasn’t supposed to go online when he wasn’t there. But it was an emergency. He’d want to help me if I ever told him my problem. But I couldn’t let Dad down. I had to fix my problem on my own.
I pulled up the TOO MUCH website on the laptop. The Internet never asked how old I was.
The colorful web page filled the screen with purple flowers and green fields, while piano music played from the speakers. I clicked on the Solutions link near the top of the page. Sol
utions were what our Mr. Gonzalez called the answers to math problems.
According to TOO MUCH, the best way to solve addiction problems was to have an intervention. I didn’t know what an intervention was, but there were more links, like a PDF version of Intervention Tips for Teens. Perfect.
I decided to copy the tips down—fast. I had to shut off the computer before Dad got home in a few minutes. I skimmed the guidelines for interventions. The first thing was a checklist, “Is It Time for an Intervention?” The first item on the checklist said often addicts don’t see their problems, and they don’t realize they need help.
Check.
“Is their addiction causing pain for them and others?”
Check.
“Do they ever lie about their addiction?”
Check.
If you had more than three checks, the quiz said it was time to move on to part two: The Intervention. That was basically family members and friends ganging up on the addict, so they’d know a lot of people think they had a problem.
I wasn’t Janie’s friend or family member, but I was the leader. I didn’t even know who Janie’s friends were. She was always by herself. And we couldn’t invite her dad, that was for sure. But for an intervention, we needed some people to show how she was giving everybody problems.
I scratched down as many notes as I could.
When I finally looked at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen, I realized Dad would be home any second. I ran to the kitchen counter and put the computer back exactly where I’d found it. I placed my notes in my math book and started thinking about who could come to the intervention.
Later, Dad took me to get supplies to make a poster for health, which was really an Intervention Tips poster for tomorrow. And honestly, getting the dance was for health. Mine. After we got home, I started thinking about who’d come to the intervention. El Pollo Loco would be there. After all, he was supposedly 50 percent responsible for this sale. And I needed help.
When I got home, I took the phone to my room and called Marquis.
Ma answered. “Zack, Marquis is doing his math homework, so he can only talk for a minute, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s up, Candy Man?” Marquis chuckled.
“Okay, I think I have a solution to save the school dance for the sixth grade.”
“My foot’s fine, by the way,” Marquis said. “Thanks for asking.”
“I’m sorry. How’s your ankle?”
“I’m just kidding, Zack. It isn’t broken. Just sprained. I have to be on crutches for a few weeks, though.”
“Are you coming to school tomorrow?” I asked.
“You can count on it.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I need your help.”
“With the missing money mess?” Marquis asked.
“Kind of,” I said. “I think I figured out what we can do.”
“Good, because I think I’m gonna ask Cliché to go to the dance with me.”
“Seriously?” Marquis and I had never really talked about girls before. “When did this happen?”
“I’ve been tutoring her in math class and,” Marquis paused, “I think she kinda likes me.”
“And you like her too?”
“I think I might.”
“Careful, Marquis, I think she wants you for your division.”
“You know that’s right. My charm is multiplying.” Marquis laughed.
“So how are you going to ask her?”
“I haven’t worked out the equation yet,” Marquis said.
I had never asked a girl out before either, so I didn’t really know what else to say. After a long pause, I said, “Enough about you and your love life. We’ve gotta get to work.” I kicked my legs off the edge of Dad’s bed as I talked.
“All right, everybody wants a piece of Marquis. Are you going to ask your dad for the money?”
“No way,” I said. “He so proud of me now. I don’t want him to find out how I messed it all up.”
“I hear that. So what’s the plan, Candy Man?”
I lay across the bed. “Well, I’ve been doing some research online, and I learned there is only one solution for Janie.”
“What?”
“An intervention.”
“Huh?”
I shifted onto my side. “An intervention is this thing where a bunch of people get together and tell somebody like Janie how their problems are causing other people problems.”
“You mean like a peer mediation?”
“Yes.” That was it. “Exactly like a peer mediation.” I’d worried how Mrs. Darling would feel about an intervention, but now it’s just a peer mediation.
“How’s all this going to help save the dance?”
I sat up. “When we tell her how she hurt us or the dance or whatever, Janie listens to us. And the website I found says she’ll realize she has a problem, and she’ll do something about it.”
“Like what?”
I fell back on the pillow. “One day at a time, Marquis. It says so at TOO MUCH. They promised that if you deal with the disease first, everything else will fall into place. I’ll call José,” I said. “You call everybody you can—Sophia, Cliché, anybody. Explain all about the peer mediation and tell them to show up at the library at lunchtime, and I’ll take care of the rest.” I acted like I believed it would work, but I wasn’t so sure. But what choice did I have?
“Whatever you say, my man. You’re the one in charge. I’ll start calling.”
CHAPTER 15
OH MY DARLING
“You look tired, Zack,” Dad said, gripping the wheel of his van.
Morning had come too soon. You know how sleeping on it is supposed to make things better? Well, it didn’t work this time.
“Zack, you know I am proud of all the work you’re doing.” He put on his blinker. “I talked to your grandma last night and told her how proud I am of you.”
Dad checked his rearview mirror.
I wanted to spill my guts. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to ask him what I should do. Because I didn’t really have any idea. I wanted to ask him for the money, so I wouldn’t have to get this whole intervention thing to work. I just wanted him to fix it all.
“We’re all proud of you for stepping up, Zack.”
I stared at the oval Ford sign on the navy glove box.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah, Dad. I’m just thinking of all I have to do when I get to school.” Which was true. But mostly I had a sinking feeling this whole intervention thing was never going to work.
I stared at my reflection in the side mirror on the door.
The orange van pulled into the circle at the front of Davy Crockett Middle School.
By the glass doors, José bounced around like a total spaz, throwing raisins in the air and rushing forward or back to catch them in his mouth. Even without an audience, this kid was always on. I still don’t get why he gets to be cool. When I opened the door to the van, I startled him. He jumped against a brick column and fell to the ground.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dad rubbed his beard.
“There isn’t enough time.” I slammed the door.
As I turned toward José, a raisin landed on the spikes of my hair.
“So why do we have to talk to Mrs. Darling?” José’s eyebrows squished together. “Mom was all suspicious of me coming early. I’ve never been to school early in my whole entire life.” El Pollo Loco snatched the raisin lodged in my hair and popped it in his mouth. “Is this how you become a loser? Come to school early?”
“Just come with me.” I slipped my backpack over my shoulder. “I’ll do the talking.” I pulled open the door to the school.
“Good, because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
The fact was, I wasn’t that sure either.
In the hallway, El Pollo Loco followed a few steps behind me, tossing raisins in front of us and then running up to catch them in his mouth. A few times he actu
ally caught the raisin, but mostly he didn’t. Instead, he left a trail of raisin droppings behind us that would make Manny the custodian think we had rats.
I shook my head and wondered why I even called him in the first place.
When I opened the library door, a raisin catapulted in before us and soared though the air, landing on Mrs. Darling’s foot. That day she wore sandals, even though she shouldn’t. Her toes looked like long, curled-up, old-people fingers. The raisin settled between her pinkie toe and the rest of the finger toes.
She didn’t even notice the raisin invasion.
“Gentlemen,” she cleared her throat, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your fine company so early this crisp fall morning?” She peered over her pink half-glasses. I swear she changed her glasses more often than some people change underwear. “Are you here to finish up some final paperwork for the sale?”
“Well …,” I said, distracted by the raisin between her nasty toes.
“Yes?” She waited.
I couldn’t concentrate. All I could see was the stupid raisin between her talons.
“Are you pregnant?” El Pollo Loco tilted his head to the side.
“Pardon?” Her Magic Marker eyebrows rose.
“Are you pregnant?”
“José, you don’t ever ask a woman that question,” Mrs. Darling said, the raisin quivering as she took a step away from him.
“Yeah.” I elbowed him. “I was going to do the talking,”
“Well, she looks pregnant.”
“José!” I snapped.
“She does.”
He was going to ruin this thing before it ever got started.
José shook the empty raisin box over his mouth. No more raisins.
“Mrs. Darling, a student at this school needs our help,” I said.
José roamed behind the library checkout desk.
“What’s happened?” Miss Darling stepped closer. She led me to the reading couch, and we sat. In the background, we could hear the loud tearing sounds of José making fake fingernails with book tape, which we chose to ignore. I was getting the hang of this ignoring thing—especially when it came to El Pollo Loco.
Zack Delacruz Page 6
