by Bibi Belford
The funds will come to your family from Lincoln School, so they will be easy to access. Please tell your father this was done for our family in our time of trouble, and there is no shame in it. My heart was heavy for you as I remembered my days of grief when we moved here. People must have opportunities to renew themselves with service. The website address is here with the information. Remember, after the rain comes fair weather.
I reread the letter three times and then run to get in my seat before the tardy bell rings. My mind is whirling. My dad will kill me. Again. But this isn’t charity, is it? Nobody knows about it except for those at Lincoln School. Maybe Mrs. Lopez or the social worker are the ones who know. But doesn’t my dad have to agree to this or something? And what troubles did the Khans have? Abiola never talked about any troubles, or did she?
I don’t have time to worry about it. Miss Hamilton writes our assignments on the board with a reminder that she’ll be selecting our best work to show our parents at conferences this week.
Well, if it doesn’t rain, it pours. How are my grades, anyway? I decide to take the bull by the horns. When it’s my turn for reading group, I zip over fast so I can sit next to Miss Hamilton and her grade book. From my peripheral vision, I find my name and scan across. Reading grades. Mostly B and C letters with a couple of Xs. Hmmmm. Those Xs are missing assignments.
“Am I missing any assignments for reading?” I ask.
“Just class participation and your response journal. When you aren’t in class, I can’t give you a grade.”
“Can I make it up?”
“I’ve never done that before.”
“I could write responses for the books I missed.”
“You don’t have much time. Grades are due next week.”
“Could my parent-teacher conference be the week after?”
She passes out the books and some sticky notes. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“Could it? My mom really wants to come.”
“We’ll see, Sandro. Let’s look at the table of contents, shall we?”
“My dad can’t make it this week.”
“I said, we’ll see.” Her words boom out. Prison doors slamming (not that I’ve actually heard prison doors, but I can imagine what they might sound like).
I’m on the verge of crying. If my mom comes home to one more disappointment from her son Sandro . . .
I bite my lip and try to make my dad’s stone jaw face. I do my best to participate and respond. I’m about to walk back to my seat to get ready for recess when Miss Hamilton hands me three books.
“I think you missed writing responses to these three.”
A good dog deserves a good bone. I put the three books in my desk and line up for recess.
Mr. Smalley intercepts me at the foot of the steps leading to the playground. “Congratulations, Sandro. Your recycling project is being recognized by the Board of Education. Come to my office for your award.”
“Huh?”
“You and your parents will be invited to a board meeting. All the recipients will be presented with a plaque.”
“A plaque?”
“I called an emergency meeting this morning. I was not aware that you orchestrated this project singlehandedly.”
Not aware? Didn’t I meet with him and explain the whole thing to him? And why is he suddenly aware now? I think about my conversation with Mrs. Kahn.
He continues, “From now on, each classroom will have the responsibility of handling the recycling for a month. We will consider that your classroom has fulfilled its obligation thanks to your dedication.”
I see Abiola in her polar bear hat standing alone by the edge of the playground. My buddies are streaking down the field after my favorite round black-and-white sphere. A huge weight lifts right off my shoulders. I’m done with recycling duty? Hooray! But I actually feel kind of empty without the weight. Kind of unimportant. Like I might just float away and disappear. I wonder if Zeus ever offered to take the world off of Atlas’s shoulders. “No, no, that’s okay Zeus. I like the world on my shoulders. It makes me indispensable.” Hmmm. That may be why Atlas still carries the world around.
Mr. Smalley is still talking, but I only hear the very end of what he’s saying. “Very philanthropic, indeed.” He shakes my hand and goes back into the school.
Before I know it, I find myself standing next to Abiola.
“Want to play soccer with us?” I ask her. Honestly, I’m not myself these days. Or maybe it’s the polar bear hat. I really like polar bears.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“You won’t let me.”
Somebody signals me to join in the game. I tell myself, Be the better man, Sandro. I nod my head to Abiola. “Go on. Take my spot.”
I can actually feel a tremor of disbelief rock the grass. My rule is: We do not allow girls to play. Never have. Never will.
Until today.
Rafe yells out, “Whaddya doing, Sandro?”
I almost yell, “Things are not as they appear!” Instead, I yell, “She can have my spot!”
Rafe stalks off the field as Abiola pulls off her polar bear hat and sprints onto the field.
Miguel passes the ball to Abiola. “Come on, Sandro.”
So I take Rafe’s place. Abiola blows by me with some fancy footwork. What’s that noise? She’s humming. A humming soccer player? Impossible. I’m already out of breath as I race to catch up and prevent the goal. Recess is over before anyone scores.
Miguel sidles up beside me as we walk in. “She’s good.”
“Yah, she is.” And the truth is, she’s better than Rafe and maybe even better than me.
•
I hurry home with Miguel and Marta since my recycling duty is officially over. Thanksgiving is three days away. I’m not looking forward to four days off school in the company of Franklin and my four walls, just waiting for Mamá and Girasol to return. As we walk, the tree branches clatter in the wind and random snowflakes flutter about. I really need to find my hat.
Once home, I open the big manila envelope that Mr. Smalley gave to me at the end of the school day. That’s what those brown important envelopes are called. Not vanilla. Not salmonella. Manila. I read the certificate signed by Mr. Smalley, and I’m about to throw away the big envelope when something else falls out to the floor. It’s a check from Lincoln School. Does it say $1,000? I pick it up and look more closely. No, silly Sandro. Things are not as they appear. PAY TO THE ORDER OF SANDRO ZAPOTE, $10.00.
While I’m in my room, I make a list of everything I can buy for ten dollars. And just so you know, I’m not saving one penny of it. So there. The list isn’t very long because ten dollars isn’t very much. Then I remember about the three books for my missing response homework and get started. The only time I leave my room that night is to grab dinner, use the bathroom, and answer the phone. It’s my dad.
“Is the homework completed? Did Mamá call? What did you eat? Are you in your room?”
It’s the inquisition. And I deserve it. I tell my dad about the certificate.
“Good. That’s good.”
“And Miss Hamilton is going to have my conference next week.” That’s not a lie, is it, even though she didn’t totally agree to push it back?
“What conference?”
“The usual parent-teacher conference. Mamá will be home then, right?”
“Sí. That’s good. Mamá will go.”
“Also, Papi, there’s a thing they started for Girasol. It’s on the table.”
“Mande.”
“It’s hard to explain.” I pull out my ace card. “Mamá will be happy, though.” This makes him calm down.
My dad must have warned Mrs. Arona that I am grounded because she comes over with her tablet and a magazine. I feel sad she’ll miss her TV novellas on account of me being in trouble (my dad removed the TV and locked it in his bedroom). Then I have an idea.
“Mrs. Arona?”
“Sí, Sandro.”
“I need an Internet connection for one little bit of homework. Do you think I could use your tablet?”
“Your dad tell me no games. No TV.” She shakes her finger at me.
“No, no. This is homework. Ten minutes maybe.”
Boy, I wish I had a tablet. They’re so fast. The website Mrs. Kahn wrote down jumps onto the screen. I type in Girasol’s name, and up pops her school picture with a paragraph about her disease. I notice that more than three hundred people have visited the site and that the goal for the money is half met. Whatever that means. I scroll up and down to find out. Whoa! The goal is set at $7,500. The bar is filled in up to $3,450. Does that mean what I think it means? This is amazing. I start reading some of the comments people have left:
My daughter was the same age as your daughter when she had the surgery. Today she is ten years old and healthy. Good luck. Anonymous
Girasol is in my son’s class. We are praying for you. Anonymous
We hope this small donation will help your family. We are blessed to be a part of a community that cares about each other. Anonymous
I feel Mrs. Arona standing behind me. I quickly click out and jot down the information on the letter from Mrs. Kahn. I carefully cut off the top part that says TAICO, hoping my dad doesn’t notice the little jagged part on the right edge. I fold it up and write DAD on the front, and then to be funny I write, TO MR. LISANDRO ZAPOTE FROM MR. SANDRO ZAPOTE. I crack myself up.
I’m drifting off to sleep when I decide to spend my ten dollars at Mr. Chin’s Antique and Resale Shop. He’s got lots of cool stuff at good prices. I will buy the first thing that catches my eye. I deserve a reward. And if there’s any money left, I’ll buy something for Girasol, too.
•
Thanksgiving is strange without my mom and Girasol. We go to my uncle’s for dinner. My cousins are all little, so once I’m done playing horsie and tickle-tackle and hide-and-seek, I’m exhausted and escape to the back porch. I can see my breath, and it makes me think of Christmas. I don’t even care about presents, though. Just to have my family home will be good enough. I watch my aunt and uncle bustling around the kitchen through the window while my dad leans on the counter. I bet he feels strange, too, being at my mom’s brother’s house without my mom.
In my pocket is my new gadget from Mr. Chin’s. I’m still officially grounded, but while my dad did the grocery shopping, he let me go spend my ten dollars. He didn’t say much about my certificate because he was stewing about the online donation website. I did my best to explain about one and eleven, but he said my math was wrong.
“One and one equals two. That’s you and me. This is not somebody else’s problem,” he said. But he folded the paper up and put it in his pocket. In the break room at work, they have a computer with Wi-Fi. He’ll check. I know he will. Then he can tell Mamá, and she will cry and be so happy.
I click open my new gadget. I love the way it shoots out of its case. When you shop at Mr. Chin’s, you have to keep your money in your hand so he knows you’re a paying customer. I made sure to flash my ten dollars when I asked him to show me the stuff in the case behind the counter. The minute he opened the glass door, it was the first thing I saw.
The slick pearly white handle has a shiny silver click button right in the middle. There’s a stripe of turquoise around the top and the bottom. My grandpa has a shiny silver belt buckle that has the same pearly white in an oval with a turquoise stripe around it. In the middle of the oval on his belt is a silver longhorn steer.
Of course, I know his is made of real pearl or bone or something and mine is plastic. But what do you expect for less than ten dollars? The point is, when Mr. Chin opened the case and I saw something that reminded me of my grandpa, I knew I was meant to buy it. And I had enough left over for a puppy puzzle for Girasol. I tried to make sure all the pieces of the puzzle were in the box, but Mr. Chin said, “First you pay, then you play.” Funny guy, huh?
Click. Click. Now you see it. Now you don’t. I’m bringing it to school Monday for the shock and awe effect. Miguel will love it, don’t you think?
CHAPTER 13
Visualize It, and It Will Be
My dad and I drive to the airport. Butterflies collide in my stomach. We wait at the end of a long hall. Some people have signs with names on them. Too bad I didn’t think of that. I still have poster board left from my recycling campaign. I could write ZAPOTE in big capital letters and stretch the Z out like the Z in Zorro. No, maybe I could write GIRASOL and use the stick of the L for the stem of a sunflower. Did I ever tell you that Girasol means sunflower? I think I forgot to mention that.
And while I’m making signs in my mind, I see a little pink suitcase rolling along behind my very own sunflower sister. Girasol! I wave frantically and embarrassingly to get her attention just in case she’s forgotten what her famous big brother looks like. She smiles and stops to wave back at me and almost causes a traffic jam. The second she and Mamá pass the security officer at the end of the ramp, my dad takes off and scoops up Girasol.
Then Mamá grabs me and squeezes so tight I almost suffocate. When my dad puts Girasol down, I start to hug her, but then I’m afraid. She’s a shadow of herself. Thin and weak.
“Look, Sandro,” she says and opens her mouth. “I lost a tooth.”
She looks adorable with that little gap in her mouth.
“Did the tooth fairy come?” I ask her.
She places a tiny bag in my hand. “No, I saved it for you. You can put it under your pillow. Mamá says you worked very hard to help me.”
My mom and dad are both watching me and Girasol. I know it’s silly, but there’s so much love right here, right now, it feels warm all around us.
•
Girasol falls asleep on the way home but perks up when she sees Franklin resting comfortably next to her bed in his nice clean box. I learned my lesson about vacuum cleaners and dumped the old wood chips in the garbage this time.
After dinner, Mamá puts Girasol to bed, and then the three of us sit in the living room listening to her tell stories about the surgery and my abuelos. We’re all tired, and my dad’s chin starts to dip to his chest just as Girasol screams. We all rush down the hall.
“You took it, Sandro. Give it back. Give it back now!” Her fists are clenched, and her face is pinched together.
Nobody else knows what she’s talking about, but I do. I think I might have forgotten to mention to you that I borrowed her TV. Oh, don’t lecture me. You would have done the same thing if you were all alone and grounded. When I come back into her room carrying her TV, my mom pats Girasol’s hand and shushes her. My dad stares at me, shaking his head, disbelieving the depths to which I’ve sunk. Oh boy. More trouble.
I look at the clock on my bedside table. Ten o’clock. Sunday night. I can’t get to sleep. I have a big day tomorrow. Girasol and I are restoring Franklin to his original habitat. I just don’t know how we should do it. Sneak him in hidden in a backpack? Lie and say we found him by the side of the road? Be honest and claim we had a mental breakdown and thought he was our long lost relative? Visualize it, and it will be.
I’m thinking about the way the day went. My heart is riding a skateboard on a half-pipe—up, then down, then up again. It’s great to have my sister and Mamá home, but Girasol sure gets a lot of attention. And she’s still not back to normal. Mamá isn’t, either. I guess my dad and I got used to being on our own. No more piling our plates in the sink. No more dumping our stuff by the back door. No more eating in front of the TV. And it’s only been one day.
The door opens. Mamá pokes her head in.
“Sleeping?”
“No.”
She comes in and sits on the edge of my bed. Cheese Whiz, it’s been a long time. She ruffles my hair.
“Thank you, Sandro, for taking care of Papi. I know it was hard for you.”
“It’s okay.”
“What happened at school, Mijito?”
“I didn’t get along with one of the girl
s, that’s all.”
“What happened?”
I tell my mom a few of the details. A very few. Moms don’t need to know everything.
She thinks for a while then says, “Why did she do those mean things to you?”
“I don’t know. She wants attention, I guess.”
“Maybe she’s jealous of you.”
“Me?”
“I would be jealous of you.”
I laugh. And then I feel a little better.
“And this is the girl whose mother started the donations for Girasol?”
“Yes.” Even my mom wants to rub it in that I might have been wrong about Abiola and her family. I want to say, “Things are not as they appear,” but she won’t get it. She’s never seen The Avengers. I also want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t.
It’s uncomfortably quiet. Finally my mom says, “People have many faces, Sandro. Even our enemies. Sometimes the face of your enemy hides the heart of a friend.”
This is something I imagine the Avengers might say, too. It makes sense. It’s like “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Of course, not all enemies have friendly hearts. I start thinking about all the bad guys I’ve seen in movies. Jabba the Hutt? No heart there. The Joker? Ruthless. Darth Vader? His heart didn’t come out until just before he died. Hmmm.
“Sandro? Are you listening? Tomorrow I have your parent-teacher conference. I hope Papi can come for translating this big misunderstanding with your teacher. I want her to know it’s not all your fault.”
I’m alert now. I definitely don’t want my dad to go. And the last thing a guy needs is his mom fighting his battles. “No, Mamá, don’t do that. It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”
“And the principal?”
“I’m telling you. It’s okay now.”
“Well, I’m going to the office anyway to thank everyone and also to thank this girl’s mother.”
“It’s confidential, Mamá. Anonymous. She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“We can still thank her. This was a great thing she did for us.”
