by Bibi Belford
I’m sensing your concern. I agree. This might be a bad idea. But I’ve got to get the money, don’t I? Won’t my dad appreciate cold hard cash in light of my recent failures? And my team is counting on me. If I stay in the house and they lose, I will never forgive myself. My Zapotec honor is at stake, isn’t it? Okay. Good idea. I’ll sleep on it and see what the morning brings.
•
The morning finds me riding along the street with my light jacket over my soccer uniform. I splash a little of my dad’s cologne on my jersey to offset the leftover smell of mildew. My water jug is full and hanging from my handlebars. Even on chilly days it’s important to stay hydrated.
When I get to Lincoln Elementary, I lean my bike against the bike rack and unlock the dumpster. No sign of the recycling truck. Usually he’s here by now, but of course, since I’m in a rush today, he’s going to be late. Just my luck.
I walk around to the front of the building so I can watch for him to come down the main street. I see some big kids head over to the playground. It sort of looks like Black Hole Noel, but I’m too far away to recognize him. And anyway, Noel is probably still in bed, just waking up to the smell of a fantastic breakfast full of super energizing foods to keep him super charged for our big game. I can’t wait to be in middle school. I’ll be much cooler than Black Hole Noel. Middle school has a soccer team and art classes. And once I’m in that big school, chances are Abiola and I will never cross paths again. I hear the truck and run around the back to meet the driver.
“Hey,” I say when he rolls down his window.
“Is it unlocked?”
“Yah. Hey,” I say again.
But he is already pulling the truck up to the dumpster. The front forks lift the bin and the covers flap open, dumping all the bags into the back of the truck.
The driver leans out and hands me a yellow paper.
“Hey, I have a question.”
“What?”
“Where do I take the receipts to get paid?”
“What?”
“You know. For all the loads. I’ve got the receipts, but I don’t know where to cash them in.”
The driver turns off the truck and jumps down from the cab. “What are you talking about? We’ve been paying you for each load. The check’s sent out.”
“I didn’t get any checks.”
“The school gets the checks. They’re fixing the playground. I read about it in the newspaper.”
I look over at the playground. Sure enough. Black stringy stuff that reminds me of a combination of Franklin’s bark and Jazzy’s hair spreads out under a new slide apparatus.
“All right, then?” He swings back up, slams the door, and rattles off.
No. Not all right. All this work and nothing for Girasol. Nothing for me. Well, sure, she’ll use the playground when she comes back to school. But I never agreed to that. Or did I? Is that what “nonprofit charitable organization” means? Cheese Whiz. I’m steamed. All those hours of lifting bags. Why didn’t Mr. Smalley explain this to me? My heart feels like it’s disintegrating. I can feel it falling away, piece by piece.
In the back of my mind, somehow, I know I deserve this. This is your fault, I tell Sandro the selfish brat. You thought you could deceive the nonprofit charitable gods? You thought you could help yourself to the money your family needs? Now nobody named Zapote gets nothing. Way to go.
Can’t a guy get a break? I know it sounds wimpy, but I want to go home to my mamá. To a glass of milk. To a warm buñuelo. To her ruffling of my hair. I look around for my bike, but the rack is empty. I can’t remember. Did I take the bike with me to the front of the school? I walk around and also look at the playground. But nothing. No bike anywhere.
Then it hits me. I know what happened. Oh, why didn’t I lock up my bike like I always do? I try not to say the curse words I’m thinking. This is the worst day of my life. Did this happen because I disobeyed my dad? Did this happen because of Sandro the selfish brat?
Now I’m faced with another dilemma. Do I try to walk all the way to the high school? If I’m late, they won’t even let me play. Do I walk home and skip the game altogether? If they lose because I’m not there, I will never forgive myself. I’m sick in my heart. What would a Zapotec warrior do? What would you do?
I take off running. After three blocks, I realize my water jug is on my handlebars, and I’m thirstier than a camel in the desert. If I keep running I might make it, but my legs will be toast by game time. After five blocks, I’m pretty sure this is a bad idea. I’m sweaty and chilly at the same time. If I get hypothermia and become unconscious, nobody will even know my name. People should always carry identification. Drivers have driver’s licenses. Why don’t walkers have walker’s licenses? See, inventing is in my blood, even when I’m tired and cold and miserable.
Of course it will be tough to invent stuff from the confines of my four walls after my dad finds out I left home and lost my bike. My life is basically over. I’m a fourth-grade failure. Absolutely nothing I do turns out right. I’m the one who deserves to be sick. I’m a rotten, self-centered, greedy kid that nobody wants around. Thing is, I’d gladly take Girasol’s place, but I didn’t get the choice. Things are as bad as they appear. I can definitely visualize that.
After walk-running another ten blocks, I’ve lost all hope. The high school is nowhere in sight. My shoes are muddy. It’s drizzling now. I’m about to turn around, put my tail between my legs, and crawl home to my prison if I can even find it, when I hear a car pull close to the curb. Probably some hecklers. I’m not going to look at them.
“Sandro. Sandro.”
It’s Abiola’s voice. I glance over and see her leaning way out of the window yelling my name.
I’d rather see the creature from the black lagoon, or even my dad, than Abiola right now. The car stops, and the next thing I know, she’s walking beside me. And in my exhaustion and depression, I imagine she is wearing soccer shorts and shin guards with a purple soccer shirt that reads RICHTON WARRIORS.
That’s rich, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be a warrior, but she’s wearing the shirt.
“Sandro, what is wrong? Where are you going?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Thank you for finding my ball.”
Her ball? I’m stumped for a minute. Then I remember the truck and the ball and the little boy. And the girl. Oh man. This is unbelievable. The Masked Avenger does a good deed to end the Sandro curse, and it benefits his enemy. I should be on a talk show—the kid with the worst luck.
She doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she asks again, “Where are you going?”
“I have a game. At the high school.”
“Well, that is where we are going. We will drive you.”
You may think I’m a pushover. And maybe I am, but remember, if it were up to you, I’d still be sitting in the house. So I follow Abiola to her car. The cute little boy who helped me pump up the soccer ball is in a booster seat. And now I see the resemblance. Abiola slides into the middle seat and kisses him on his forehead. I shut the door and squish my body close to the door handle so my knee is not touching Abiola’s.
“La-La.” Her little brother smiles at me, and suddenly I miss Girasol again. Then he says something I can’t understand and pats Abiola’s cheek.
“This is my brother, Amir. He says you helped him fix my ball.”
“Does he speak English?”
“He’s learning. He also says you smell.”
From the driver’s seat, Abiola’s mom says a torrent of words with harsh edges to them.
Abiola leans forward and says, “Okay, Ammi. Maaf karna.” To me she says, “Sorry. But you do. And this is my mom, Mrs. Kahn.”
“Hello, Sandro. I have heard many things.”
So there it is. I’m a captive in a car with my enemy and I smell. (For your information, if you leave your soccer uniform in the washer too long, the dryer doesn’t get rid of the stench. Then, if you get sweaty and wet, the odor
amplifies into a dead, rotting fish smell that no amount of your dad’s cologne can conceal.)
Mrs. Kahn looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Do you also play soccer?”
She talks the same as Abiola except with an accent. I almost say, “Yah,” but she’s so proper I find myself saying, “Yes, Mrs. Kahn.”
“It is a good sport, would you agree?”
“Oh yes. It is.”
“Abiola very much enjoys soccer.”
Then I realize I wasn’t imagining Abiola wearing soccer gear. She actually plays soccer. Real soccer? On a team? Well, that would explain the soccer uniform, wouldn’t it? And her insanely perfect soccer socks pulled up and folded over meticulously. This is incredible. I’ve never seen any girls on our soccer fields. Or maybe I just didn’t pay attention before. “What team are you on?” I ask her.
“The Warriors. It is a premier league. We are going to California for an invitational tournament in December.”
Good golly. Her team must be good. And now I remember her journal page. Especially for my favorite game. “I’ve never seen your team on the fields,” I say.
“Oh, we usually play on Sundays. Home games are at the high school, but the away games are in different cities.”
“What makes you walk today, Sandro?” Mrs. Kahn’s eyes peer into my soul from the rearview mirror. Her hijab scarf—or whatever it’s called—is under her chin.
I explain about the recycling project and about my stolen bike.
“Oh my. This should not be so. A good dog deserves a good bone.”
I puzzle over this phrase a bit. I think it means hard work should be rewarded.
“And this money? You want to buy a new bike, yes?” she continues.
Who told her that? Abiola? And how did she know? Probably that no-good Miguel. I’m about to say yes because I hate talking about Girasol and her surgery and my family’s problems. I hate people feeling sorry for me and my family. The termites in my stomach come alive and go crazy, but I’m tired and my guard is down.
I tell Mrs. Kahn everything from the very beginning. My mouth is running faster than an overflowing brook. And you know what? She is a very good listener. Her questions pull the stones from my babbling water to make it flow smoother. She asks a lot of questions about Girasol’s sickness and operation, and I’m not sure I get it all right, but it feels good to let it all out finally.
I finish talking, and the termites are calmer. When I look out the window, I see that we are at the high school. Teams are everywhere. I almost don’t want to get out of the car, I feel so peaceful. Mrs. Kahn is not at all how I imagined. Nothing is as it appears. I guess I know this, but I easily forget sometimes.
“I am sorry to hear of your troubles. It seems you have not eaten the soup but have burned your mouth. However, this is life’s journey. Often difficult. A passenger is responsible for his own luggage.”
My mind rolls this around. Hot soup is good, but it burns your mouth. I got burned by the recycling place and Mr. Smalley, but I never tasted the soup, which means I never got the money for my work. Aha. And luggage is something to carry. Burdens. Problems. Troubles. I have to solve those myself.
Abiola says something to her mom in another language and then tells me, “I’m coming with you to find your team.”
I feel so weak and astounded by these new revelations that I can’t bring myself to stop her from joining me.
“Adiós, Amir.” He giggles and gives me his big smile. I can’t wait to see Girasol smile like that again.
“How will you return to home, Sandro?” Mrs. Kahn asks.
This is a good question. I forget about my truth resolution for a minute and tell a little lie. “My dad’s coming late to the game.”
“This is good. If not, we will be at field nine for Abiola’s makeup game. I’m glad to meet you. Abiola will always be happy to help you. One man standing is always alone, but two equals eleven.”
It will be a cold day on the equator before I ask Abiola to help me. I’m already perturbed that she is volunteering to help me right now. But I tell Mrs. Kahn, “Thank you very much.”
Abiola talks a mile a minute as we head out to find my team. Blah. Blah. Blah. I half listen while we walk. My mind is full of questions. What if there’s a shortage of Zapotecs to stand with me to make eleven? I sure do feel alone, and my “luggage” is weighing me down.
“And that’s why she goes to all the tournaments.”
Whoops. I wasn’t listening. “Why?”
“I just told you. My mom is almost a doctor in Pakistan. So she goes to the tournaments in case somebody gets hurt.”
“Almost?”
“Do you not listen? She left Pakistan before she finished her studies. Maybe she will complete them when my brother goes to school. The system is complicated, she says.”
I sigh. Everything is complicated. It’s complicated for my dad, too. He trained for one job but is trapped doing another.
My dad, who reminds me of the man standing on the sidelines of field four. My dad, who looks just like the man now standing in front of me on the sidelines of field four. My dad? Oh boy. Abiola sees me stop dead as though I’ve come face to face with that rattlesnake, again. I’ve got to give it to her for perception. She gives me a half wave and skedaddles off to field nine. And why don’t you take a clue from Abiola? Close the book. I need a little privacy.
CHAPTER 12
A Good Dog Deserves a Good Bone
You know how people say, “To make a long story short?” Well, here’s the short version of the long story of what happened after you left me at field four with my dad standing in front of me. I’m in trouble. Apparently you and I were both wrong. “Stay in the house” meant stay in the house all day Friday and Saturday. Now I’m in the “less” department. Soccer-less. Bike-less. Moneyless. Friendless. Motherless. Hopeless.
I’m sitting on my bed. I’m reading my favorite book, James and the Giant Peach. It’s about a boy who escapes from his horrible life by moving into a giant peach. Since I don’t have a peach, I’m still considering moving to Oaxaca. I wish I wasn’t so good at visualizing. Flash—I see my coach’s face as my dad and I walk away from the field. Flash—I see Abiola turn and watch my dad grab the back of my jersey and propel me toward his truck. Flash—I see my dad’s stone jaw as we drive home.
I don’t know what’s worse. Losing my bike. Losing the money from recycling. Losing the chance to help my team win. Or losing my dad’s trust.
“When I need you to be more dependable than ever, you are irresponsible, deceitful, and reckless. Do my words mean nothing?”
At least he didn’t force me to say I’m sorry. That was hours ago. I’m starving, and Franklin’s food isn’t very appetizing. My door opens.
“Mamá wants to talk to you,” my dad says, dropping the phone receiver into my hand.
“Sandro? Pobrecito.”
She tells me that she and Girasol will be home the weekend after Thanksgiving. She says that Girasol misses me. She says that she’s sorry about my bike. She tells me, “Listen to Papi, Mijo. He’s got too many worries.”
Have you ever swallowed a big wad of gum that sort of sticks in your throat while going down? That’s the lump I have in my throat after I hang up. My dad calls me to the kitchen and places bowls of soup on the table. I devour mine. He refills the bowl three times without saying a word. I may have to stop writing my life story. It looks grim. Nobody wants to read about a guy who’s grounded to his bedroom for life, do they?
•
On Monday as I’m walking to school, I’m betting myself that Abiola has told everyone about my weekend misadventures. I see Miguel standing in line. He and Marta are in a morning carpool with their neighbors now that the weather is chilly. The lucky ducks.
“We lost,” he says when I walk up next to him.
“I’m sorry. My dad—”
“Nothing you could do. Four to zero.”
“Whoa. Really?”
“One cr
azy big player. Everyone think he’s too old to be on the team.”
“Cheese Whiz.”
“Next year.”
Abiola gets in line behind us. She doesn’t say anything to me. Be the better man, Sandro, I tell myself. So I turn around and nod at her.
“Here,” she says and hands me an envelope. “From my mom.” I quickly stuff it in my pocket. My face gets a little hot, but I maintain my resolve. “Did you win your game?”
“Yes. One to zero. Close match.”
I tell Miguel, “She plays soccer. Premier team.” Abiola squints her eyes at me, searching my face, then her whole body straightens, and she smiles.
Miguel appears to have swallowed a bug and sputters before he chokes out, “Oh.” Then he kicks the side of my shoe.
Obviously, I’m much more mature than Miguel.
“When’s your tournament?” I ask Abiola.
“Next week. Have you ever been to California?” Her face has an eager gleam that I’ve never seen before.
“My mom was born there, but she moved to Mexico when she was young. Have you ever been to Mexico?”
Abiola smiles bigger in the same way her little brother does. “No. Have you ever been to Pakistan?”
We both laugh. Miguel scowls.
Once we are allowed into the building, I hang up my jacket and start into class when I remember the envelope. What could it be? I rip it open. The TAICO letterhead jumps out at me. It’s a letter from Mrs. Kahn with beautiful loopy writing the same as Abiola’s, which I’m pretty good at forging now.
I am letting you know I have started an online donation website for your family. It is confidential and secure. Donations are made anonymously.
Wait a minute. We’ve been forgetting your vocabulary in my boatload of troubles. That word anonymously is tricky to say and spell. I think of it this way: not anyone will know, not even a mouse. Do you see parts of the words any and mouse hiding in anonymously? Okay, back to the letter.
