by Bibi Belford
After trick-or-treating, I sort my candy and make a nice pile for Girasol. I’m more of a chocolate fan, and she likes the gummy stuff. I debate where to put the full-sized Skittles package because, technically, they’re not chocolate or gummy. In the end, I rip them open and eat them, so I don’t have to decide.
It rains Tuesday and Wednesday, and I’m a drowned rat by the time I get the icy wet combination lock open on the dumpster and harrumph five bags over the side. Some nice teacher donated a tall garbage can for the teacher’s lounge, so every day I pick up one bag in there and four bags in the lunchroom—all full to the top with cans. Who knew people drank so much soda?
It’s still raining when I wake up Thursday and walk to school. Everything is gloomy and gray, including my mood. Maybe I’m causing the weather. I do notice that Abiola (aka the poor princess) hasn’t ridden her bike all week, and that makes a little bright spot in my mind. The hallway is a disaster. Mr. Tomeski will sure have a big job mopping up the muddy mess. I sit down at my desk in my damp jeans, and Miss Hamilton places a letter in front of me addressed to my parents. Now what? I stuff the letter into my take-home folder and try to forget about it.
The sky clears up just before recess. Some men in white polo shirts with a logo over the pocket are measuring the playground. New equipment is long overdue. Maybe a tube slide and one of those bridges with the rope loops. Not for us soccer players but for the little kids.
Miguel helps me with the bags of cans after school. I think he partly sticks around because he’s afraid I will forget about soccer practice with my new responsibility as recycle coordinator.
“Wow. Lots of cans. Too much work, Sandro,” he says.
“Yah.” I decide I’m going to tell him about my Sandro the hero plan on the way to soccer practice. We both care about our families. Just after Miguel got the check for the calendar prize, I asked him how he spent it, and Marta jumped in and informed me he gave all the money to his mom.
“Miguel loves our family,” she said.
“She’s borrowing it to pay the bills, that’s all,” Miguel said and then told Marta to quit blabbing.
I love my family, too, so I’m going to give them the money I make from the recycling program. Well, almost all of it, that is. And they don’t even have to pay me back.
The dumpster is so full that I climb up on the lid and stomp it down. The cans and the money are adding up faster than I thought they would. Maybe the whole world wants to help me out. I feel a little humble and annoyed at myself for being jealous and selfish, wishing the money didn’t have to pay for Girasol’s surgery but instead could all be mine to buy whatever I want.
From up here on top of the dumpster, I can see the whole school grounds. Marta is waiting for me and Miguel on the sidewalk, trying to close her umbrella. A big girl stops to help her, but it looks stuck or something. Wait a sec. She’s walking away with the girl. I can only see their backs. She’s not supposed to do that.
“Miguel! Miguel!” He must have gone back into the school for the last few bags because I can’t see him anywhere. So I leap off the dumpster and chase after Marta.
“Marta!” She might not know about stranger danger, so I run as fast as I can through the swarms of kids and parents. I’m still a penalty shot away from her when a woman walks around the front of her car and stoops next to Marta.
“No!” I shout and charge on. The woman is taking Marta’s umbrella. The girl is taking her backpack. What are they doing? Are they trying to give her a ride? Are they kidnapping her? Marta is too little to know what to do. What should I do? Stop, drop, and roll is for fires. You call 911 for emergencies. Get the license plate number? Yes, that’s it. But once she’s in the car, it’ll be too late.
“Stop!” I scream. “Don’t touch her.”
The woman looks up, and the girl turns around. I’m close enough now to see the eyes peering over at me. They drill into my forehead. The woman’s scarf is under her neck and not over her face this time. Then I see Abiola take the umbrella from her mom and place it into Marta’s backpack. The scarf goes back up over Abiola’s mom’s face.
I’m close enough now to hear Marta say, “Thank you,” while Abiola helps her put on her backpack and then straightens the straps. “Your mom is nice. Is her face cold?”
“No, she’s wearing a hijab. She wears it for her religion.” When Abiola says this, she looks at me.
I try to defend myself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t see. I thought your mom was kidnapping Marta. I mean, not kidnapping, but sort of taking her home, and I mean, we didn’t know and so . . .” My voice trails off.
Abiola shakes her head, disgusted by my mistake. She gets into the backseat of the car. I watch it pull away from the curb.
I hear Miguel yelling my name. I wave to him, and when he runs over I explain to him that Marta almost got into Abiola’s car.
“Don’t run off with people you don’t know,” he tells her.
“I know her. She’s Sandro’s girlfriend.”
Talk about disgusting.
“And she’s nice,” Marta adds.
“No, she’s not,” I say.
“Nicer than you,” she says back.
Wow. I’m arguing with a six year old. I’ve stooped to a new low. Miguel points to the bags of cans he’s left by the dumpster before he heads home, pulling Marta along with him.
“Be ready for soccer,” he says as I head back to the dumpster.
•
My house is quiet and boring as I sit there waiting for Miguel to pick me up for soccer. How many weeks until it’s back to normal? Even Franklin seems down, brown as the bark in his box. I pick out the old veggies and put in fresh ones, along with a strawberry. My dad brings Frankie a little something from the salad bar where he eats every night. Sometimes he mentions Franklin going back to school, but he’s not serious. I think in his heart he believes Franklin gives Girasol (and maybe us, too) hope—hope that she will make it through the surgery and be back home to see her beloved turtle again.
“Go ahead, Frankie,” I tell him. “Enjoy. Soon enough you’ll be back on turtle rations.”
I eat a tortilla spread with peanut butter and some Halloween candy while I watch TV. After I clean up, I see a letter addressed to me laying on the table, and it reminds me of the letter in my backpack, which I’ll probably “forget” to give my dad until after the weekend’s over. This letter, though, is from my mom, and when I open it, I see two drawings from Girasol.
One picture is me playing soccer and the ball is bigger than my head. I hope that’s not a bad sign that the playoff game will be too big for me to handle. The other picture is of four people and a turtle, so I guess that’s our family with Franklin. The girl in the pink shorts is the tallest, and the boy with the jet black hair covering his eyes is the shortest.
I try not to infer any hidden meaning from the drawing, but I keep thinking how small and unimportant she’s made me. I wonder if it’s a bad omen. Like maybe no matter how hard I try, I will never accomplish anything in life. Cheese Whiz. I’m losing it. It’s a silly drawing by my kindergarten sister who doesn’t even know how to draw proportions.
Mamá’s letter is written all in Spanish, which is good because it helps me hear her voice; but it’s also bad because reading Spanish is difficult for me.
Sandro, mijo. We are fine. Girasol is fine. We are waiting for the surgery. Everyday Abuelo takes us to see the animals. Girasol loves the horse, Paco. Remember Paco? When you come to visit, Abuelo says you will be ready to learn to ride. Girasol is chicken of the chickens, so if they’re in the yard she won’t go outside. It is hot here, not like the fall where you are. I don’t think Girasol knows Halloween will be over when she gets home. She is still talking about being a black cat. Maybe she can dress up and you can play trick or treat for her. I know Papi is happy you are there to keep him company, but we all miss you. Abuela wants me to tell you to eat, to be strong, and win at soccer. Be good in school. Te quiero, mijo. Mamá.
When I’m done reading, it’s time for soccer practice, and my nose is all snuffly. I grab a paper towel and dab at the water in my eyes before I blow my nose. Must be all this rain . . .
At soccer practice I have a brand new strategy for connecting with the ball. I visualize Abiola’s new bike in the corner of the net, and I’ve got perfect aim every time. While we practice, I see our two coaches with their heads together marking up their clipboards. For the scrimmage, the coach tries Cesar out as goalie. Not a bad idea. Cesar is small but quick. Coach puts Jared, our regular goalie, in for Noel. Good idea, too. Jared reads the ball really well. But then—I don’t believe it—he puts Noel in my position! Me, the Avenger, faster than a speeding bullet, the indomitable right forward. Me, on the bench.
“Relax, Sandro,” says my coach. “I’m exploring options. I want to have a couple of cards up my sleeve in case we run into a brick wall in the playoffs.”
If he thinks Noel in my position is a card up his sleeve, then he’s thinking like a brick wall. Of course, I only nod. Take another tip from me: don’t ever argue with a coach. Or as the saying goes, never bite the hand that feeds you. Just look alert. Cheer for your teammates. And if your name is called, jump up like your butt’s on fire and get into the game.
Noel’s dad seems very pleased with himself. He keeps turning around to stare at me. I act happy as can be. If I can play like a Zapotec, by golly, I can sit like a Zapotec, too. Miguel runs off the field to get a drink and whispers, “Loco,” and nods at the coaches. I know I don’t have long to wait. We cover for Black Hole Noel in every game. And sure enough, he proves to be just a flash in the pan.
“Sandro,” bellows my coach. “Go in for Noel.”
Be the better man, I tell myself as Noel marches past me. “Good job, Noel,” I say.
Noel holds his head very straight and doesn’t look at me. “Lousy passes,” he says.
Now this is more like it. With Miguel, Jared, and me on the field, we execute every play with precision. Cesar’s kicks aren’t powerful, but they are insanely accurate. Jared keeps us moving up and down the field, watching for traffic and negotiating between defenders. Within twenty minutes, I have a hat trick. The team we’re scrimmaging doesn’t know what brick wall they just ran into.
Coach claps me on the shoulder as we come off the field at the end of the scrimmage. “See, I like that card up my sleeve,” he says as he writes something down on his clipboard. I know Saturday he’ll be playing my card.
When Papi calls, I tell him about my hat trick.
“That’s good, Mijo. We’ll make a special breakfast Saturday. A lucky breakfast.”
•
Friday is a great day. I’m still contemplating Abiola’s demise, like always, but my head is too full of soccer and soda cans to dwell on such trivial matters for long. I do institute the ABC rule, confidentially, of course. If A (Abiola) comes within three feet of Miguel or me, we hold our B (Breath) and C (Cough). I guess Miguel told Jazzy by mistake about the ABC rule, and I might have mentioned it to Lorenzo and Jaylen, too. I don’t think Abiola has a clue, and it’s kind of funny to hear all the coughing and then breathing out as she walks by any of us.
I’m up super early on Saturday morning, get my uniform and water jug all set, and race on my bike to meet the recycling truck at the school. He’s the early bird again, already there waiting for me. Ha! Once I buy my new 21-speed bike, I will be the early bird to everything.
Girasol comes before your new bike, Sandro the hero reminds me.
“Big storm coming. You better get home,” the driver warns me. I take the receipt, and before I can ask him where I can cash it in, he’s in the cab and pulling away. Well, Cheese Whiz. Maybe I’ll call the lady at the center and ask her later today.
My hands are freezing, and dark clouds that I swear weren’t there ten minutes ago swirl together overhead. Big cold drops hit my head. It’s raining and snowing at the same time. Where does my mom keep the winter stuff? Good question. I put the pedal to the metal and make it home in record time.
“Game canceled,” my dad greets me with the news and goes back to bed.
Apparently breakfast is canceled, too. When my dad finally gets up for real at ten o’clock, he tells me the league will reschedule the game for sometime this week. He laughs when I show him the pictures Girasol sent me.
I think about the letter in my backpack again. Nah, it can wait. It’s probably about parent-teacher conferences or my latest test scores. My dad is very big on academic success. Especially since he’s an engineer. And I would sure hate to disappoint him when he’s got so much on his mind already. Be sure to chime in here if you agree.
I’m still in bed on Sunday morning when the phone rings. My dad busts through my door and grabs me and dances around the room. “Girasol will have surgery this week. This week. Get dressed. We will go to light a candle at mass.”
So far I know very little about what is happening. Bits and pieces. Girasol and my mom are with my abuelos in Oaxaca. The surgery will be in Mexico City, about five hours away. They’re all going to drive and stay with relatives until Girasol gets out of the hospital. The workers on my abuelo’s ranch probably know more about the whole situation.
My dad lights a candle, and we both kneel down. I know I’m supposed to be praying, but I have a lot of feelings that I can’t sort out. The fear. What if something bad happens to Girasol? The anger. Why did this have to happen to my sister? The hurt. Nobody cares what happens to me as much as they care about Girasol. The confusion. I don’t know what they expect me to do. The hope. Mostly, I hope everything goes back to normal.
On the way back from mass, my dad drops a bombshell on me. The International Surgical Group makes special travel arrangements for family members to be at Girasol’s hospital during her surgery. My dad wants to know if I will take his place. He can’t go—remember why? You know how they say you’re between a rock and a hard place? Well, I’m there all right. I’m between an electric rock and a hard place with prickles. If I go, I’ll miss soccer, let my team down, and maybe get stranded in Mexico for the rest of my life. If I stay, I’ll let my family down, and my dad will think I don’t care enough about my mom and Girasol.
“I don’t know, Dad. There’s school and soccer.” I don’t tell him that I’m also petrified of traveling all by myself, especially the flying part.
“Worry about yourself, Sandro.”
So I do worry. All afternoon. While I clean Frankie’s box.
“When is that nuisance going back to school?”
“We promised Girasol we’d wait.”
I worry all through my homework.
“Mamá asks me about your tests. Are they good?”
“They’ll probably send my results home sometime soon.”
And I worry while I pick up and put my dirty clothes in the washing machine.
“Don’t forget to put the load in the dryer while I’m at work.”
The phone rings. It could be my coach. I’m excited but also sad. If our game is rescheduled during the week, my dad will be working. Then I remember I might not even be here for the game anyway if I go to be with Girasol. I can hear him talking and arguing, then he yells for me.
“It’s Mamá.”
I pick up the receiver. I listen and nod and listen and nod. “Okay, Mamá. Okay. I will. Te quiero.”
When I hang up, my dad says, “I already know.”
And it’s settled. I’m not going to Mexico City. Mamá does not want me to travel alone. She has enough to worry about, doesn’t she? Yes, we Zapotec men are strong and stubborn, but we wrap right around my mamá’s finger.
•
I run into the house after school on Monday and listen to the answering machine. No message about soccer. One message from the business department of one of the hospitals. One message from Mr. Smalley. Wait, Principal Smalley?
“Please call me at your earliest convenience,” his voice booms from the machine.
My stom
ach feels wobblier than a lopsided soccer ball. My nose has been squeaky clean. In fact, Mr. Smalley passed me on the way to the dumpster today and said, “Keep up the good work.”
I decide to erase the messages. If it is important, Mr. Smalley will call back. I also decide to find out where to pick up my check for all this recycling I’m doing. Surprising my dad with the money in the next few days might soften any blows that are heading my way once he and Mr. Smalley talk. I call the recycling center and leave a nice message for the nice lady there, who doesn’t answer the phone. As I’m replacing the receiver, I see Miguel’s head bobbing outside my door.
“What?”
“Soccer.”
“There was no message on my machine about a game rescheduled for today.”
“Not the game. Practice. Remember?”
This is what happens when too many things are on a plate. Something falls off. I grab my gear and jump in his car, but in my rush I forget to put the rock by my door and hang my backpack on the hook in the closet. I think of it while we’re zipping across town, and I cross my fingers and hope that Mrs. Arona keeps out.
Two hours later, I can see that crossing my fingers is a worthless superstition. Mrs. Arona’s kids are on my porch with Frankie. Mrs. Arona yells at them in Spanish, and they jump up, plopping Franklin down, and scurry back to their duplex.
“I’m sorry, Sandro. Your phone. Ringing and ringing. My meat burning on the stove.” She throws up her hands.
Her kids don’t go to Lincoln Elementary. They’re too little. So at least they won’t tell their teachers they know where Franklin’s kidnapper lives. I hold open the door and Franklin walks into the house, not appearing too dazed from his fall. He looks okay, but I’m not an expert on shellshock. Steam rises from the meat and beans Mrs. Arona left on the counter, and my stomach growls. I see my backpack dumped out all over the floor. Those darn kids. Can’t she keep an eye on them?
The phone rings. It’s my dad. “Sandro, what’s wrong with the answering machine? I’m calling and calling.”
