by Bibi Belford
I secretly plan how I will hide the recycling project from my parents until I can present them with a boatload of cash.
I secretly stash the posters I make under Girasol’s bed so my dad doesn’t see them before I carry them to school.
They’re pretty clever, if I say so myself. MAKE EARTH YOUR FAN—RECYCLE THAT CAN. IN YOUR RUSH, PLEASE DON’T CRUSH.
And then there is Sandro the selfish brat who plans to steal some of the recycle money from Sandro the hero for a brand new bike. Shhh, don’t tell him.
When my mom calls from Mexico one day, I keep the secret of Papi’s night job and pretend we are having lots of father-son bonding time.
“Sí, Mamá. We’re eating. We’re fine. We miss you, but it’s fun, the two of us.”
The truth is, I hardly see my dad. He works from four in the afternoon to midnight at the TAICO plant. He calls during his dinner, comes home after I’m in bed, and gets up after I go to school. Mamá tells me that Girasol has to be stronger before she has the surgery. I’m no doctor, but isn’t that backward thinking? Won’t the surgery make her stronger? When I hang up, little drops of worry start to dribble into my head and my happiness seeps away.
I remember one time when the drain plug on our bathtub got warped. After you filled up the tub, you had to leave the water running, or before you knew it you were sitting in an empty tub. That’s how I feel right about now. The water is draining out of me, and somebody keeps turning off the faucet. Will things ever be back to normal, or will my plug always be warped?
My family’s secret in the half-shell is still my houseguest. I remember to put a rock in front of my bed-room door when I leave for school in case Frankie the escape artist decides to take a stroll. I’m sure Mrs. Arona and her yippy Chihuahua would have a lot to say about Sandro and the stolen turtle. So the rock is also my secret spy technique for nosy neighbors.
I’m trying to keep things neat and tidy at home, not only because I promised my mom I’d take care of my dad, but also so Mrs. Arona will not feel too sorry for us. I know my mom will hate to hear that everyone is helping out poor Peony Zapote who is in Mexico with her sick daughter. As I sweep the kitchen floor, I have to admit, it’s amazing how much dirt two guys can generate each week.
Oh, and there’s one more secret. Race bullying is not a good thing; it’s very serious. And truthfully, that is not what I was doing to Abiola. I don’t like Abiola because she is an annoying tattletale who is ruining my life but not because she is from a different country. Of course, that’s hard to prove, so I have to make sure no one ever finds out it was me who wrote that stuff about Miss Hamilton in her journal.
In line one day after recess, I ask Abiola where her dad works, and yep, you guessed it. He works at TAICO. More bad luck for me. And I don’t know for sure, but I imagine her dad is some head honcho bossing my dad around. Which makes me dislike her even more.
I sure hope my dad never runs into Abiola’s dad at TAICO and starts talking about Lincoln Elementary. You know how it goes. First, they’ll find out that their wonderful kids are in the same class. And then they’ll find out that yes, indeed, Sandro Zapote is that same Sandro who pushed Abiola in third grade and is now accused of race bullying her in fourth grade. And then next thing you know, my dad will mysteriously lose his job, and it will be my fault.
Keeping all this stuff straight, getting all my homework done, making it to soccer practice, and remembering to eat and shower makes me feel older than my eleven years. I’m so tired when my head hits the pillow at night, it’s adíos, Sandro. I sure used to have a lot more fun before Mamá and Girasol went to Mexico. But I try not to think about that too much.
•
The day of our playoff game—Saturday—I wake up early. I’ve been collecting cans from the teachers’ lounge and the lunchroom for a week now. I pitched what seems like thousands of cans into the dumpster. After Mr. Smalley put details about the recycling program in the announcements at the beginning of the week teachers started bringing their soda cans from home. Big bags full. They don’t get any benefit from waste management, so they figured why not help out an enterprising entrepreneur? Remember that word entrepreneur? I’ve been too tired lately to worry about your vocabulary. And Mr. Tomeski talked to his custodian friends at other schools and talked them into giving us their cans. So the dumpster is full and ready to be dumped.
I figured out the exact answer for the recycling estimation problem. Twenty-eight cans equal a pound. Each trash bag holds roughly 128 cans. Each bag is worth about four dollars, and there’s at least thirty bags in the dumpster, so I figure around $120 will be my take. Not bad for one week. Plenty of money for Girasol and other secret expenses. Eat your heart out, contest winners Miguel and Abiola. Soon your two hundred dollars will look like pennies compared to my riches.
Before my dad can wake me up to go to the game, I sneak out of the house, riding my old bike to school. There I meet the driver from the recycling center, get the receipt, and fly back home to get ready. Cheese Whiz, I’m only eleven, and my life is a mess. I am in such a rush I forget to ask the driver about cashing in the receipt. No problem, I think. Next week I’ll make sure to ask.
My dad is quiet on the way to the game. Tired probably. I feel the same way. It’s the end of October. It’s chilly-cold. Halloween is right around the corner. I was a soccer player last year for trick-or-treating. I took Girasol, the princess in pink, around the block. Maybe this year I’ll go as a recycling collector. That was a joke. Not funny, huh? I think I’ve lost my sense of humor. I know I’ve lost my edge.
On soccer game days, my mom would always make me a special breakfast. “For luck, Mijo,” she’d say. She would iron my jersey and shorts and fill my jug with ice and water. On the way to the field, Papi would always tell us stories of his fútbol days in Mexico. “Play like a Zapotec,” he always said to me before I took the field before a big game.
Today, nada, zippo, zero. No special breakfast; I eat cereal. No perfect uniform—it’s not even clean. And I can’t find my jug, so I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I tell myself that if my dad says, “Play like a Zapotec,” I will be okay. The team is already out practicing as we pull up. I’m not late, am I? I streak off to join them before I realize he didn’t say it. I tell myself, “Play like a Zapotec.” It’s not the same.
“You’re late, Sandro.” The assistant coach—Noel’s dad—is putting the soccer bags in a perfect row.
“How come?”
“Playoff game. Coach wants everyone here an hour early.”
Well, shoot. I must have missed that memo. My mom always keeps track of those details. I want to say, Give me a break, would you?
“Lap it.”
Cheese Whiz. If I lap it, I’ll be too tired to play. Coach is busy running drills on the field. No way would he approve of this, but if I refuse, I could be benched. There’s something called solidarity between coaches even when they don’t agree. I take a deep breath and start running around the field. My dad lifts his palms up, asking me without words, “What in the world?” I shrug and keep going.
The game starts, and I’m on the field. I’m streaking down the sideline, but the pass is intercepted. I rush back to help out. Our goalie boots it to Black Hole Noel. I streak again. He passes it wide, and I can’t catch it. Wow! Their defender has a flip throw-in, and the ball practically scales the entire field. That’s not good. By the first substitution, my side hurts and I haven’t even touched the ball. I’m the monkey in the middle of a huge keep-away game.
“Sandro, you’ve got to get to the ball. Get your foot on it. Noel, pass it to his feet. Miguel, move forward and stop hanging back.”
I drink most of my water. By the end of the first half, I have been effectively ineffective. I’m not on my game. My passes aren’t crisp. My throw-ins are hesitant. Worst of all, it’s not even Noel’s fault. To his credit, he tried to pass to me, and I messed it up.
“I’m sorry, Sandro, we’ve got to try something e
lse.” The coach points at the bench, and I sit. I look over at my dad. I can tell he’s disappointed with my performance. When the game starts back up, he yells just as hard for Cesar—my replacement—as he did for me. When Noel scores, my dad goes bonkers with all the other fans. I close my eyes and wish I was back in bed asleep, and while I’m peacefully daydreaming, the other team scores. The yelling wakes me up. Noel’s dad tells me to stand up if I can’t stay awake.
The ref blows the whistle. The game is over, and it’s tied. He explains the overtime rules. Two ten minute overtimes and then five penalty kicks. The coach comes over and asks us to huddle.
“Sandro, I want you to be on the field at the end of the second overtime, or you won’t be eligible to kick any penalty shots,” he says.
I feel a little better. I may still have a chance to redeem myself.
“Remember now, boys, this is double elimination. Even if we lose this game, we have another shot. If we win this game, we advance. What do you want to do?”
We all shout, “WIN THIS GAME!”
It’s still tied after the first overtime. Miguel gives me a fist pump. Me and my tired body lope out to the field for the second overtime. I’ve been out of water since the first half, but I don’t want to say anything. I’m a proud Zapotec, and we don’t take charity. I know I have to make up for my poor showing, so I generally make a nuisance of myself. I grab shirts, stick my leg out and trip somebody, then slide tackle the good throw-in guy. Finally, the ref blows his whistle and gives me a yellow card.
I tone it down a bit. The second overtime ends. We’re still tied. That’s good, I think. My dad has his head bent backward with both hands covering his face. The coach is shaking his head with his eyes closed. What is the matter with everybody? We’ve practiced penalty kicks until we’re blue in the face. This is a piece of cake.
We line up. Five players on our side. Five players on their side. Here we go. Score for them. Score for us. Score for them. Score for us. Miss for them. Here’s our chance. But it’s Noel. And you guessed it. Not even close to the goal. Miss for us. Then they score, and we score. Their last guy is up. It’s the really good throw-in player. Of course he scores.
And now, yours truly is up. Watch and learn, amigos. I hold the ball. I whisper to it, “I am a proud Zapotec.” I set it down in the penalty box. I back up. I put up my hand. I hear my dad yell, “Play like a Zapotec!” and my heart feels as big as a balloon. Then I’m off like the wind. I connect. The ball sails. I’m in slow motion, watching as my redemption sails right into the . . . hands of the goalie. The other team erupts with joy, and I slink back to the bench. The last thing I want to do is say good game and high-five our victors. Whoever made up that stupid rule?
Our coaches gather us together and tell us a bunch of stuff. No one is responsible, blah, blah, blah. We play as a team. We win as a team. We lose as a team. Yah? Well, maybe neither of my coaches missed their redemption penalty shot before. One person. One shot. One giant miss.
Miguel catches up to me as I drag myself to the truck.
I want to say, “I’m sorry, I blew it,” but I can’t.
“Sandro, you have a good kick. The goalie is just having a lucky day. Somebody else is not having luck.” He points to the middle row of cars, and I see Noel. Head down. Getting yelled at by his dad. And his dad is poking him in the chest every time he says the word you.
Miguel and I raise our eyebrows at each other. Yikes, it’s just a game. And yet, I have that same satisfied feeling watching Noel get yelled at as when Abiola got in trouble with Miss Hamilton. I’m developing a pattern of being happy when others get what I think they deserve. Maybe it’s a personality defect. But right away, I feel guilty about being happy and start feeling sorry.
Miguel tugs on my jersey and nods his head toward Noel. “Come on.”
“Are you nuts?” I stay planted next to Dad’s truck. Sometimes Miguel is dense. I mean, who cares about Noel? Besides that, it’s not our business, and it might make it worse for him.
Miguel sets his soccer ball down and starts to dribble through the parking lot. The ball goes wild and lands between Noel and his dad. I can’t hear anything, but I see Noel pick up the ball and give it to Miguel. Miguel sticks his hand out to Noel’s dad and shakes it. Then he slaps Noel a high five and walks away. Noel’s dad sort of pats Noel on the back and gets into the car. All this happens in a nanosecond, of course, but I feel a puff of pride that Miguel is my friend and a puff of disgrace that I don’t deserve him. Me, the traitor, happy about Noel getting blasted by his dad about a game—yes, an important playoff game, but still just a game.
In the truck on the way home, my dad says, “You’ve played better.”
“I’m just tired.”
“I’m sorry I have to work, Mijo.”
I’m in shock. Did he just say he’s sorry? It’s the first time those words have crossed his lips. This is a dark day for the Zapotec people.
“It’s okay, Papi.”
“Next game, better luck.”
•
Monday comes way quicker than it ever has. I’m already tired of this recycling project. Is this how my dad feels every day after work? If Miss Hamilton wants to know what my dad does for a living now, I’ll tell her he’s killing himself for a living. He picks up his scrap metal tesoros without me before he goes off to his night shift job, and during his dinner hour he shovels up poor dead animals.
“We collect candy tonight?” Miguel asks as we walk to school.
“Trick or treat? Yep. Tonight. What are you going to be?”
“A bullfighter, I think. With my dad’s sombrero and red fabric.” He does a little bullfighter move. “And you?”
“A soccer player.”
Marta stops skipping ahead and says, “You can’t be a soccer player. You’re already a soccer player.”
“So? I was a soccer player last year, and it was fine.”
“I’m going to be a baby,” Marta says.
“You can’t be a baby. You’re already a baby,” I say back.
“Not nice, Sandro.” And she kicks me with her pointed toe shoes. Ow. That hurts.
“You can be my toro. I have the piñata from last birthday. Remember? The bull?”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but walking around with part of a piñata on my head would be worse than actual bullfighting.
Even though it’s almost November, it’s not cold enough for us to wait inside for the bell to ring. The days start out chilly, but I know by recess it will be perfect soccer weather. I’m still feeling bad about the penalty kick, so I’m just about to suggest that Miguel practices with me when a little commotion grabs my attention. Kids are running over to take a look at something near the bike rack.
Miguel and I push through the third graders to get a look. The flames on the frame blaze into my eyes. Then I see the shock absorbers on the T-bone, the Shimano Revo 21-Speed Twist Shifters, and the Tektro brakes. It’s the most amazing, awesome, super-fantastic bike I’ve ever seen.
In fact, it’s the very one I planned to buy if I won the two hundred dollars in the calendar contest. The very one Sandro the selfish brat is still thinking about buying with Sandro the hero’s recycle money. I’m overcome with greed and avarice and covetousness and rapacity and every other word that means I want it and I want it bad. Who is this cool kid riding this cool bike?
Miguel is poking me. And poking me. And poking me. I’m way too busy imagining myself coasting down to River’s Edge and tricking out in the skate park to pay him any attention. “Cut it out,” I snap at him.
“Sandro, look.”
The cool kid turns, and the bike helmet comes off.
No, it can’t be.
I’m barreling back to earth from my imaginary world. I’m crashing into my greed and avarice. It’s not fair. She carefully pulls the bike into the bike rack and winds a ginormous cable in a perfect spiral around the wheel and over the flames. She rotates the combination and checks it twice. Then sh
e shakes her wrists, her gold bracelets gleaming in the sun, and picks up her pink backpack.
“Hi, Sandro. Hi, Miguel.”
I am unable to speak. I have been struck by a lightning bolt of jealousy.
Miguel recovers. “That new bike is yours?”
“Yes. My daddy got it for me. To make me happy again.”
I cannot speak. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. My fourth-grade life flashes before my eyes. My trip to the principal’s office. My trip to the hall. My February calendar page. My failed attempts at getting revenge. My dad getting a phone call about my homework. I will never be happy again. And it’s all thanks to Abiola.
That’s it. The war is on, and it has nothing to do with race bullying. Somehow I will figure out a way to buy a bike that’s even better than Abiola’s and to help my family pay for Girasol’s surgery. Sandro the selfish brat will have to make a deal with Sandro the hero. I will make everyone happy—even me. I am filled with glorious purpose, as the Avengers would say.
CHAPTER 8
Never Bite the Hand That Feeds You
I manage to control myself all day on Monday. No sense getting grounded on Halloween. I rush home and wait for Miguel and Marta. There’s a knock on the door.
“Waaaa! Trick or treat,” says Marta. Her hair is in a ponytail that sprouts up from the top of her head. Her shoulders are wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket, and she’s holding a pacifier.
“Sorry, I don’t have any baby food,” I tell her.
“You’re supposed to give me candy.”
“I don’t have any candy either.”
“If you don’t have candy, then I trick you.”
“Okay. Trick me.”
“But I don’t know any tricks.” Marta stomps her foot and starts to cry.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll give you my first piece of candy when I get it, okay?” I grab my candy bag and close the door.
“My mom made me bring her.” Miguel throws up his hands.
It’s slow going because of Marta, but in the end we get plenty of candy because people think she’s cute and that it’s nice we’re taking her around. I’m sorry Girasol missed Halloween. She wanted to be a black cat this year.
