by Bibi Belford
“Let’s see what you’re working on instead of the missing assignments, shall we?” And horror of horrors, she lifts up my desktop and removes the calendar page. I stop myself from yanking it right out of her hand. “No!” I shout. “That’s for Mrs. Abernathy.”
“Well, Sandro, you should finish your missing assignments before you work on extracurricular projects.” She walks near the trash can and my heart stops, but instead of throwing my paper away, she slides my masterpiece into a file folder on her desk.
Ten o’clock comes, and I raise my hand. Miss Hamilton ignores me.
“Line up for art,” she says.
“Miss Hamilton,” I begin.
“No, Sandro.”
I’m steaming mad as we head down to art. I make sure to step in front of Abiola just as she gets to the door so she crashes into me. “Ow,” I yell loudly.
“Go to the end, Abiola,” Miss Hamilton says.
Abiola flares her nostrils and dramatically brushes my germs off her sparkly T-shirt.
Mrs. Abernathy collects all the entries. Miguel is very secretive about his drawing, but I can see a flash of brilliant colors jump from his page as he sneaks it from between two sheets of paper.
All day long, I’m thinking about how to get back at Miss Hamilton for taking away my drawing and ruining my chance at getting two hundred dollars. I just want to play a little trick on her. Nothing too mean. I could put Franklin in my desk for the next time she goes snooping around . . .
Wait a second. What’s better than a live turtle? A cat. And what’s even better than that? A dead cat. And we both know where I can get a dead cat, don’t we?
I rush home after school since I don’t have to wait for Girasol anymore. I’m not in the mood for chatty Marta and sneaky Miguel with his secret calendar page. Dad is out with the truck, but when he comes home, I’ll be ready. My fingers are crossed.
•
“How was school?” he says. “Keep out of trouble?”
“Yep.”
“Really? Your teacher called.”
“Just a misunderstanding. See?” I hold up the packet of homework I’ve been working on since I walked in the door. “Want to check it?”
My dad thumbs through it, not looking it over too carefully. “Give this to your teacher. Tomorrow. Understand?”
“Papi, I want to help with the animals tonight. It’s a perfect night, no?”
“I don’t think so, Sandro. Too late for a school night.”
“We can eat in the truck. I made sandwiches. Look.”
My dad gets a funny look on his face. Sad and happy at the same time. Like he’s missing my mom but super glad I’m here. He punches my arm. “Okay. We’ll see.”
After four or five scrap pickups, we go to Crusher, Inc. We eat in the truck while we wait in line. The sandwiches have the jam oozing between two layers of peanut butter. They’re messy, but it’s just the way me and my dad like it. We eat the little bags of pepitas and drink our Mexican sodas. Both lime flavored. The last two left. We haven’t gone to the grocery store since my mom left.
It’s getting shadowy by the time we’re done at the scrap yard, and I can see my breath. On frosty nights lots of poor critters have trouble crossing the road. Just like I thought—a perfect night.
My dad drives slowly out of town and tells me to keep my eyes open. He knows a couple of roads that border the parks, and sure enough, I spot a couple of dead raccoons within twenty minutes. I mostly stay in the truck, listening to the radio, while my dad shovels the remains into the back onto a tarp.
My dad usually finds lots of squirrels and raccoons, but also deer, opossums, groundhogs, and even vultures that are so focused on picking at the dead animals that they forget to fly away when cars round corners. There’s a lesson there. Pay attention, even when you’re trying to eat to survive.
The only thing that really bothers my dad is finding people’s pets. He hates that. I wonder if that’s why he won’t let us get a cat or a dog. Thinking about pets reminds me of Franklin, and that reminds me of Girasol, and then my mom pops into my head and that makes me sigh. I’ve never been without my mom before. It sort of makes you appreciate all the stuff moms do, even though they remind you about chores and manners, too. Don’t get me wrong. Dad and I can manage without Mamá, and it’s nice in the truck, just me and my dad, the men of the family, out working. I think my dad must like my company cuz he’s still heading away from town in search of roadkill.
I don’t know how I’m going to snag one of the animals away from my dad, seeing as how I’m pretty sure he keeps track of how much money he will get at the end of the night. I’m hoping for a brainstorm or a stroke of luck, and then I see a blob on the road. I point. My dad pulls over and gets out to investigate. We are far away from the lights of town. I can almost touch the dark, and while my dad’s up ahead, his giant shadow in the truck headlights kind of creeps me out.
I decide this might be a good time to go around back and borrow one of his squirrels for my revenge project, since I’m pretty sure we’re just about done collecting for the night. I open my door and—I’ll be a monkey’s uncle—right there, next to my door, is a dead cat. My luck is back.
Yes, I’m a double-crosser and a cheat. But don’t you agree with me that Miss Hamilton deserves it? By the time I’m done hiding my revenge cat behind the seat under the empty lunch bags, I see my dad walking back to the truck with another cat on his shovel. Well, that’s sad, I think. Those two cats must have been friends with the same not-so-bright idea.
My dad and I head toward the sanitation department, and he takes care of business.
“Good work, Sandro,” Dad says, and suddenly I feel very guilty. When I go to bed that night, I have a hard time sleeping. I keep dreaming Girasol is holding baby kittens crying for their mother.
My dad is still sleeping when I get ready for school and load my little pay-you-back into a plastic bag. I know exactly where Miss Hamilton parks her car. When I get to school, the coast is clear. I sneak between the cars and keep an eye on the building’s windows. I think most of the teachers hang out in the workroom first thing in the morning, getting stuff ready to keep their students busy, so they probably won’t spy me.
I put on my gloves and transfer the poor cat to Miss Hamilton’s windshield. It has gone a little stiff during the night, and I have to keep popping up to straighten it and then duck down to be sure no one is watching. When I finish, at first I’m proud of the way the cat looks as though it just landed, shplunk, on her windshield, and then I’m a little ashamed because it’s really a mean thing to do.
Oh well. I get in line. I see Miguel. I suddenly remember soccer practice. Cheese Whiz. I can’t keep it all straight.
“Why you miss practice? We wait for you.” Miguel’s really been working on his English. He still misses some of those little things—like the “did” and the “ed” chunk. But it’s pretty good, don’t you think?
I feel worse. I totally forgot that Miguel picks me up for soccer now. And there are only two and a half weeks until the first playoff game. “I had to help my dad,” I say.
Miguel shakes his head and the bell rings. From my seat in the second row from the back, I can see the cars in the parking lot, and I can see the outline of a cat on the windshield of a purplish-red Ford. It’s hard to do, but I keep my eyes on my own work so I won’t look suspicious.
I’m on the second page of math facts when I hear Abiola sing out, “Miss Hamilton, isn’t that your car?” Every word she says tilts up, and every letter is pronounced perfectly. I hate how she sounds so know-it-all and sing-songy all the time.
My heart is now racing. I can already hear Miss Hamilton scream. Maybe she will faint. Take that, you mean teacher. That’s what happens when you mess with Sandro the artist. I look casually out the window. My heart stops. Two police officers, Mr. Smalley, and the custodian are surrounding the car. You can’t even see the cat, but I can tell they are lifting it off the windshield just by the way
they are bending toward the car. A few minutes later, the police car drives off.
“Oh my. What was that about? Let’s get back to work, shall we?”
I have the most rotten luck. Everything I do goes wrong. I won’t be kicking any goals in our soccer game seeing as how I missed practice again. I won’t be winning any art contest seeing as how my entry is in Miss Hamilton’s desk. I won’t be returning Franklin to Lincoln Elementary seeing as how me and my dad are big fat softies. And I won’t be an inventor or an EMT seeing as how I’ll probably be arrested for vandalizing Miss Hamilton’s car. Worst of all, she didn’t even scream, not even one little tiny ay. I’m a liar, a cheater, and a thief.
I miss my mom.
There’s a knock at the door, and Miss Hamilton goes to open it. I can hear Mr. Smalley’s loud whisper.
“Nothing to worry about. Just some prank, I’m sure. No damage to the car.”
“What happened?”
“No concern of yours. Do you have any students who might be holding a grudge, though? Wanting to retaliate for anything? Angry about something?”
They both scan the room. I suddenly pretend to be very happy. There’s a big fake smile on my face while I pretend to happily do my math computation. I’m practically beaming. And when I look up and Miss Hamilton catches my eye, I manage to give her a friendly wink. Angry? Not me. Not ever.
At recess Miguel motions me over to play soccer, and I pretend not to see him. I squat down by the edge of the wall where nobody can see or bother me and feel very sorry for myself. I watch the soccer ball careening back and forth, a mob of multicolored jackets running helter-skelter after it. I know what the coach would say. “Stay in your positions. Set up the play. Quit chasing the ball. You aren’t peewee soccer players.”
I’m starting to get a little chilly when a familiar annoying voice chimes by my ear.
“I know who is going to win the calendar contest.”
It’s Abiola. Cheese Whiz. Doesn’t she ever stop with her smarty-pants chatter? I ignore her.
“I forgot my hat, so I went back in, and I heard Mrs. Abernathy tell Miss Hamilton. Guess who it is?” Her voice reminds me of a squeaky rocking chair.
I keep ignoring her.
“You’ll be surprised. Want me to tell you?”
I stand up and start to walk away. The side flaps on her fluffy white polar bear hat waggle as she tilts her head. I kind of want to pull on those polar bear ears, but the polar bear is an endangered species.
She calls after me. “Miss. Hamilton turned your calendar page in for you, by the way.”
I turn slowly. “And?”
“And you won. Congratulations.” Her perfect teeth glint at me from her sickly sweet smile. She wraps the polar bear flaps around her chin and walks away with her thick black braid swinging like a cat’s tail.
My throat is dry. I don’t think I can breathe. I’m in shock. Miss Hamilton? Miss Hamilton saved me? Mean and spiteful me?
There’s a little air under my gym shoes, about two inches at least, and when the bell rings, I’m kind of floating into line. The world sure is a great place. I’ve decided most of the money I win will have to go to my parents for Girasol instead of that awesome bike I wanted. But then people will see me as the hometown hero. “Can you believe it? He sacrificed his own prize for his sister’s surgery,” they’ll say. Maybe I’ll just keep ten dollars for myself. Or maybe twenty since ten dollars hardly buys anything. I can’t wait to go inside, so I get in line before the bell even rings.
The afternoon speeds by. I smile at Miss Hamilton every time she says, “Shall we?” I think, Yes, we shall. Why did I ever think that phrase was so annoying? I sit straighter and write neater than I’ve ever written in my life. I raise my hand to answer every question she asks.
I am in reconciliation mode. I know, hard word again, but just think of it as being sorry and trying to make amends. I hope Girasol gets Miss Hamilton for fourth grade. Maybe I will discuss it with Miss Hamilton and she can personally put my little sister on her class list. It’s 2:55 p.m. and the end of the day announcements will start at any minute.
“Shhhh,” I tell the class. “The announcements.”
“Good afternoon, boys and girls. Remember to take the newsletters home to your parents tonight. This week we’ve been working on hallway behavior. Keep up the good work. And now, here’s Mrs. Abernathy with a very special announcement.”
I’m on the edge of my seat. Abiola is sitting straight as an arrow, staring at me, grinning like a maniac. Miss Hamilton’s hands are clasped together. I can’t see Miguel because he sits behind me, and I’m so frozen I can’t move.
“Congratulations to everyone who entered the drawing contest. The calendar will be a huge success. The winners for each month are: September—Josiah Watson; October—Simone Davidson; November—Angelica Ariola; December—James Joyner; January—Abiola Khan; February—Miguel Cervantes . . .”
Mrs. Abernathy keeps talking, but I quit listening. There must be a mistake. Abiola heard Mrs. Abernathy tell Miss Hamilton that I won February. My hand starts to leave my desk. I’m forming the words: There’s been a mistake . . . and then I realize what Abiola did to me. For now, I can’t move. But when I thaw out, I’m going to get back at her. For now I just keep telling myself, Don’t cry. I will not cry.
Miguel is standing next to me. “I’m sorry, Sandro. Your drawing would win if Miss Hamilton turn it in.”
I hear my dad’s voice, “Be the better man, Sandro.” I gulp down the lump in my throat, and it tastes like sour milk.
“I can’t wait to see your drawing, Miguel. Bet it’s great.”
And we walk down the hall to the display case to see all the calendar pages hanging up. Miguel’s page is stellar. It is comprised of pieces of a puzzle, six different February holiday pieces shooting out from a brilliant red heart in the middle. Valentine’s Day, Groundhog Day, Lincoln’s Birthday, Washington’s Birthday. And two holidays I forgot all about. Mexican holidays. Día de la Candelaria, the day people dress up their statues of Baby Jesus.
And Constitution Day, which just as you would think, celebrates Mexico’s constitution, written in 1917, because of the Mexican Revolution. Miguel tells me schools in Mexico are closed that day, which is a bonus. I’m thinking we should probably find out the exact day our United States Constitution was written. Maybe you can research that for me, since I’m pretty busy right now. Then write Congress and request that day be observed as a national holiday. You have one week. Go.
“Cool,” I tell Miguel, and the better-man part of me means it. Deep in my heart I know Miguel deserves to win. “Awesome.” I punch his arm. Miguel shrugs and smiles so his nose wrinkles up. I’m glad he’s happy. Or the better-man part of me is, anyway. I look a little closer and see he forgot the second l in Lincoln. Oh well. It’s still a cool drawing.
The teachers are milling around congratulating the students, oohing and ahhing, and I notice lots of them go into the teacher’s lounge and come out with sodas. And that’s when I get my next money-making brainstorm. Blam! The idea slams into me. I can still help my family. I can still be the hometown hero. I can still put a little spending money in my own pocket. And just like that, the old Sandro is back in action.
CHAPTER 6
Lincoln School’s Recycling Entrepreneur
All the way home, Miguel is talking and Marta is skipping and singing. I am calculating. Including all the teachers in our school, even the helper teachers and the secretaries, I come up with forty people. And if those forty people have a soda every day of the week, that equals two hundred cans after five days. And at ten cents a can, how much money will I get every week? That’s right, compadre. Twenty dollars.
This is how my brainstorm started. First, I see the teachers drinking sodas and throwing them in the trash. Then I see our custodian, Mr. Tomeski, emptying the trash into the dumpster—all those tesoros cascading into oblivion. Who knew the teachers at our school didn’t recycle? Not me. But now it i
s my opportunity. Save the environment. Save my family. Save my spending money.
“Soccer?” Miguel asks when we get to my house.
“Sí, señor!” I have a lot to do, but I’ll be ready. My dad already told me he didn’t need me to work today. Something about a job interview, but I think he just doesn’t want me to miss soccer practice. Not with the big game coming up.
Mrs. Arona left a pot of something on the counter. Neighbors and friends are great, aren’t they? And today, this is perfect because I won’t have to scrounge around to find something to eat before practice.
At first, right after Mom and Girasol left, I liked grabbing whatever and eating in front of the TV. Just me and my dad, like a couple of bachelors living on the wild side. Then the kitchen got really messy, and the fridge got really empty. I like pizza, but after one solid week of frozen pizza, I was ready for some new grub.
The problem is, my dad is proud. He tells me, “We are Zapotec people. We have always made our own way.” But I guess his stomach talked some sense into his Zapotec pride, too. He told Mrs. Arona what had happened with Girasol. Mrs. Arona told some neighbors, and now somebody brings a pot of something over every couple of days. And while we devour it, my dad reminds me that Zapotecs don’t like charity.
I wish we had Internet at home. We used to, but we’re making do without quite a few luxuries these days. So I make a little graph and get busy with the phone book. I make a list of all the recycling centers and start calling. Crusher, Inc. is out of the question. Too far away. I want the best price and the closest one to school, since I plan on riding the cans over on my bike every week. This will be a surprise for my family. Sandro saves the day.
Some of the companies I call ask to talk to my parents. As if I can’t handle a simple business transaction. But finally after five calls, a really nice lady answers and gives me serious information. She asks if I’m planning on recycling in just one school.
