by Bibi Belford
She walks to the door. “Go to sleep, Mijo. Tomorrow you will be a better man.”
After she leaves, I think of a thousand things I should have said. A good dog deserves a bone. I’m already a better man. I can carry my own luggage. One and one equals eleven. Nothing is as it appears. Visualize it, and it might be. But my last thought before I fall asleep is, Worry about yourself, Sandro.
•
Franklin is content in Girasol’s pink backpack as we head to the office. I’ve taken a vow to tell the truth from now on, starting today. Really. I have. We march right up to the office counter, and Mrs. Lopez beams at me.
“What a pleasant surprise, Sandro. Is this your sister?”
I introduce Girasol, who acts shy all of a sudden. I coach her. “Girasol, tell them what happened.” By this time, all the office ladies are up at the counter.
Girasol just looks at me. Unbelievable. I try again. “Tell them about Franklin.”
Girasol shakes her head. Do you have a little sister? I’m not taking the blame for this. She better fess up and right now. Thank goodness Mrs. Lopez comes around the counter and bends down next to Girasol.
“Oooh. I love pink, too. Look at your cute shoes. Did you get those shoes on your trip?”
Girasol nods. I didn’t even notice she got new shoes. I store this information away for future parent negotiations next time I want new shoes.
“Are you going to visit your class today? They sure missed you.”
“She’s going to visit today and then start again after winter break,” I explain. I’m very knowledgeable on this subject, since I overheard my mom and dad arguing about it. If Girasol stays home, my mom can’t work. If my mom can’t work, they can’t pay the bills. But if Girasol goes to school all day, she’ll get too tired. If she gets too tired, she won’t get better. Round and round.
Girasol pipes up, “I get tired.”
“Oh, my. So do we. Can we all come and rest at your house?”
Girasol smiles. She opens her backpack. Franklin pokes his head out.
Mrs. Lopez jumps back a bit then recovers and acts all excited. “You found Franklin. Look everybody—Franklin’s back.”
I start to open my mouth to explain everything. I’ve taken a truth vow, remember? And I’m prepared to say I’m sorry. But Mrs. Lopez puts her finger to her lips and shakes her head. She gently pulls Franklin out of Girasol’s backpack and walks off.
“You both better get to class. The bell is going to ring,” the nurse says as she walks past us and out the office door. “Oh, and Girasol, welcome back.”
I grab Girasol’s hand and steer her out of the office.
•
During the morning announcements, Mr. Smalley says, “I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving. Today is an exciting day. Two of our friends are back at Lincoln Elementary. Welcome back Girasol Zapote. Kindergarten missed you. And our reptilian friend, Franklin, has come out of a short hibernation. Be sure to stop by and say hello. Lunch today is chicken nuggets or chef’s salad. Mr. Wesley’s fifth grade class is on recycling duty this week. We will have indoor recess due to inclement weather. Have a great day.”
Miguel turns toward me, but I ignore him, not sure I can keep a straight face. See what happens when you carry your own luggage? Sometimes somebody comes along and carries it for you. I should make a little something for my office friends. Maybe my mom will help me.
When Miss Hamilton starts with our reading groups, I wander over to the pencil sharpener. But along the way, I pull my new gadget out of my pocket and show it off to a couple of my friends. In a short minute, there are a few of us at the pencil sharpener, but we’re not sharpening pencils.
“Sandro, sit down,” Miss Hamilton says above our giggles.
I sit. But a few minutes later, Jaylen asks me to show him my new gadget, and I oblige. We line up for art, and on the way, Lorenzo asks if he can see it. I knew this would be a big hit. It pops open like those umbrellas with a button, but it’s small enough to fit in my pocket. We’re still messing around when Mrs. Abernathy asks us to quiet down.
“I’m so excited to announce that for the first time one of our students has been chosen to represent the American Heart Association’s postage stamp.” She unrolls a poster and sticks it to the board with magnets. It’s a giant-sized poster of a postage stamp with the words AMERICAN HEART ASSOCIATION down the side. The picture is of a heart with all the parts detailed and little speech bubbles.
Wait a minute.
That’s my drawing.
My calendar page.
What in the world is happening?
Mrs. Abernathy continues. “Come on up, Sandro.”
I’m dazed. Where did the American Heart Association get my drawing?
Mrs. Abernathy hands me a big envelope. It’s the same size as the manila ones, but it’s white. Then she hands me a certificate already in a frame. One of the real stamps is stuck to the middle, and it’s dedicated to me. Cheese Whiz, this is cool.
“Congratulations, Sandro.” She claps and so does everybody else. I see Mr. Smalley and my mom at the back of the room. Did they tell my mom about this award ceremony when she came for her parent-teacher conference? Is my mom crying? Holy guacamole. Don’t cry, Mom.
“Open the envelope, Sandro,” says Mrs. Abernathy.
I put the plaque on the ledge of the white board and tear open the flap. I pull out a letter and start to read it silently. The kids are getting a little antsy. I hand it to Mrs. Abernathy. “You can read it.”
Mrs. Abernathy reads part of the letter out loud, then summarizes. “The American Heart Association is donating some of the proceeds from the sale of the stamp to Girasol Zapote’s medical treatment and also to further research on the prevention and treatment of Kawasaki disease. And Lincoln Elementary School will be on the news!” She claps again.
Okay, so I’m pretty excited. It’s great for Mrs. Abernathy and Lincoln Elementary. It’s great for Girasol and my mom and dad. It’s great for all the kids who will benefit from the research. But is it great for me? The artist? The one who worked hard on the calendar page so I could win the money? I see my new bike floating on a fluffy cloud, and then—poof—it just vaporizes into thin air. I mean, what do I get? A plaque. Whippy-skippy. But I know that’s not grown-up thinking. Okay, you say it first. Now, let’s say it together. Be the better man, Sandro.
After class, Mrs. Abernathy tells me that when the school board didn’t select my page for the calendar, she decided to submit it for the American Heart Association contest. Wow, Mrs. Abernathy is a great teacher, isn’t she? And I’ve got to give it to Miss Hamilton for actually giving my page to Mrs. Abernathy. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.
I swagger out to join my class and crash right into my dad. He’s holding his hat in his hands, which are black with tar.
“I missed the ceremony. Congratulations, my son.”
I stick out my hand, but he grabs me and hugs me. He whispers in my ear, “We’re very proud of you, Sandro.”
Then he rubs his dirty hand across his eyes and jams his hat back on his head.
“I love you, Papi!” I shout after him, not even caring that my whole class hears me.
•
Back in class, I keep thinking about winning the stamp contest, and I decide it’s cooler than the calendar. People all over the United States will buy the stamp. My name is really, really tiny, but it’s there. The calendar pages that Miguel and Abiola designed will be no good next year, but the stamp will be a collector’s item forever.
And Mrs. Abernathy said thousands of dollars will be donated to the American Heart Association. Thousands, she said. Two hundred dollars is measly compared to that. I’m sure if I work at it, I can find odd jobs around the neighborhood and save up enough for a new bike by spring.
Miss Hamilton calls up the next reading group, and as Abiola walks by my desk, I see her tilt her head down to sneak a peek at what I’m clicking open and shut.
“I’ll
show you at recess,” I whisper.
“Congratulations on the stamp. It is very cool,” she says.
I finish my spelling practice just as Rafe, the messenger for the week, comes by to collect it. We’re not really on speaking terms after the Abiola incident, so I’m not surprised when he bumps the pencil off my desk as he grabs my paper. He delivers the papers to Miss Hamilton.
I’m minding my own business, clicking my new gadget, when I hear Miss Hamilton demand, “Sandro. What do you have?”
I quickly jam it in my desk and hold up my hands. “Nothing.”
Abiola has that I-swallowed-a-bird look on her face. Well, I’ll be. She tattled on me again.
“Sandro. Did you hear me? Will you please come here?” She motions to me with her index finger. I slowly extricate myself from my desk and walk to the back table. Miss Hamilton holds out her hand. “What do you have?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Nothing.”
“Let’s see what nothing looks like, shall we?”
“But Miss Ham . . .” Back me up here. You know I have nothing in my pocket, right? It’s in my desk.
She shushes me with her hand. “Did I ask you to talk? Sandro, can’t you see that I am trying to teach a reading group? Can’t you also see that you are interrupting us? And do you realize that you are wasting our learning time because you are refusing to follow directions?”
The five students at the reading table look pleased as punch to be interrupted, and Abiola’s eyes are big as soccer balls. I’m torn. Hold my ground or surrender?
“Sandro? Did you hear me?” Miss Hamilton looks toward the front of the room. “Rafe, did you see Sandro put something in his pocket?”
Rafe? Maybe he saw it when he knocked my pencil off. I knew he was mad at me. While Rafe is squirming, Abiola is waving her arm wildly in the air.
“Abiola, put your hand down,” says Miss Hamilton. What else was Abiola going to tell her? That it’s not in my pocket but in my desk?
I’m beginning to get upset. First of all, I thought Abiola and I were off to a new start. Second, she has no idea what my new gadget even is. And third, it’s none of her business. Anyway, I hear somebody snort a laugh, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Miguel kick the chair in front of him. Rafe’s chair. Yah, I think. Don’t laugh at a man when he’s down.
Miss Hamilton changes tactics. She stands up and puts her hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “Let’s not make this a big deal, shall we? You have a choice, don’t you? Do you want to give it to me? Or go see Mr. Smalley?”
“I won’t use it anymore. It’s nothing, honest.”
“Then why won’t you give it to me?” Everyone in the class is turned toward the showdown. Miss Hamilton speaks to me slowly and clearly as if I’m deaf or three years old. “Do you know that if you just give me what is in your pocket, you will not be in as much trouble?”
I’m getting steamed. It’s only November, and so far she’s taken my super ball, my trick hand buzzer, loads of candy, a finger skateboard, and, of course, my calendar page.
“Where did you get it, Sandro?”
“The store.”
“What store?”
“The store on the corner, Mr. Chin’s.”
“And why did you buy it?”
“I thought it was cool.”
“Do you know how disappointed your parents will be when Mr. Smalley calls them?”
Yes, I did forget about that. My mom’s face, so proud of me this morning, and my dad, taking time off work to come see me. But it’s the principle of the thing. Kids have rights, don’t they? And the pride of the thing. My pride just won’t let me use my good judgment. And to be brutally honest, it’s about the power to control my own destiny. I mean, it’s just a silly gadget, but it’s mine. Think about all I’ve lost in the past month. Bike. Soccer tournament. Recycling money. And almost my sister.
Before you can say jack-in-the-box, my temper takes over. I can’t control it. It’s a fireball in my chest. This is the last straw. I’m tired of losing. I hear the words exploding from my mouth. “Why don’t you just—”
But something stops me. I’m about to say, “—leave me alone, you fat cow.” Actually three things stop me.
Abiola stops me. She’s shaking her head and giving me the unmistakable sign that means stop while you’re ahead. Maybe I confused her I-swallowed-a-bird look with her I-will-run-interference-for-you look.
The thought of my mom stops me. Didn’t she just tell me the face of your enemy hides the heart of a friend? Miss Hamilton played a big part in my soon-to-be-famous stamp.
I stop myself. Think about how hurt Miss Hamilton would be if I turned around and started name-calling. I’m the new and improved Sandro, now. Sandro the better man.
“Just a minute. I’ll get it.” I sheepishly slink back to my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abiola whisper to Miss Hamilton. What is Abiola doing?
I put my new gadget with its slick bone handle and its silver button on the table. I’m afraid it will be the last time I see it. It’s a little greasy from using it. Miss Hamilton picks it up with two fingers and slides it into an envelope. It leaves a little streaked mark on the table. Then she writes out a note.
My heart sinks. I know we’re not allowed to bring toys and such to school, but she’s never written me a note before. And how is this less trouble than it would have been if I’d refused to hand it over? Here it is, only November, and I’m on a slippery slope. It’s going to be a long, long, long year.
I look around. It’s as though I’ve cast a spell on the whole class. Like in Sleeping Beauty when even the flies stop buzzing. I’m sure you could hear the eyelash of a gnat fall to the ground.
Miss Hamilton hands me the envelope and the note. “Take this to Mr. Smalley.”
I walk out into the hall. This is the story of my life. My office friends are curious when I first walk in, but when they see the note, their faces look dismayed like they can’t believe I messed up again. I think Mrs. Lopez even feels sorry for me. And I feel sorry for myself. Like I’ve let them down, just when they trusted me to turn over a new leaf.
I want to tell them it’s still me. Just a little mistake. Actually another little mistake, but don’t focus on that. Focus on the real me—the new Sandro.
Me, winner of the American Heart Association stamp. Me, philanthropist aluminum can recycler. Me, the master of paper clipping and errand running.
Mrs. Lopez points me to Mr. Smalley’s door, and I knock. I hear him say, “Come in.” He motions me to my usual chair. It’s a very uncomfortable chair. My feet don’t reach the floor, and my back can’t slouch without the wooden slats pressing into me. He reads the note and gets a funny look on his face.
All because of Abiola and her tattletaling. See if I ever invite her to play soccer again. I guess my mom was wrong when she said sometimes the face of your enemy hides the heart of your friend. Bah. More likely that sometimes the face of your enemy hides the heart of a fiend.
Mr. Smalley takes the contraption out of the envelope and pushes the button on the bone handle. Click. The black serrated plastic edge pops out. He holds it in front of his eyes, and I can see the light between the teeth of the comb. He tries it a couple more times. I bet he wishes he had one. His hair could use it. Maybe I should tell him about Mr. Chin’s. Then he wipes his hands on a tissue.
“Sandro, Miss Hamilton says you can retrieve your toy when school is over. She’s concerned because Rafe thought you had a switchblade, and anything that looks like a weapon falls under our No Tolerance policy.”
“A switchblade?” My mind is reeling. Number one—I have never even seen a switchblade. I thought the bone handle was a clever way to store a comb. Number two—I would never bring a weapon to school no matter what.
And number three. I realize Rafe got me into trouble. Not Abiola. Rafe? My brain is putting two and two together. No wonder he knocked my pencil on the f
loor so he could see my gadget. But why did he tell Miss Hamilton I had a switchblade? And what does he know about switchblades, anyway? Why didn’t he just ask me what it was? He must still be mad at me or jealous. Maybe that’s it. I used to play soccer with him and stand in line with him and talk to him. Lately Miguel and me and Abiola are always together.
Mr. Smalley keeps talking. “Abiola told Miss Hamilton it was only a comb, but to be on the safe side, she wants me to hold on to it. She also says she’s very pleased with your new attitude and self-control.”
The ball of fire anger in my chest is now a little warm glow. My heart feels pretty big right now. So that’s why Abiola was waving her hand and whispering to Miss Hamilton. I move Abiola into my friend lineup in the number two spot right after Miguel. And to think that Miss Hamilton wrote those nice things about me. Well, let’s have a great year, Miss Hamilton, shall we? Rafe on the other hand . . . oh, who cares about Rafe? I shouldn’t hold it against him, should I? I mean, if he really thought it was a switchblade, holy guacamole. Be the better man, Sandro.
Mr. Smalley writes out a hall pass, and I start to leave his office when I see my office fans and their worried looks.
“Mr. Smalley, can I borrow my comb for just a minute?”
I show them how I comb my hair with my cool gadget. My dad’s hair gel is really getting a workout today. Then I hand it back to Mr. Smalley. Next time I have ten dollars lying around, I might get him one.
I’m zipping back to class when I round the corner by the staircase, and I remember my very first visit to Mr. Smalley’s office. I have an idea. I glance around and head up to the third floor. At the top of the landing, I take a minute to make a little paper airplane out of my hall pass. I wish it were bigger, but the paper is that smooth kind, so it’s easy to fold and has just the right weight to it.
I lean over the railing and launch my creation. It sails down and down and down, spiraling perfectly. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll be an aeronautical engineer when I grow up. I race down the stairs two at a time, and when I get to the bottom, guess who’s holding my airplane?
