Zack Delacruz

by Jeff Anderson

  “MON-EY! MON-EY!”

  “Well, we’re going to help her, right?” I said, looking at the chanting circle.

  Janie yelled, “Mon-ey. Mon-ey!” She stood on a chair and led the chant, raising her fist like she was some sort of protester on the news.

  Mrs. Darling went over and started flashing the lights on and off to calm us down.

  “Get DOWN, Janie!” I yelled.

  She hopped off the chair and sat.

  The chanting died down.

  “Tell her how you feel.” I looked up from my notes to the circle. I pointed to bullet number four and read: “Explain how worried you are and how the teen’s actions affect you.”

  “Yeah, I feel that I have been looking forward to going to this dance with Raymond since I was in sixth grade the first time,” Sophia said, stretching pink bubble gum in and out of her mouth. “And I already picked out some of Mom’s clothes to wear to the dance, and I look good.” She raised her eyebrows. She stood up and started to raise the roof with her arms, “So we gotta fix this, right?”

  “FIX IT! Right? FIX IT! Right?”

  Everyone started clapping and chanting louder and louder, and El Pollo Loco started dancing, shaking his booty to the left when he yelled, “FIX IT,” and to the right when he yelled, “Right?”

  “FIX IT!” Sophia shot her hips to the left.

  “Right?” Their hips flew to the right.

  “FIX IT! Right?”

  Janie stood up on a chair again and whistled through her fingers like a man at a boxing match.

  Nurse Patty shut her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

  The intervention needed an intervention.

  CHAPTER 18

  GETTING REAL

  I stood up on a chair. “BE QUI-I-I-ET!”

  The chanting stopped, the lights stopped flashing, and the circle sat.

  “Look,” I lowered my voice, “it’s for the dance.”

  Nurse Patty checked her watch like she had somewhere else to be.

  Mrs. Darling left her post at the light switch and joined the circle again.

  “Tell her how you feel.” I looked around at each face and stopped on Cliché.

  Cliché stood. “I have never been to a dance, and I feel I want to go with someone special.” She turned to Marquis and smiled.

  Marquis spun the metal wing nut on his crutches.

  “Tell her how it hurts you, dear,” Mrs. Darling said.

  “If we don’t have the dance, I’ll die. Janie, your eating too many chocolate bars hurts me by keeping me from going to the dance with …” She eyed Marquis, letting him complete her sentence.

  But he’d gone into shy mode, like his face computer had crashed.

  The intervention wasn’t happening the way the TOO MUCH website had said it would.

  El Pollo Loco took a deep breath, and for once he was surprisingly still. “Another time, I ate my little sister Esme’s entire birthday cake.” José stared forward. “And I blamed it on my dog, Donna.” El Pollo Loco wasn’t joking as usual. He was being honest.

  The circle nodded.

  A tear formed in his eye. Seriously.

  “Then, Mom took Donna to Brackenridge Park and left her there.” José swallowed. “I really miss that dog.”

  José dropped into his chair, staring at the center of the circle where a carpet square was peeling up.

  “I never told anyone that.” He bit his lip.

  The intervention circle clapped like they were at a golf game or church. They were finally being respectful.

  José wiped his eyes with the sides of his hands.

  Sophia brought him a tissue.

  “I used to eat handfuls of gummy vitamins,” Marquis rubbed his nose, “until Ma figured it out and told me she’d tan my hide if I did it again.”

  “Isn’t your hide already tan?” José blew his nose—HONK!

  “Sometimes I eat Bonne Bell Dr. Pepper lip gloss for breakfast on the bus,” Sophia admitted.

  Janie twisted her face as Sophia spoke.

  José tried to return the tissue, but Sophia shook her head no.

  Before I realized it, after only a few seconds of silence, I was the one spilling my guts. “Yesterday I ate a whole jar of Dollar-Store Pe-nutt Sandwich Spread.” I pushed my hands in my pocket.

  “Zack!” Janie leaned forward. “I think that has horse glue in it. I saw it on the Troubleshooters last night on the Channel 4 news.”

  I gazed back at her.

  No one said a word—not even El Pollo Loco.

  The silence.

  The calmness.

  It must have meant something to Janie.

  No yelling.

  No blaming.

  No bullying.

  “I ate the Nation’s Best chocolate bars,” Janie said, scratching her puffy cheek, “one at a time. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking, just one more, then I’ll stop.” She pulled her hair behind her ear. “Right after this one.”

  Each person in the circle nodded.

  “Then, one more couldn’t hurt.” Janie shrugged. “Then, you’ve already eaten a box, why stop now? I’m so sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to cause you all this trouble. Any of you.” She wiped a tear from her eye, unable to look at us.

  Mrs. Darling reached out her hand, “You poor dear. You know, once I ate an entire tray of cinnamon rolls sitting in my car in the Target parking lot.”

  “Some mornings”—Nurse Patty leaned into the circle—“I get into my car and get biscuits and gravy at the Whataburger drive-thru, even though I’ve already eaten breakfast at home with my husband. I eat them in my car before I come into the clinic.”

  “Once I found an old french fry between the seats of my dad’s SUV,” Cliché said. “And I ate it.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  All this talk about eating in cars got me thinking. The answer was right there in front of us. TOO MUCH was right. And in a weird way, Janie was right too when she talked about telling the truth in movies. Everything did work out when you were honest.

  We needed money.

  Everybody had cars.

  And we could take care of everything over the weekend.

  “I have an idea,” I mumbled.

  But everyone kept talking.

  I stood up on my chair and let it all out.

  “For real. I can save the dance!”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE PLAN

  Friday morning, in front of the lockers near the cafeteria, Marquis and I handed out fliers about the car wash. Dad had helped me make them on the Instant Lube copier. The flier had directions to the Instant Lube, site of the first-ever sixth-grade car wash this Saturday. Or as I called it: the this-better-work-or-I’m-a-piñata car wash.

  The night before, I’d asked Dad if we could have a fund-raiser for the dance at the Instant Lube. I mean it really was for the dance, so I didn’t lie by not explaining about the chocolate bar emergency.

  Dad said he’d be proud to help with our school fund-raiser. “I like giving back to the community. Just like you’re doing, Zack,” he’d beamed. He’d also added, “As long as I’m not in charge, because I have to run the shop.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, you won’t have to be in charge.” Sure, I didn’t explain absolutely everything. I didn’t mention that he was saving my piñata. I also didn’t tell him we didn’t have an adult to be in charge yet. Mrs. Darling and Nurse Patty both had said they had “previous engagements”—whatever that means. And both had said I needed adult supervision. I figured since only adults can drive, we’d have plenty of adults at a car wash. Besides, Dad was happy because I was so involved in helping out the school. Luckily, he didn’t ruin it by asking too many questions.

  And seriously, it was just a car wash. What could happen? I mean, it was a group of middle school kids, water, soap, and … cars.

  I gulped.

  Raymond strolled past us. Someday, I will walk that cool, I thought.

  “Hey, R-R-Raymond
,” I stuttered.

  “What, small fry?” Raymond stopped.

  I slowly lifted a flier toward him. “H-here’s a flier for the car wash on Saturday.”

  Raymond grabbed it.

  “Cool. Sophia already told me all about it. We’ll be there.” Then he strutted down the hall, folding the flier in half and sticking it in his back pocket.

  “Yeah, I figure he can wash and dry the car roofs,” I whispered to Marquis.

  Cliché walked up, “Hello, Marquis.”

  Marquis just stood there, looking at his bandaged foot.

  I kicked the bottom of his crutch. “Hand her the flier.”

  “I’m bringing the soap and a five-gallon pickle tub to mix soapy water in.” Cliché took a flier.

  I kicked his crutch again.

  “Good.”

  I kicked his crutch again.

  “Ouch,” Marquis winced.

  I glared at him.

  “Well, we’ll see you there then, Cliché.”

  After we handed out all the fliers, we told everybody to spread the word about the sixth-grade car wash, so kids could help or bring their parents to get their cars washed.

  Marquis, Mr. Numbers, volunteered to take care of the money, since he couldn’t get his bandage wet.

  In third period, Mrs. Harrington said she’d bring her minivan by to get it washed. I guessed she forgave us for the Punctuation Day disaster because Cliché had written an apology letter on Mrs. Harrington’s whiteboard. And, of course, it was persuasive and she used every punctuation mark to make sure Mrs. Harrington would know we meant it.

  Mrs. Darling gave us her extra-long garden hose and sprayer from home, so we’d have something to rinse off the cars with.

  Dad said we could use the Instant Lube’s faucet. He even offered to tell everyone who got an oil change to get their car washed while they waited for an open bay.

  Everybody helped.

  Except for El Pollo Loco.

  He said he wasn’t even sure if he’d come to the car wash.

  Seriously.

  Cliché told us she was spending the night at Sophia’s house. They promised to make posters to advertise the car wash.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. Without waking Dad, I snuck into the living room. Lying on the scratchy couch, I dialed Marquis’s number and grabbed the remote while the phone rang. Earlier on the bus he’d told me Ma had to work the night shift.

  I clicked on our new flat screen and channel surfed.

  Marquis picked up.

  “Hey, Marquis,” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “I am now,” Marquis said. “But before I went to sleep, I calculated how many cars we need to wash tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t finding anything interesting on TV. “Lay it on me,” I said.

  “We need to wash forty cars at five dollars each to make enough money to pay off the candy Janie ate.”

  I stopped on a channel with a bunch of teenagers on a camping trip in the woods. This had to be a horror movie. I set down the remote on my chest. The park ranger was watching the campers. I forgot to answer Marquis.

  “Do you think we’ll get forty cars, Zack?”

  I gasped when the ranger pulled out a big machete!

  “It’s not that many,” Marquis said.

  The park ranger crept up to the campers’ tents after they went inside.

  “Well, tomorrow’s the big day,” Marquis said.

  “Don’t go to sleep!” I yelled at the clueless campers on the flat screen.

  “I’m not, Zack. I’m right here.”

  I pushed my bare feet into the arm of the couch when the campers were saved by a hot dog commercial.

  “Zack?”

  “Yeah?” I looked up at the spinning ceiling fan.

  “Do you ever get nervous around girls?”

  “I get nervous around everybody.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Is this about you asking Cliché to the dance?” I flexed my toes. “You could ask her at the car wash tomorrow.”

  “It’s going to be tomorrow in two and a half minutes.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” I watched a commercial for a paycheck cashing store.

  “I don’t know,” Marquis sighed. “What if she says no?”

  The movie was back on. Now the girl who had gone to the bathroom was back looking for her friends.

  “Don’t do it.” My knees lifted to my chest.

  “You don’t think I should?”

  The girl on TV was walking toward the park ranger’s SUV, and you could see bloody smudges on the door handle.

  “Do you think Cliché would say yes?”

  The park ranger jumped out of the door. “NOOOOOOO!” I whisper-yelled.

  “Okay, Zack. Calm down. You really think she’ll say no?”

  I clicked off the TV and sat up. “No, I don’t. I mean yes. I mean I don’t know what I mean, Marquis.”

  “Well, I don’t know either.”

  “I only have ten percent battery left.” I stretched out and closed my eyes.

  “I only have ten percent brain left.”

  “Marquis?”

  “What?”

  “What if it rains tomorrow?”

  “Then it will clear up and people will have dirty cars that need to be washed.”

  I sat there silently and rested my eyes.

  “You worried?”

  “Just tell me it’s going to be okay, that everybody will actually show up.” I couldn’t open my eyes again.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  I drifted off.

  The next thing I knew Dad was waking me up.

  “Rise and shine, it’s the big day.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BIG DAY

  On Saturday morning, Dad and I rode to the Instant Lube together. He sipped coffee as he drove, and I guzzled a Texas Teacup full of Coke. I held it between my legs on the seat because it was too big for the cup holder. We’d stopped at Bill Miller’s on the way for egg and potato breakfast tacos—two workingmen.

  “I wish I could wear shorts to work.” Dad set his coffee in the cup holder.

  “Well, I wish I could get a paycheck.” I lightly socked his arm. “So we’re even.”

  We pulled into the empty Instant Lube parking lot.

  “It’s seven thirty on the dot, as promised, big man,” Dad said. Dad knew I had to be on time, because I’d told him that over and over while we were getting ready.

  Janie came out from behind the big brown Dumpster in the parking lot. She wore tan coveralls and had stuffed her hair into a black Spurs baseball cap with paint splattered on it.

  “I’ve got it from here, Dad.” I opened the creaky van door.

  “Hey, son”—Dad lifted his chin at me, like cool guys do to each other—“see you after work.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, rocking my head back in reply. “I got this.”

  “I know, Zack.”

  I shut the door and slung the wound-up green hose over my shoulder. I saw my reflection in the van window. I looked like a car-wash warrior. Dad waved. I waved back as he ground the van in gear and parked behind the shop.

  I walked across the black asphalt toward Janie.

  “I brought these masks from my dad’s paint jobs,” Janie said. She dropped a grocery sack full at my feet.

  “Thanks for being here early.” I set the Coke and hose on the pavement. “I hope Marquis gets here soon.” He was bringing a table, a chair, and the towels to dry off the cars.

  I rustled through the sack of white masks that would cover your nose and mouth, unsure how we could use them.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Janie looked around.

  “They’ll be here,” I said.

  I wondered if we could dry the cars with the paper masks.

  We walked to the curb of San Pedro Avenue and looked up and down. Not a car in sight.

  “I’ll be right back.” I went over to the side of the Instant Lub
e to hook up the hose. As I finished tightening it, an ancient black Lincoln pulled up. Marquis was hanging out the window, waving. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses. Marquis shoved open the Lincoln’s door with his good leg and hobbled over on one crutch, carrying an empty pencil box in his free hand.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “What happened to your other crutch?”

  “I’m so good, I only need one now.” He bobbed his head like a funky chicken. “But I need you to get my chair and table out of the backseat.”

  “Oh, yeah? Exactly how long are you going to milk this crutch thing, Chicken Head?” I walked over to the Lincoln.

  “As long as I can.” He looked through his sunglasses. “And it’s Mr. Rooster Head to you.”

  “Anything else, One Crutch Kid?”

  “Yep,” Marquis said. “Ma loaded up the trunk with a bunch of towels.”

  “I was joking,” I said, grabbing the folding table.

  “I’m on it,” Janie shouted and huffed toward the trunk. And no one even asked her to help. She just did.

  Ma didn’t have to get out of the car, which was a good thing because she always complained about working on her feet all day.

  Marquis selected a spot for the cash table and pointed to where I should unfold it.

  After that, he sat down and placed the pencil box just so on the card table. I watched him line up a calculator, a yellow pad, and a mechanical pencil. Once he thought everything was straight enough, he looked up.

  “It’s almost eight. Where is everybody, Boss?”

  “He’s talking to you, Zack,” Janie said, running her hands over the towels she had stacked in piles of five by the table.

  “They’ll be here.” A green truck was coming down the street, but it drove past as did the car after it. “You heard them.” My voice faded off.

  “Good luck, kids!” Dad yelled across the parking lot to us, cupping his hand.

  We smiled and waved back.

  I gave Dad a thumbs-up, and he gave one back.

  It was actually good we didn’t have any customers yet. We were still missing the soap, a bucket, and the signs that would tell customers why we were standing around in the Instant Lube parking lot.