by Bibi Belford
CHAPTER 4
Worry about Yourself
I’m going to skip ahead a bit in the story. It turns out Girasol is sick. Not just the flu kind of sick. The serious kind of sick. It started with something called Kawasaki disease. And no, not Kawasaki like the motorcycle. Turns out, this disease is all about blood vessels that get swollen. Mostly little kids get it, and after a few weeks, with medicine, they get better. Once in a while, though, an important artery to the heart gets so swollen that the doctors have to make a detour around it or put in new parts.
For some strange reason, it makes me feel queasy when I think about it. I’m kind of nervous, and I don’t like to talk about it. I worry about all the times I wasn’t a good brother. Sometimes I forget all about Girasol being sick and start having a good time. Then whamo, I remember and feel guilty because I forgot.
Like now, for example. I’m at soccer practice. Miguel will be giving me a ride home because Girasol and Mom and Dad are going to another doctor. A blood specialist. I need to focus on that round black and white ball, but I keep spacing out. I don’t want anybody to feel sorry for me because I have a sick sister. I would hate that.
We’re having a scrimmage against a team from another level. It’s a game that doesn’t count, but we pretend it’s a real game to prepare for the playoffs. Remember I told you about that? We’re not undefeated anymore. I missed a couple of games and practices because of Girasol, and we lost both of them. I don’t want to sound proud or anything, but I did score two goals in our last crucial game, so I’m partly responsible that we made it to the playoffs.
The line is moving. Our keeper just kicked the ball down the field. Noel, our center midfielder, has control. He’s not my favorite person, and I’m not his. His dad is the assistant coach, so Noel always plays, but I don’t think he’s that great. I guess it’s one of those unfair things you have to deal with in life. “Worry about yourself, Sandro,” my dad always tells me.
Right now I have to worry I don’t get called offside. That always happens when I don’t watch. I’m flying now. I keep Noel in my peripheral vision, and he passes the ball, but not to me. To Charlie. Cheese Whiz. I’m open, and Charlie has two defenders covering him. This is what happens when you don’t show up for practices. Now I’m covering the tall guy who is streaking downfield toward our goal. Sure enough, I was right. The ball is passed right to his feet. Oh man, he’s really quick, but some fancy footwork and—hold on, I have to concentrate.
Okay, so I was able to get the ball away from rocket man and pass it back to our sweeper. Forget about center mid Black Hole Noel. Now Miguel has the ball, and I know he will pass it to me. So I’m dodging around keeping open. Red jerseys are running toward me. Red blurs. Red, red, red, and suddenly I see Girasol with her white cheeks and her blood sickness, and I freeze.
You know how they say your life can flash before your eyes? It does. It takes just a nanosecond for me to see my family getting poorer and poorer and Girasol getting sicker and sicker. I see my mom and me and Girasol going back to Mexico and living with my abuelos and my dad sending us money the way he used to. I see my mom getting sadder and sadder with no job and no money and no hope and me having to go back to third grade because I don’t know how to read and write in Spanish.
“NO!” I scream.
Then, blam, I snap out of it and connect with the ball just before three red blurs crash into me. And from down on the ground, I hear my team screaming and the ref blowing the whistle. I shake myself off. The goal is good. And there’s a penalty called for the flagrant foul one of those red blurs did to me.
I’m okay. But not okay enough to take the penalty kick, so the coach chooses guess who? Noel. Of course he misses, but we still win. Yeah! We win. Oh yah, I almost forgot, it’s just a scrimmage, but still, we beat the next level up, so that’s a good sign.
The coach gives us our pep talk and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Great goal. Hope you can make it to the playoff game in two weeks,” he says.
“Yah, hope you can make it,” Noel says with a really nasty smile.
“And I hope you can pass to the open player,” Coach says to Noel without a smile in his voice.
So that makes me feel better. Maybe Black Hole Noel is on borrowed time. Before we leave, we all have to take five penalty shots, and if anyone misses we have to start over. Everyone knows it’s because Noel missed the penalty shot, and I want to say, “Thanks, Black Hole,” in a very sarcastic voice. But I keep my mouth shut. Worry about yourself, Sandro, I say in my head, since my dad isn’t there to say it.
Miguel’s mom drops me off at home, and I can see my parents aren’t back yet. That’s okay because I have two important things to do. I’ve decided to draw February for the calendar contest. No, not that mushy Valentine stuff. I’m going to draw a really cool model of a heart with the valves and everything. I got the idea from listening to my mom and dad talk about Girasol’s heart. I checked out two books from the library. I want to make it like a cartoon with speech bubbles coming out of the parts of the heart. It’s hard to explain, so you’ll just have to wait to see it.
Franklin is the other important thing. Yes, I know. You thought because I skipped ahead in my story that Franklin was taken care of. Wrong-o. And yes, the whole school is on Franklin alert. I swore Miguel to secrecy. I don’t even know if Franklin is alive. Girasol’s bed is too heavy for me to move, and the two-inch slot that Franklin crawled through is too narrow for my arm. I tried to use a flashlight, but going in your sister’s room with a flashlight is a little suspicious.
Besides, Girasol pretty much lives in her room now with Mom or Dad always checking on her or sitting by her. She even has a little TV on her dresser that some lady at my mom’s cleaning job let her borrow. The kid part of me is jealous of the TV, but the growing-up part of me knows I should be happy Girasol has something fun to do while she’s sick.
During the first week that Girasol was sick, I thought I heard some scratching noises coming from her room. I started throwing vegetables under the bed when no one was looking. A lettuce leaf here and there. A carrot once in a while. I hope Franklin is not picky. I know turtles eat bugs, but it doesn’t seem like such a good idea to put bugs under the bed. Girasol hates bugs.
Tonight, I get the broom and unscrew the bottom from the handle. Then I get a hanger and duct tape. If you don’t have duct tape at your house, you really need to invest in some. It costs around four dollars, but it’s worth gold. You can fix your shoe, make a trap, hang stuff from your ceiling—just about anything—with duct tape. Once I saw a book at the book fair that told kids how to make duct tape underwear. All I’ll say is don’t try it unless you have the book in front of you. Ouch!
I stretch out the hanger so it looks like a hook and duct-tape it to the handle of the broom. I worry it’s too sharp and that I might poke poor, unsuspecting Franklin’s soft underbelly, so I duct-tape one of Girasol’s little socks over the pointy end. It’s a little wobbly, but if Franklin is still alive, it might poke him into action.
I head to Girasol’s room. I always feel a little sick myself when I go into her room. At first I thought I could catch her disease, so I always stopped at the door. Finally my mom figured out why I did that and told me it isn’t contagious.
Girasol was at the hospital for a week, so I stayed with Miguel. Then she came home. Then she was at a different hospital farther away for a week, and I missed school to stay with my mom in a motel. My dad didn’t want to lose a week of work, and my mom was scared she didn’t speak enough English to survive on her own, so I had to go along. That hospital did tests and found out the disease had caused complications with a vessel or a valve in Girasol’s heart.
I thought it would be cool to miss school and stay in a motel, but the TV only got four channels, and between the boring hospital and the boring motel room, even Miss Hamilton looked good when I got back. I’m still not caught up with all the work I missed, which reminds me of one more important thing I have to do.
I’m lying flat on my stomach, the flashlight beside me and shining under the bed. I’m pretty sure I see a blob that could be Franklin. I push the broom under the bed and move it toward the blob. The hook on the turtle rescue wand is sideways so I can gently scoop Franklin out from under the bed. I think it’s working. The blob is getting closer. He’s not crawling away so maybe he’s asleep or sick or . . . oh dear.
What will I do if Franklin died under the bed? I’ll have to cover up the murder and live with my guilt for the rest of my life. All those little kids wondering what happened to their beloved mascot, Franklin, thinking he is on the run enjoying his freedom, when really he’s in turtle heaven.
And while I’m thinking and scooping, the blob is getting closer until it is right in front of me, and I see fur. What is your first thought? Mine, too. Decay and decomposition. Things in the back of the fridge get furry before my mom throws them out, so I’m thinking, Poor Franklin.
I’m deciding if I need to go put gloves on before I touch the corpse when I hear a noise. It’s coming from the other side of the bed. I slide over and roll the flashlight along with me. And there he is. The con artist. Trying to switch identities with the furry blob. His eyes shine, and he looks very satisfied with himself. I grab the furry blob and pull with all my strength. Girasol’s slipper pops out. And right then I hear the back door slam open. Uh-oh! I push the broom handle under the bed and skedaddle out of the bedroom.
Girasol is the color of a bone. Her eyes are closed. I don’t understand how just one month ago she was happy and playing and annoying me every day and now she is a fragile egg. Dad lays her down on the couch.
“How was the game?”
“Good. How was the doctor?”
My dad looks at my mom. He doesn’t say anything. Not a good sign. My mom ruffles my hair. Another bad sign. Why do moms do that anyway? My mom runs her finger under her eye, then goes into the kitchen.
My dad and I are just sort of standing there. It’s awkward. I can’t think of anything to say. Should I tell him about the goal I scored? About Noel missing the penalty shot? It all seems stupid compared to my sister looking so sick and my mom looking so sad. There’s a word I’m thinking of that means little and unimportant. Trivial. That’s the word. I wonder what’s the opposite of trivial. Cuz that’s what Girasol is to me.
“Mijo, you want to eat?” Moms know everything, don’t they? I’m starving. She puts tortillas and meat and beans on the table, and we eat. That is, my dad and I eat. I guess no matter what, guys can always eat.
“Sandro, we have something to tell you.” My dad is using his serious voice. Like he did when I was in third grade, and I accidentally pushed Abiola off the slide during recess because she claimed I cut in front of her. And like he did when I accidentally put a bag of M&Ms into my pocket without paying for them.
I feel like I’m in the hall again waiting to explain myself. Or sitting in Mr. Smalley’s office.
“Girasol needs an operation. It costs a lot of money here, but in Mexico it is cheaper.”
No, no, no. My head is exploding. My worst nightmare is coming true. Did I make it come true by imagining it? One of the Avengers says, “Visualize it, and it will be.” I love Mexico, but I want to live here. I’m about to become a soccer sensation. I’m going to buy a fantastic new bike. I’ve discovered Franklin is alive. I’m going to be a famous inventor. My dad is still talking, but I haven’t heard a word he’s said.
“So you will have to be responsible. Maybe in the summer you can go, too.”
Here’s the thing about not listening. You miss information. Important information. What did he say? Responsible for what? Go where? Sometimes it just works best if you’re honest.
“Dad, I, uh, got hit pretty hard in soccer today, and I think my ear is still a little swollen. Could you say that again?”
“Sandro.” My dad starts to get mad.
“Papi, he has a lot to think about. He’s only a boy.”
Thank goodness for moms. They always come to your rescue. So my dad explains all over again. This time I listen. It ends up, I’m not going to Mexico. Just my mom and Girasol. They’re going to stay with my abuelos while they are waiting for the surgery and then after the surgery while Girasol is recovering. And I know she will recover. “Visualize it, and it will be.”
So I have to be responsible. Go to school. Help my dad. Then maybe go to Mexico in the summer.
I should explain something here. My dad can’t go to Mexico at all because he doesn’t have a visa. Not the credit card Visa, but something you have to have if you are a citizen of one country and want to live in another country.
My mom doesn’t have to worry. She’s a US citizen because she was born in San Diego and then moved to Mexico. And, technically, my dad shouldn’t worry because he’s married to my mom, which gives him the right to live here. But immigration doesn’t know that because my dad’s been a little negligent on the paperwork. He hates applications. And he’s worried he might be fined, deported, or worse if immigration finds out he’s been here all this time without a visa. He calls it red tape, but I’ve never seen any of that lying around the house—just piles of paper.
He always reads the news about immigration reform and says, “Someday, Sandro, they will make a way for us.” His bright hopes and dreams that gave him the courage to take the risks to come here are getting duller. He used to read his engineering books after dinner while I did my homework. He used to look for new companies to sponsor him. Now he just works and falls off roofs.
I agree. It’s all very confusing. Why do they make such complicated rules? Doesn’t it seem unfair? My hardworking dad can’t even go see his own parents in Oaxaca, but my mom, who hates to fly, can travel all over the world.
“So, Sandro, will you take care of Papi for me?” My mom ruffles my hair again and clears the table.
I nod. I hope we don’t starve to death. I have that jumpy feeling again. Relieved and worried. Hopeful and scared. I want to ask if Girasol will be back to normal after the operation, but I know they don’t tell me these things because I’m just a kid and they don’t want to worry me. Just like I don’t tell them Noel is a jerk, that Miss Hamilton hates me, and that Franklin is missing (well, technically, that he’s under the bed).
And then, right before my eyes, standing at the door in her pink jeans and sparkly T-shirt, I see Girasol. And in her two hands, close to her heart, she has Franklin.
“Ayeeiii!” shouts my mom.
“Sandro!” shouts my dad.
“Look, Doe-Doe. It’s Franklin,” says Girasol as I rush over and take Franklin before she drops him.
After I explain how Franklin came to be visiting the Zapote house (without so much as a peep from Girasol, the original turtle stealer), my dad says, “When were you going to tell us about this? Not telling information is as bad as lying.”
“I was just going to return him but then Girasol got sick and—”
My dad holds up his hand. “Tomorrow. And I want you to tell the principal how sorry we are. Is this understood, or do I need to help you?”
Girasol grabs Dad’s arm. “No, Papi. Please. Please let him stay.”
My dad doesn’t say yes or no. Instead, he puts his thumb on the corner of one eye and his finger on the corner of the other, then pulls them together and walks away.
“Take care of Papi for me,” Mom says again. “Girasol, go back to bed. We’re leaving in the morning.”
CHAPTER 5
Be the Better Man
I’m not proud of this next part of the story. And I won’t blame you if you want to stop reading. It was my mom who gave me the idea and Girasol, too. And I swear, it’s Miss Hamilton’s fault. She pushes me too far.
It’s been five days since my mom left us on our own. Wow. Five days. I’ve put a lot of work into my calendar page. Today is Wednesday, the due date, and I’m pretty excited because I know my calendar page is one of a kind. It’s still a secret, so I can’t put the dr
awing in here for you to see. Not that I don’t trust you, but I’m being paranoid. I have loads of clever sayings in speech bubbles next to the heart’s labels. For example, YOU PUMP ME UP, and the speech bubble is a barbell—you know, the kind you work out with. Are you visualizing like we talked about before?
Anyway, I ran out of my red colored pencil at home, and Miss Hamilton has a bunch on the counter in our classroom. I need to finish the shading on the right ventricle. I’m getting right to work since today at ten o’clock Mrs. Abernathy is collecting the pages. From the corner of my eye, I see Miss Hamilton stop by Abiola’s desk and smile. Out of the corner of my ear, I hear Miss Hamilton droning on.
“Let’s put our name at the top, shall we, Rafe?”
“Beautiful job on your homework, Abiola.”
“Sandro?”
I snap to attention and hide the contest page in my desk. Usually Miss Hamilton starts writing the daily assignments on the board after she collects the homework. I scan the room. No one else is paying any attention except Abiola, and she is staring at me with a smug expression on her face, sitting with her legs together crisscrossed at the ankles and her hands folded on her desk. The perfect princess. I send subliminal messages to her through the airwaves. Tattletale, the messages say.
“Do you have your missing assignments to turn in?”
Well, Cheese Whiz. Remember I told you I had some important things to do? You forgot, too, didn’t you? Those missing assignments weren’t going anywhere, but the calendar page and the two hundred dollars—I mean, deadlines are deadlines.
“My mom told me students have two weeks to complete missing assignments according to the school’s homework policy.”
Honestly, where do I come up with this stuff? This is a bad lie for two reasons. One, my mom never argues with teachers, so Miss Hamilton will automatically be suspicious. And two, if Miss Hamilton calls my house, she’ll know I’m lying. But wait, since my mom is now in Mexico, it will be impossible for them to discuss Sandro the liar. And then it comes to me. Who will answer the phone? My dad. And Sandro the liar will become Sandro the boy who is grounded forever.
