by Bibi Belford
“I don’t know.” Once I look at it, I see I forgot to reset it.
“Listen. Girasol and Mamá left for Mexico City. I work tomorrow all day with Pablo roofing. Mamá will call. You must come from school right away and go nowhere.”
“But Dad, what about—?”
“No empiezas.”
CHAPTER 9
Extenuating Circumstances
Did you ever try to add just a little bit more soda to your cup and sploosh, it overflows? Did you ever blow one last puff into a balloon and kapow, it pops? I always know when to stop. But by the time I figure it out, it’s too late.
Worry about yourself, Sandro, I remind myself almost every day, but Sandro the selfish brat doesn’t pay attention. I’m standing here in line waiting for the bell to ring, wondering why I didn’t see Miguel on the way to school. Then I remember he has a doctor’s appointment. Shoot, I wanted to practice penalty shots with him at recess. And I also wanted to talk him into recycling for me today since my dad wants me to come right home.
As I stand there, I see Abiola come riding up on her bike. Who rides a bike to school in November anyway? I’m trying to mind my own business and not be mesmerized by the shininess of the bike. I see a new water bottle holder attached to the frame and a little saddlebag hanging from the back of the seat. And is that a compact air pump on the seat tube? If I keep recycling until I can grow a beard, maybe I will have enough money to add all those accessories to my new bike. After paying for Girasol’s surgery, of course, reminds Sandro the hero.
After locking up her bike, Abiola walks right up to me. “Marta says you cough at me and hold your breath.”
I give her my best what-are-you-talking-about face and shake my head. Boy, you have to give her credit. She sure knows how to attack a problem face-to-face.
Jazzy, who is standing in front of me, turns around. “Sandro, that is soooooo mean.”
I give her a scowl. She’s acting like she didn’t cough and hold her breath, too. Where is Miguel when I need him to back me up?
Jazzy lets Abiola cut the line, and they start whispering and giggling, staring back at me every once and a while.
“No, he didn’t. Oh, my gosh. That is too funny.” Jazzy is talking super loud, so more girls are getting in on the conversation. I could use a winter hat right about now. Pulled down over my whole face.
Lorenzo is waiting by the coat hooks when I enter the school. “Did you really think Abiola’s mom was kidnapping Miguel’s sister? That’s rich.”
It takes me a minute to remember Marta and the umbrella incident from the other day. I feel hot embarrassment flood my face.
“No. I just didn’t know what she was doing, that’s all,” I say.
So, are you visualizing like we talked about? Do you see what is happening to my life? Even the Avengers have bad days, but bad weeks? Bad months?
“Sandro?” Miss Hamilton is standing by my desk with her tablet. “Did you give that letter to your father?”
What should I say? I used to know what to do in these situations, but I’m losing my touch. You think I should say yes? Okay.
“Yes.”
“He didn’t respond. I asked for a response.” Miss Hamilton is testy.
“Uh. He’s real busy. I’ll remind him.”
She walks away, marking something in her grade book.
Abiola’s desk is one row over and up. I hear her whisper, “Oooh. Is somebody in trouble?”
I stick out my tongue. I know, very childish. She raises her hand.
“Yes, Abiola,” Miss Hamilton says.
“Mr. Smalley told me that if I feel threatened I should tell you right away,” she says, glancing toward me.
Miss Hamilton stops collecting homework and checking it off on her tablet. She bends down close to Abiola. Next thing I know, I’m standing next to my chair, and Miss Hamilton is pulling my desk to the back wall.
“Sit. No more trouble out of you,” she says, and then directs her attention to the rest of the class. “Let’s get started on our morning assignments, shall we?”
I need a sinkhole to swallow up me and my problems. I need a time machine to take me back to that moment when everything started to go belly up. Help me out here. When did my life suddenly take a turn for the worse? Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I’m thinking of a cold-blooded, snaky-eyed, shell-packing stowaway—that’s when it all started. Well, Franklin, mi casa no es su casa. That’s over. You are back to Lincoln Elementary first chance I get.
Finally the morning is over, and our class lines up for recess and lunch. Miss Hamilton calls the rows to line up, but I’m not in a row, so I’m last in line. No one notices when I drag my feet and meander down to the back of the school. I’m not up for any more humiliation today. I don’t even care that some sort of activity is happening near the climbing gym and that it’s roped off with yellow tape.
It seems as though I’m a vortex of bad luck. All around me swirl calamities that are out of my control. And to top it all off, my dad is now in trouble for collecting scrap metal at a prohibited site. He also told me immigration security might be raiding the factory during the night shift, which means my dad could be in even deeper trouble.
Even the Aronas are sucked into my unlucky storm. A piece of the scrap metal fell out of my dad’s truck when he came home in the middle of the night, and Mr. Arona ran over it in the morning on his way to work. Blewie. He didn’t look too happy fussing with his tire iron and spare tire when I passed him on my way to school.
Suddenly, Mr. Arona’s flat tire gives me an idea. I take a little tiny rock and creep along the ground right up to Abiola’s shiny new bike. I put my shoulder next to her Road Star semi-slick tread tires and press the little rock down into her tire valve. A satisfied sigh of air rushes out from the front wheel. I only wish I was deflating Abiola, not her tires. Don’t get any ideas from my stupidity, though, because that’s what it is. Stupidity. Some alien is invading my good senses and nullifying my Zapotec power at the moment.
Yes, there are extenuating circumstances behind my bad behavior. Do you need some help with that word? It means to thin out, but I think of it this way. There are circumstances that should extend you—extenu—forgiveness for what ate your good sense—extenuate. Um, that’s still confusing, isn’t it? Basically, it just means there are reasons to explain why you made some bad choices.
Let’s add up my extenuating circumstances, shall we? 1) My best friend skipped school for a doctor’s appointment; 2) my mom abandoned me to take care of my sister during her open heart surgery; 3) my calendar art was stolen by the teacher from the Shall-We planet; and 4) a rat-faced tattletale told complete lies about me.
Remember, I always know when to stop after it’s too late. People say hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I could do everything over, I would definitely wear glasses that give me perfect vision. And I’m not just saying that because Mr. Tomeski's shoe is two inches from my hand. When I look up, he grabs my jacket collar, yanking me to my feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growls.
Mr. Smalley asks the same question while staring me down in his office minutes later.
I want to say, “Nothing is as it appears. Look below the surface.” But grown-ups should already know these things. I also want to say, “Do over.” I want to say, “I’m sorry.” Instead, I hear my alien invasion start talking.
Mr. Smalley listens as I make up stuff about how I was protecting the bike rack area from the little rocks that can cause accidents. He nods but doesn’t answer. When he doesn’t say anything, I keep talking, more and more, until I’m talking in circles, blabbing about nothing. And then it’s as though he sprayed truth serum into the air because I get so confused I suddenly hear myself confessing to everything. Everything, that is, except stealing Franklin. That was not my fault. The Avengers would be ashamed of me.
Mr. Smalley asks Mrs. Lopez to call my dad and transfer the call to his office. I can hear the phone ring and ring, and
then the answering machine comes on. Mr. Smalley leaves a serious sounding message. Mr. Smalley sends me out into the main office, where I’m directed to sit at a little desk in the corner
At noon, a fifth grader delivers my lunch before he sits down on the opposite side of the room at another little desk and eats his. I wonder what petty crime he committed today. Nobody bothers to give me any ketchup packets for my chicken nuggets or remembers that I do not like chocolate milk. But it doesn’t really matter. I’m not hungry anyway.
The rest of the day, me and my schoolwork eavesdrop on the office hubbub. What a circus! I hear lots of confidential stuff and juicy gossip, so it’s not too boring, but I do miss my friends. I also feel a gnawing termite nibbling on my stomach all day, but I can’t figure out why.
By the end of the day, Mr. Smalley is quite upset that my dad didn’t call him back or come to school to get me. He tries calling every number on my registration card. I conveniently forget my uncle’s new cell phone number, and of course my mom is incommunicado.
“You tell your parents I need emergency contact information for them by tomorrow,” he barks and then tells me I can head home.
I light out of his office faster than a speeding bullet and evade answering questions from the busybodies in my class as I collect my things and head out the front door. Tomorrow I’ll pay for skipping recycling, but I’m anxious to follow my dad’s instructions and get home right after school. Probably a good idea, don’t you think? I already have enough adults mad at me.
Four messages are blinking on our answering machine. One from a hospital collecting money again. Three from Mr. Smalley. None from Mamá. I delete the three from Mr. Smalley. I’ll just tell my dad what happened. It would be better coming from me, don’t you think? I stand in the living room and wait. I sit and wait. I snack and wait. A watched pot never boils, and a watched phone never rings. When it finally does, I jump a mile.
“Hello.”
“Sandro?”
“No messages, Papi.”
“Chale! I need to know. Why doesn’t she call?”
“I don’t know, Papi. Maybe there’s no signal in the hospital room, and she doesn’t want to leave Girasol.”
“Sí, sí. This is true. How was school, Mijo?”
Do you think it’s a good idea to tell my dad that I have to do my homework in the office for the rest of the week? In-school suspension, they call it. The phone is not a very good conductor for that kind of information. And he’s pretty worked up about Girasol. Wait, you say? Good call.
“School was good. They’re doing some work on the playground.”
After I hang up, the termite starts chomping all around the edges of my stomach again. I don’t want to be too far from the phone, but I scoot down the hall, open my bedroom door, and yell, “Start packing, you turtle with a half-shell!” I feel a little better. Franklin is nosing around in his bark. “It’s curtains for you, you cold-blooded creature.” I kick the box, and Franklin pulls his head into his shell. The phone rings.
“Sandro? Oh, Sandro, Mijo, how are you? We miss you so much.”
“How’s Girasol?”
“Perfect. Already her color is better. She’s asking for you. Here she is.”
Me? My sister wants me? The liar. The bully. The selfish brat. “Girasol?”
“Doe-doe?”
“Sí, Girasol, it’s me.”
“I had an operation.”
“I know. How do you feel?”
“I get vanilla ice cream.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Did you like my pictures?”
“Yep. Really good.”
“Is Franklin okay?”
“Yep. Here he is.” Then in my best Franklin impersonation I say, “Hello, Girasol. Thank you for saving me from Lincoln Elementary.” Liar. Liar. Sandro the liar. I can hear old slowpoke scuffling around in his box, hopefully packing like I told him to.
Girasol giggles. “I want to take him back, Sandro. I had bad dreams, and Grandpa told me to make peace with Franklin.”
I am dumbfounded, but I tell her, “Okay. When you come home.” Wow. This is my little sister, one step away from a baby. The termites must have gotten to her, too. I guess Franklin will have a little longer to pack this things.
“Sandro?” says Mamá. “Sandro, I have to go. Tell Papi everything went better than expected. The doctor says two weeks before she can travel, and then we’ll come home. Te quiero, Sandro.” And the line goes dead.
Now I’ve got termites and butterflies in my stomach. It’s a regular insecto-world in there.
“Two weeks,” I tell Franklin as I clean out his box and give him fresh food and water. “Two weeks and the curse of Sandro will be lifted. Two weeks before my life is back to normal.”
I sure do have a lot of problems to solve in two weeks. Let’s not think about it, though, okay? Let’s play some video games. Let’s watch some TV. It might be my last night on earth once my dad finds out about Mr. Smalley’s office, and I want to enjoy it.
CHAPTER 10
The Clean Sweep
It’s truly amazing how much work I get done in the front office all week. Wednesday I wake up super early and complete the recycling before my office incarceration, so I’m tired right from the start. I have a hard time focusing with all the activity going on around me, but then I tell myself, Worry about yourself, Sandro, and not about all the interesting problems in the office. I knuckle down and do everything Miss Hamilton sends to me during the day. I write a full page in my journal and do the bonus math problems, which I usually never do. This prisoner reform system (aka in-school suspension) seems to be working. I’m a new and improved Sandro.
People say things happen for a reason. Maybe I was getting too comfortable in my full bathtub. Just floating along. But now that the water is leaking out, I’m turning on the faucets and paddling hard. And look at the results. I’m more organized and industrious. And, to use Mr. Smalley’s word, philanthropic. Of course, it is only day two of solitary confinement but still.
Concentrating on reading is tougher, especially since our new novel is full of Greek myths. In the first one, Atlas, one of the Titans, loses the war against Zeus, and for his punishment he has to carry the world on his shoulders. Actually, not just the world but the whole celestial atmosphere, which I’m guessing is huge. I’m trying to do close reading to understand Atlas by making connections to the stories my dad tells about the Zapotecs. Strong intelligent warriors who designed whole civilizations.
On Thursday there’s more to read and some response questions to answer, and I maintain my new work ethic. I even add a little research about the Zapotecs as I write my opinion essay. I should mention that my Zapotec dad still has no idea that his wannabe Zapotec son is in hot water. Our schedules are not so conducive to father-son heart-to-heart talks or, in my case, confessions.
Mr. Smalley leaves with his briefcase after the bell rings on Thursday afternoon. “If you get in contact with Sandro’s father, tell him to call me this afternoon,” he tells Mrs. Lopez.
The secretaries are starting to really enjoy my company, since I’ve been using my best win-them-over manners. They sure do laugh a lot. And they snack on goodies all day. By mid-morning, I finish all the new stuff Miss Hamilton assigns. Mrs. Lopez puts me to work on a paper-clipping project. I knock it out before you can say jackrabbit, and all the secretaries applaud me, making a big deal about my paper-clipping skills.
I don’t think I’m supposed to leave the office during my in-school suspension, but they send me on a couple of errands anyway and reward me with a doughnut. Just before lunch, two parents bring Happy Meals for their kids, and I get to deliver them. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t steal a french fry, but who can resist that smell? My lunch arrives in the office and a bunch more schoolwork. I stare at the pile of papers and books. Why do kids have to work this much?
Mr. Smalley comes back from his meeting after lunch, and the office climate gets more serious. Ev
ery once in a while, one of the office ladies gets something from the files near me and ruffles my hair. It makes me really miss my mom, and the butterflies in my stomach dance a little bit.
I haven’t talked to Miguel for days. I don’t even know if his doctor’s appointment went okay. I don’t even know if we have soccer practice after school. I don’t even know if Abiola figured out who flattened her tires. If she knows, then the whole class knows. Cheese Whiz. I might have to ask for a school transfer. Can I do that? Maybe I should go live with my grandparents in Oaxaca and make a fresh start.
Before I leave for the day, Mr. Smalley asks me to join him for a chat. “Sandro, your parents have not responded to my phone calls. Tell them to call me tomorrow, or on Monday I will be forced to take action.”
“Yes, sir.” Sir, that’s a nice touch, don’t you think? But really I’m wondering what sort of action he can take. Out-of-school suspension? Make me scrub the floors?
“And Sandro, the Kahns are not going to press charges. They understand you may be having some trouble adjusting to your family’s situation.”
“Yes, sir.” Well, I guess that means Abiola does know who sabotaged her bike. But this news makes me angry instead of relieved. Who told them about my family? It’s none of their business. There are laws about privacy, aren’t there?
“Next week you will follow procedures and not irritate your teacher or antagonize Abiola. Do you understand?”
Once again, Mr. Smalley is one-upping me on hard words. I assume antagonize means bother in a bad way.
“Yes, sir.” But what about my persecutors? Do they have to follow procedures? Does Miss Hamilton have to stop harassing me? Does Abiola have to stop tormenting me?
I head out to take care of my recycling project; each bag I lug drains my strength. Me and Atlas. The weight of the world on our shoulders—our punishment for rebelling. I make the second trip into the lunchroom for more bags. If only I knew how much money I’ve earned for Girasol, I could end this punishment. I don’t even care what Sandro the selfish brat wants anymore. New bikes are overrated, anyway.
