Zack Delacruz

by Jeff Anderson

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Darling agreed.

  Unsure of what to say, I spun away and got tangled in the streamers that dangled from the ceiling tiles. My new shoes slid a little on the glitter that had been sprinkled all over the floor. Once I got my balance, I spit a piece of streamer out of my mouth and looked around for Marquis.

  “All right, I need everybody’s attention,” Mrs. Harrington said into a microphone from the stage. “It’s a few minutes past four thirty, so I’d say this dance has officially started.” She waved her hand to Mr. Akins, who turned off the cafeteria lights with a key. “Let the dancing begin!” Everybody cheered. Music started pounding.

  The smell of Axe body spray, pizza, and nerves filled the air. I had to admit it: I was disappointed no one had worn a coonskin cap to the Night at the Alamo dance.

  As I was making my second loop around the cafeteria, I wondered where I was supposed to put my hands. I stood there trying to look cool, moving my hands in and out of my pockets.

  I decided to hold my arms out to the side, my hands hovering over each of my pockets.

  “Are your arms okay, Mr. Delacruz?” Mr. Akins asked. “It looks like you’re seeking to draw six-shooters.”

  My hands slipped into my pockets. “Well, I couldn’t afford a coonskin cap, so …”

  As I tried to get a safe distance from Mr. Akins, a new worry attacked: Do you take your hands out when you walk or leave them in? And how come I never really thought about this till now?

  Our math teacher, Mr. Gonzalez, stood at the door drinking a can of Diet Coke. The doors sprung open, and Marquis strolled in wearing one of his dad’s old outfits that Ma had dug out of a box for him. His white pants shone. Striking a few model poses with his crutch, Marquis popped the collar of his burgundy satin shirt.

  Mr. Gonzalez laughed so hard that soda trickled out of his nose and streamed down his striped tie. Diet Coke through our math teacher’s nose! No wonder everyone wanted to go to the dance.

  I ran to greet Marquis.

  “Look around, my man,” Marquis said. “This is all on you.”

  “I had some help.”

  We looked around.

  “Yeah,” I said, “it’s not half bad in here. I barely recognize the cafeteria.”

  “How come the boys and girls are on different sides of the dance floor?” Marquis asked.

  “I don’t know. You’re the expert on girls.”

  “I guess they’re just waiting for someone to ask them to dance.” Marquis bobbed his rooster head.

  I shrugged.

  Another song blasted from the tall black speakers by the DJ—who was really just Mrs. Gage, our lunchroom monitor. She was wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a man’s tie over a white T-shirt.

  The music pulsed louder and louder.

  Mrs. Darling started swaying and tossing her red mop of hair back.

  She turned and slid her feet backward, as if she were moon walking. She looked like a puffy cloud with a red Magic Marker tip.

  “Oh, here it comes,” Marquis said.

  Mrs. Darling hooped her arms out in front of her, doing the Dougie again. She yelled to all those nearby, “Join me!” Nurse Patty and a few girls quickly made their way to the safety of the soda table.

  Mrs. Darling scanned the crowd for her next dance victims.

  “Don’t make eye contact with her, Marquis!” I warned.

  But it was too late.

  “Marquis!” she shrieked with cupped hands. “Zaaaack! You must join me. It’s simply divine!” Her pearl necklace bounced to the beat.

  I looked at Marquis; he looked back.

  We looked at his crutch.

  We shrugged, then joined Mrs. Darling on the dance floor.

  Near the end of the song, Mrs. Darling leaned in and shouted into my ear over the base, “I am so glad I got to dance with the man of the hour.”

  I smiled, but before I could thank her, the doors flung open.

  Sophia and Raymond entered the cafeteria.

  Everybody stopped dancing, like it was Sophia’s quinceañera and we were all supposed to clap in her honor.

  But only Sophia’s clique clapped. Sophia waved like she was on a River Parade float.

  José walked up behind us, wearing his uniform, even though he didn’t have to. “Get a load of them.” He pointed to the couple.

  Sophia’s dress was green and shiny, with a ruffle at the top.

  “With those blonde highlights, she looks like a sunflower.” José elbowed me. “Am I right, or am I right?”

  Her arms shimmered with glitter makeup. Sophia reached her hand to Raymond’s, who wore black tuxedo pants, a white jacket, and a black T-shirt.

  José pointed to the refreshment table. “My brother told me the pizzas and the sodas are all you can eat.”

  Pepperoni pizza, cheese pizza, sausage pizza, veggie pizza, and every other pizza you can think of covered the two tables.

  “Dios mio. I’m in heaven!” El Pollo Loco slapped both of his hands to the sides of his face. He looked at the columns of pizza boxes stacked behind the tables.

  “That reminds me of the Nation’s Best chocolate bar boxes,” I said. “But we are supposed to eat these.”

  José grabbed a piece of pepperoni pizza out of one of the opened boxes, folded it in half, and chowed down. He didn’t even get a plate.

  “Eat up, boys,” Nurse Patty said. “I know you worked hard to make this dance happen. But please. Do take a plate.” She glared at José, pushing a white paper plate at him. “It’s more sanitary.”

  After a while, Mrs. Darling stopped dancing and plopped down at the soda station, removing her book-shaped earrings. “I’m getting too old for this.” She fanned herself with a stack of white paper plates.

  “Why would anyone ever leave the pizza table?” I said, picking up another slice that never even touched my plate.

  “I know that’s right,” José said.

  Nodding, I grabbed another slice of cheese pizza. A big hand gripped my shoulder.

  I froze.

  “Don’t eat all my pizza, Mighty Mouse.”

  It was Raymond.

  “AAAAh, snap!” he said. “But seriously, holmes, if you and your little sixth-grade friends eat up all our pizza,” he tilted his head to the side and threw his arms open, “watch your back.”

  He and his friends piled pizza slices on white paper plates and strutted across the cafeteria, like they were downtown on the Riverwalk instead of at a middle school dance.

  “Laters.”

  “I guess your run as big man on campus is over.” Marquis tossed a crust in the trash.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I spotted Cliché walking across the empty dance floor straight toward Marquis. Cliché wore a pink dress with a white sweater over it.

  I punched Marquis’s arm, and his mouth dropped open.

  Her black hair was extra curly that night, and shiny. For the first time in history, she was without her little lace socks.

  “Hi,” he said, “I mean, good evening.” He looked like he was about to take a bow.

  “Hello.” Cliché twisted a white pearl button on her sweater.

  As a slow song started, Marquis extended his hand ever so slowly, and Cliché took it. They walked out to the middle of the cafeteria.

  The three of them danced: Cliché, Marquis, and his crutch.

  Still at the soda table guzzling more Big Red, El Pollo Loco let out a rumbling burp.

  I wondered aloud, “Where’s Janie?”

  “Yeah, this is like church to her,” José said. “She makes the sign of the fork every time she enters.”

  “José!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” José sighed.

  El Pollo Loco ignored Raymond’s warning and kept returning to the pizza table. His lips, stained red from all the soda, distracted your eyes from the tomato sauce splatter on his shirt. He didn’t do much to help with the dance, but he was making sure there weren’t going to be any leftovers to clean up. Mayb
e José had found a career that would build on his strengths: competitive eating. He looked over at me, pushed out his swollen belly, and rubbed it. “Aye, I need an intervention before I pop.”

  Funky accordion music blared from the speakers.

  “It’s the ‘Chicken Dance’!” Mrs. Darling yelled.

  “My song!” El Pollo Loco bounded into the center of the dance floor.

  Mrs. Darling joined him. “Everyone form a circle, and I’ll show you what to do.”

  She stood in the middle of the circle, showing everybody the moves. She stomped and clapped, moved up, then back. We joined hands and repeated her moves, circling the cafeteria.

  Clap. Clap.

  And the best part was, sometimes you got to put thumbs in your armpits, flapping your arms like a chicken.

  “Holy guacamole!” I laughed.

  Chewy laughed so hard he had to leave the circle.

  Mrs. Harrington couldn’t help it—she looked at me and we both laughed.

  Clap. Clap.

  Mrs. Darling waved her hand inviting anyone else who wasn’t part of the Chicken Dance mob yet. The circle got bigger and bigger—till everyone was in it—even our principal, Mr. Akins; Nurse Patty; and Mr. Gonzalez, with his Coke-stained tie.

  Every time I messed up, I laughed so hard I could barely catch my breath.

  Clap. Clap.

  El Pollo Loco was doing his dance proud. When we shook our bottoms to the ground, El Pollo Loco shook his three times as much. When we moved across the floor, he moved three times as far. When we clapped our hands hard, he did it the hardest.

  Sweat flung from his forehead as he chugged along. Then he broke away from everyone, joined Mrs. Darling in the center of the circle, and stopped.

  “Get ready. This’ll be good.” I elbowed Marquis.

  Clap. Clap.

  Except El Pollo Loco stayed motionless—pale gray like a zombie. Then he started swaying slowly. His head pulled back like he was going to yell. His cheeks swelled, and he turned to Mrs. Darling.

  Bluuuaaaak!

  Partially chewed pizza and a few liters of Big Red soda gushed from El Pollo Loco’s mouth like flames from a dragon. The long red stream flew toward Mrs. Darling, heading downward with force. She jumped high by lifting her knees. The vomit plume splattered on the floor beneath her. She hovered above the Big Red and pizza vomit, like she was doing some kind of Matrix limbo. Then, as her feet approached the tile floor, she threw both legs out to the side. After she landed, both arms went up to balance her.

  The kids parted like the Red Sea.

  Literally.

  Bursting through the crowd, Coach Ostraticki ran to save Mrs. Darling. He slipped when he hit the puddle. Mrs. Darling spun away in a blur, crouching-tiger style. But Coach O. slid past her and slammed into the stage with a bang. Instantly his white velour began soaking up the foamy red vomit. A whole pepperoni piece stuck to his nose as he slipped and slid, trying to get up.

  Mr. Akins clicked the lights on, and it was silent, except for the perky little accordion of “The Chicken Dance” playing on in the background.

  CHAPTER 26

  REMEMBER THE ALAMO

  Mr. Akins used his bullhorn to direct us to the courtyard while Manny the custodian cleaned up José’s biggest contribution to the dance.

  After a while, Mrs. Harrington opened the glass doors and let us back into the cafeteria. Chewy Johnson pushed through, making his way for the bathroom. The lunchroom smelled sour, like a wet mop. I felt woozy. Ms. Segura and the other chaperones picked up paper plates, pizza boxes, and plastic cups.

  With the lights back on, things looked less fresh, less colorful, less A Night at the Alamo, and more like the aftermath of a battle at the Alamo. The butcher paper covering the windows sagged, the masking tape having lost its grip. The glitter had mostly been mopped away.

  The bass began thudding, and the lights dimmed. Marquis and Cliché started dancing. Again.

  That night, sixth graders, seventh graders, and eighth graders danced together for the first time in the history of Davy Crockett Middle School. I looked around the room at all the faces. We were all here. Except Janie. After all the eating and car washing, not to mention the intervention, I couldn’t blame her for not showing up.

  I bent over to take a strip of damp crepe paper off my shoe. When I turned around to throw it away, it stuck to my finger. Sophia stood there, with her clique looking like her backup singers.

  “Hey, Shrim—I mean Zack,” Sophia said. “My mom told me I should thank you for all you did to help us get the dance, so thanks.”

  I kept trying to shake the wet paper off my hand.

  She looked around. “This is really nice.” She slipped her ring on and off. “See you in English.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “see you … in English.” The paper finally dropped to the floor, and the clique giggled as they returned to the dance floor.

  Marquis would never believe it. I wanted to tell him, but he was still dancing with Cliché. Start small, huh? But now I think I understood what Ma had meant. You don’t do things all at once; you do them a small step at a time.

  El Pollo Loco came back through the cafeteria doors wearing a baggy school uniform. “Nurse Patty loaned it to me. She says she keeps them for accidents.”

  José flopped down on a metal folding chair by the door. “I’m gonna wait here till Mom gets off work.”

  I sat beside him.

  “I’m hungry,” José said.

  “Seriously?” My eyebrows squished together.

  “No.” He smiled, leaning back. “You did all right, Zack.” Then he drifted off to sleep, snoring with his mouth open, the Siesta Chicken.

  I watched the dance. Raymond spun Sophia around like they were in a competition. The clique clapped. I rocked my head to the music.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I turned.

  It was Janie: a purple flower in her hair, a shiny purple dress, even purple shoes.

  The music stopped.

  Mrs. Harrington tapped the microphone. “May I have your attention, please?”

  We turned toward the stage.

  “It’s time for the last dance of the night,” she said.

  “Awww!”

  “But before we do that”—she pulled back her hair—“I want to say a couple of things. First, everyone’s okay.” Mrs. Darling stood and waved. “As for Coach Ostraticki, when I helped him into his truck, he wanted me to tell you, since he can’t be here, ‘NO LOITERING. Everybody dance!’”

  We cheered and clapped.

  “We can’t leave here tonight without acknowledging a few things. I want to thank Zack and all the kids who reminded me what it means to work together.” She motioned toward José, Janie, me, then all the students. But everyone kept looking at the three of us.

  Instead of feeling embarrassed or afraid, I felt happy and proud. And relieved that I didn’t have to sell chocolate bars anymore. Relieved that I didn’t have to disappear anymore. Relieved that I didn’t think I really wanted to anymore. For the first time, I felt like everyone else. Not worse, not better. Just Zack.

  “Let’s give everybody a hand for cooperating when something needed to be done.”

  From the dance floor, Cliché and Marquis cupped their hands and yelled, “Zaaaack!” Maybe a few kids did yell “Shrimp!” when they clapped, but it didn’t feel like an insult anymore. More like a nickname.

  Mrs. Harrington adjusted the microphone. “Take a little picture with your mind right now. Enjoy this moment.”

  I tried to let it all sink in, but then the last song began.

  “Zack, may I have this dance?” Janie asked.

  “I thought you weren’t going to come because of all that happened this week.” I stayed seated, not answering but answering.

  The entire cafeteria danced facing toward us. Even from his chair, El Pollo Loco cracked one eye open. Okay, so maybe sometimes I still might feel like disappearing.

  “It sure l
ooks like everyone’s having fun out there.” Janie stared forward, adjusting the purple flower in her hair.

  “Yep,” I said, rocking from heel to toe.

  We stood next to each other, watching.

  The car-wash crew formed a circle on the dance floor. Everybody waved at Janie and me to join.

  I shrugged and turned to Janie. She shrugged back, and we walked toward the circle. To be honest, the circle wasn’t really a circle—it was crooked and had big gaps. But for now, it was a sixth-grade kind of perfect. The ovalish blob danced, and I looked around at all the faces: Marquis and Cliché, Raymond and Sophia, the blue eye shadow gang. I couldn’t believe we’d actually done it—the fund-raiser, the car wash, the dance—and it had taken each one of us.

  And here we were.

  Dancing.

  No telling what could happen now.

  IN GRATITUDE

  In Zack’s story, relationships were key to accomplishing goals, and that’s true for publication as well. First, I am indebted to my students. You made my life full and gave me much more than I ever gave you. To my colleagues in schools, I honor the delicate job you do providing a literate, meaningful future for all those who need it.

  I am grateful for my writing community, which spans states and time: First and foremost, I thank the motivating and supportive Lola Schaefer and the accepting, wild, and inspiring Heather Miller. Writers need company: Thanks, Roseanne Wells (agent), Linda, Aimee, Tracy, Greg, Mark, and Donalyn.

  The family at Sterling Children’s Books makes the magic happen, and I adore them for it. To Brett Duquette, my editor, you’re the mac to my cheese. Andrea Miller, your illustrations were psychic perfection. Lauren Tambini, Sari Lampert, Chris Vaccari, Zaneta Jung, Joshua Mrvos, Scott Amerman, Hanna Otero, and Theresa Thompson, thank you for getting this book into young hands.

  And Terry, always Terry.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jeff Anderson is the author of Mechanically Inclined, Everyday Editing, 10 Things Every Writer Needs to Know, and Revision Decisions. Zack Delacruz is his debut middle grade novel. Jeff grew up in Austin, Texas, and learned to love writing by journaling and crafting stories to entertain his friends over the phone. A former elementary and middle school teacher, Jeff travels to schools across the country working with teachers and students to discover joy and power in the writing process. Jeff lives with his partner, Terry, and their dogs, Carl and Paisley. Find out more about Jeff at writeguy.net or follow him on Twitter @writeguyjeff. Jeff lives in San Antonio, TX.