Zack Delacruz

by Jeff Anderson

  Then she tapped on a heap of order forms and two pens. “Make sure you record who takes how much. Students will return the money this Friday, and voilà, sixth grade goes to the dance. Does that sound like something you can handle?”

  How were we supposed to do all this in five days? That’s insane.

  “What if I say no?” I asked.

  “I am saying no,” José said, crossing his arms.

  “We’re all set then,” she said. “The first class will be here in ten minutes. I’ll check with you in a bit. Toodles!” Then, Mrs. Darling threw the Rapstar Energy Drink can over her shoulder, clanging it into the metal trash can in the corner. “Word to your mother!” She walked out the door without looking back.

  CHAPTER 5

  HAUNTED BY JOSÉ

  The library storage closet was haunted. Story is, the first year the school was open, a kid racked up a load of library fines he couldn’t pay. After mowing lawns all summer, he returned to school to pay off the fines. But they say he was never seen or heard from again. Except in the middle of the night, when moaning and the sound of books dropping to the ground can be heard.

  I wished I could disappear like that boy right now, but instead I was haunted by something much worse than death: José. The only dropping sounds I heard were the boxes of Nation’s Best chocolate falling over when José climbed on top of them.

  “Pick them up, Loser Delacruzer!”

  We were supposedly working on passing all the candy out, so we could be released from our chocolate bar prison.

  I was working.

  José was supposedly working.

  “I am the supervisor, Shrimps,” José said, atop the box wall, kicking his legs.

  I wish I could tell you how fun it was to be out of class, how José and I became the best of friends because, in the end, he pitched in and did his part. He saw the light and was no longer a bully and stopped picking on me. But then I’d be a liar in addition to a bigmouth.

  Being supervisor apparently meant El Pollo Loco made fun of people while I did all the work. Why couldn’t I be partnered with somebody like my boy, Marquis?

  By the time the third swarm of kids came in, looking at the lists Mrs. Darling gave me, I could see we had more cases than sixth graders left.

  “Chewy,” I said, “I can’t give you a box because you have a library fine. It says so right here.” I pointed at the highlighted line on the list.

  Chewy nodded.

  “How’d you lose a book?” I asked. “We’ve only been in school for a month.”

  “Well, I didn’t lose it exactly.” He shuffled his feet. “I kind of dropped it in the toilet.”

  “Hey, man, if you don’t like a book, just return it. Don’t give it a swirly.” José hopped down from the boxes. “Can I have an amen?”

  Somebody needed to drop José’s jokes in a toilet. And hold them down. For a long, long time.

  “Amen,” said Chewy, his shuffling becoming the pee dance. “Is there a bathroom back here?”

  “Bathrooms are for paying customers only, sir. Let me escort you from the premises.” José shoved Chewy out of the storage closet door like a candy bouncer.

  “What have we here?” Mrs. Darling said, holding two trays from the cafeteria in her hands.

  “Uh.” José shrugged. “Just keeping out the riffraff, ma’am. I don’t know if you’re aware, but that boy has a library fine.” José dragged his finger across his neck like it was being sliced off. “Tsk! Tsk!”

  “Oh, I am aware of more than you know, José.” She winked at me and placed the trays on the table. “This will be a working lunch. The next class will be here in a bit. Keep up the good work, gentlemen.”

  I tried to call out to her, to let her know that we were going to have leftover boxes. I tried to explain that she never told me what to do with extra boxes. I wanted to tell her to take José far, far away. But my voice stuck in my throat like I had swallowed a whole packet of dry ramen noodles—all at once.

  “I’m bored,” José announced, sitting down next to me.

  For José, a working lunch meant blowing milk bubbles, peeling the breading off his fish squares, and throwing it in my hair when my back was turned. To top things off, he stomped on a ketchup packet, which squirted all over. I got a paper towel and wiped red ketchup off the boxes. It looked like blood spatter at a crime scene. As I cleaned, I thought about how this would not be what I’d be doing if Marquis were my partner.

  I met Marquis the second week of school. It was my first time taking the bus to Dad’s apartment. I had been at Mom’s the first week. I was feeling really scared. How was I supposed to stay stealthy if had to take one bus to Mom’s house for a week and then another to Dad’s apartment the next week? Kids would notice.

  Even though I didn’t want to switch buses, I had to.

  I was avoiding getting on the bus. Slowly, I climbed the black rubber covered stairs of Bus 81. Marquis noticed me right away. He got up and walked over to my seat.

  “You’re Zack from English, right?” He sat.

  “Um, yeah, I guess,” I said.

  “Well, I guess I’m Marquis then.” He showed his white teeth. He was funny. That was the first thing I liked about him.

  “Did you move?” Marquis asked. He was also nosey. That was the first thing I didn’t like about him.

  “No,” I said. He was a real Cam Jansen, shooting questions at me like I was a mystery to be solved.

  “Well, then why are you on this bus?” he asked.

  “I’m visiting a sick friend,” I shot back.

  “Who?” he asked.

  I couldn’t think of an answer. This kid was good. Looking out the bus window I saw a McDonald’s. “McDonald.”

  “McDonald?” He squinted. This kid was a dog with a bone. He wasn’t letting go. “McDonald who?”

  “Oh, you don’t know him,” I said.

  “I might,” Marquis said, “I’ve lived on this same bus route for five years.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I said. “Talking about my sick friend upsets me.”

  Luckily, before I knew it, I had stalled long enough. We reached my stop, and I jumped up and said, “I gotta go.”

  The next day on the bus, he asked how my friend was. What was I supposed to do? This kid was going to keep on me for the rest of the year, so I said the only thing I could say to end the questions.

  “He died.”

  “Oh,” Marquis said. “My sympathies.”

  Marquis never accused me of lying that day or the next, even though I supposed he knew. He’d given me a pass, and my lie floated away like a loose plastic bag on the side of Highway 281. And it was replaced by friendship.

  I stood up and threw away the ketchup-soaked paper towel when my daydream ended suddenly. The metal doors of the storage closet flung open and hit the wall so hard, they bounced closed again.

  From behind the door, I heard a muffled voice. “I want three boxes!”

  Janie opened the doors, a little less like Godzilla this time, and walked into the closet like she owned it.

  “Hey, Janie, tell me the truth,” José asked with a concerned look in his eyes, “when you get a cut, does gravy come out?”

  I scowled at José.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he teased, flipping up the collar of his polo. “I forgot she’s your lay-day.”

  I handed three boxes to her, and she hugged them under one arm.

  Janie moved toward the door, then turned and held up her fist.

  “Wait for it …,” José said, eyebrows up.

  “As God is my witness, I shall nevah be hungry again!” And then she was gone with the chocolate bars.

  She stuck her head in just long enough to bring down the curtain. “Gone with the Wind, nineteen thirty-nine, starring Ms. Vivien Leigh and Mr. Clark Gable.”

  A fish square exploded on the door as it shut.

  CHAPTER 6

  ESCAPE FROM CHOCOLATRAZ

  By the end of t
he day, six boxes were left. All that stood between the sixth grade getting into the dance were six boxes of Nation’s Best chocolate bars.

  “I figure that leaves three boxes for each of us, José.”

  “I’m not taking any boxes.” José pushed his shoulders back. “I’m management. Call me Mr. Soto. You work for me, Shrimps.” He thumped his finger on my chest. “Figure it out. Or else.”

  The bell blasted.

  Boxless, José bolted out the door, scurrying like a rat escaping a sinking ship. Grabbing one box, I fled my candy prison before the bell finished.

  “I’ll lock up, gentlemen,” Mrs. Darling yelled as we flew past. Maybe she wouldn’t notice I didn’t pass out all the candy bars. My mind ran three steps ahead of me all the way to the bus. Who would take the extra boxes? How would I be able to keep working with José?

  When I got to Bus 81, I froze on the curb.

  Worry banged around in my head like a tennis shoe in the dryer. I wasn’t a salesman. I didn’t even talk to people unless I already knew them. Talking to people was so embarrassing. What could I do? Knock on all the apartment doors at the Villa De La Fountaine? What would happen when that scary guy with the skull tattoos opened his door? He’d probably feed me to his pit bull.

  There I was, standing at the bus loop trying to work up the courage to get on Bus 81. The whole candy-dance-Janie thing was giving me a headache. Speaking of headaches, Coach Ostraticki was walking toward me.

  The little curlicues on the end of his mustache grossed me out and put me in a trance at the same time. It was like he had a trained scorpion on his upper lip. The little scorpion on his face did a dance while he bounded toward me in a head-to-toe purple warm-up suit.

  “You.” The mustache curls moved as he talked. “Stop loitering.” How was I supposed to know what loitering even meant? I wasn’t in college last time I checked.

  After I slowly climbed the black steps of Bus 81, kids turned away from the aisle to face the window. They must’ve been afraid I’d beg them to take another box again like I’d done all day. I was about to tap Chewy Johnson on the shoulder to convince him to pay his library fine when Marquis yelled from the back of the bus.

  “Zack, over here.”

  I walked back toward my friend. I plopped my chocolate bar box on the green seat between us and sat.

  “What’s up, my man?” Marquis smiled. “How’s Candyland?”

  My voice stayed stuck in my dry-ramen-noodle throat.

  “Zack?”

  I took a breath. “There are still five boxes left, but nobody will take any more.” I turned to him. “It’s all on me.”

  “Well, I’d take more”—he tapped the box of Nation’s Best chocolate bars in his lap—“but I already know Ma will only let me sell them to the old folks at Shady Groves Rest Home, where she works.” Marquis lives with his grandma, but everyone calls her Ma. “She doesn’t let me go out and knock on strangers’ doors.” Marquis shook his head. “No sir.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck.

  “You’ll figure it out, my man.”

  I nodded.

  “You will!”

  Once I got off the bus, I stood on the curb and waved good-bye to Marquis. His head hung out of the window, smiling like he didn’t know my life had ended.

  Poor guy.

  He wouldn’t know what hit him when I was gone.

  Okay. I was being overly dramatic.

  I waited as a jacked-up Chevy drove by, rap music blaring, shiny chrome wheels blinding me as the sun hit them.

  I navigated the crumbling asphalt as I headed across the street to Dad’s new AD apartment. (AD was short for “after-divorce.” It was like BD, “before divorce.” My entire family life was forever separated by BD and AD.)

  After two months, I was still trying to get used to this place. I stood for a moment looking at the apartment sign:

  The Villa De La Fountaine Apartments, Fine French Living. Free Gas and Water, Move-in Special!

  Yeah, it sounded like it could be kind of nice.

  It wasn’t.

  The letters were fading and someone had put a gang tag over what used to be a picture of a fountain.

  I had the key to Dad’s AD apartment on a white string tied around my neck. “That way you won’t lose it,” Mom had said. Mom always got up in my business. Even on the weeks I didn’t live with her she told me what to do.

  The door creaked open. The living room and kitchen counter were stacked with boxes. Why can’t I get away from boxes?! Was AD Dad planning on staying? I opened the pantry door: trash bags, Fabulosa cleaner, and an open-for-business Roach Motel. No tortillas or peanut butter. Boxes, boxes, everywhere, and not a bite to eat.

  I walked around the counter to the living room. More boxes. No TV. Did I mention there wasn’t a TV?

  What were you supposed to do without a TV?

  Seriously.

  Dad only had the boxed set of the Godfather movies. I’d been watching that over and over on Dad’s laptop till Mom found out and put an end to it. Gee, you have one bad dream about getting chased down by an angry gangster …

  I wondered if I was on one of those extreme-survival shows, secretly being filmed. I spoke out to the empty AD living room, “Cut! I quit!” I made the time-out sign in the silence.

  But no camera crew, no friendly hosts, no bright lights came busting through the doors. I supposed this was just how my AD life was going to be—not even interesting enough for a reality TV show.

  I flopped down on the ratty brown couch that smelled like wet dog. Dad rented it with the apartment for an extra ten bucks a month. Personally, I thought they ought to be paying us for storage. Though it was better than sitting on a box.

  These days my whole life stank like that couch: living in two houses, taking two buses, standing up for Janie, being put in charge of the fund-raiser with El Pollo Loco, a bully and a goof-off. It was enough to make a man tired. I stretched out on the sorry excuse for a sofa and rested my eyes for a minute.

  Next thing I knew Dad’s keys jingled in the door. Then a blurry Dad towered over me.

  “How was school today?” he asked.

  “When are we getting a TV, Dad?” I changed the subject.

  “Hello to you too, Zack,” Dad said.

  I looked at the grease smudge on his gray coverall. It covered the C on his name patch, where it said Carlos in red letters over white.

  “You know, Zack, I am not sure if we should even get a TV.”

  My heart sank.

  Dad sat on the couch next to me and took off his shoes. He rubbed his beard, squinting his eyes. “Since the divorce, money is kind of tight.”

  It was like Raymond Montellongo had just punched me in the stomach. But this was Dad. First Mom made Dad move out. Then, I had to live with Dad every other week in a place that isn’t even fit for living. He had promised we’d get a TV.

  “I want to make some changes, Zack,” Dad said.

  He wouldn’t stop. He just kept going. Dads are supposed to give kids everything they need, like TVs and snacks. And for crying out loud, dads’ feet aren’t supposed to stink so much. I stood up, clamping my nose.

  “Why don’t you change your socks?” I said.

  “Very funny, Zack.” He reached over and patted the back of my leg. “I think we watch TV too much.”

  “Not lately. Not since we moved to the Villa De La Prison.”

  “Hey now, Zack.” He moved in for a side hug.

  “Dad, I want to make some changes too,” I squirmed out from under his arm and stomped toward the door. My voice shook. “The first one is no more changes.” And I slammed the door like an exclamation mark, telling Dad I was serious. Seriously mad.

  I went out to get some fresh air, like Mom used to do.

  I walked around the terraces—a fancy name for the railed, cracked-cement sidewalks outside the doors of the upstairs apartments. I searched for someplace to go. Anywhere but back inside.

  I stomped down the stai
rs.

  I wanted out.

  I walked to the street, and then I turned around. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.

  Finally, I slumped down next to the soda machine that hummed under the stairs. This is what I wanted—no more changing buses, no more changing houses and parents, and definitely no more soda machines that hum.

  The soda machine made a kicking noise and the hum got even louder. I wished it was loud enough to drown out all the thinking in my head. I banged the back of my head against the machine.

  I opened my eyes.

  Dad stared down at me.

  “Come inside, Zack.” Dad offered his hand to me. I grabbed it and he lifted me up.

  “Can I have a soda?” I asked.

  “Is that what you’re doing here?” Dad asked. “You know, Zack, you can’t just bang your head on it waiting for something to magically come out. It takes a buck.”

  I smiled.

  “Oh, what’s that?” Dad tickled my waist. “Somebody’s smiling.”

  “Cut it out.” I pushed his hand away.

  Dad reached in his pocket, took out his wallet, pulled out a dollar bill, and straightened it on his leg. “Pick what you want, Zack.”

  He handed me the dollar.

  “It’s all you.” He touched my shoulder.

  He got that right.

  CHAPTER 7

  NOTABLY FRIGHTENED

  The next morning, when I walked into Mrs. Harrington’s English class, Janie looked up and said in some accent, “Top of the morning to you, Zack.”

  I acted like I didn’t hear her and plopped down in my assigned seat. Ah! Something familiar, I thought.

  “Class, one of the most important skills you will learn in middle school is the power to persuade an audience to change their beliefs or actions.” Mrs. Harrington balanced on her stool and continued reading from her teacher’s edition script.

  “Miss, can I persuade you to give us a free day today?” El Pollo Loco put his hands together like he was praying.

  “To reach an audience successfully, you consider the current beliefs of that audience before you begin.”