Zack Delacruz

by Jeff Anderson

  I paced back and forth, wandered to the faucet, checked the hose connection, then walked back to Marquis’s table.

  “What time is it now?” I drummed my fingers on the card table.

  “Eight nineteen,” Marquis answered, checking his watch.

  A horn blasted as a light-gold Chevy van rolled up in the parking lot. I could see Sophia’s mom driving. Actually, I was pretty sure Ms. Segura’s eye makeup could have been seen from space.

  “Let’s get this wash on!” Ms. Segura hollered, blasting her horn again. Ms. Segura’s first name was airbrushed on the side: DORITA. The a in DORITA turned into fluffy, white crashing waves.

  Dad leaned out of the car bay, wiping his hands on a red rag, checking out the commotion. I waved him off. He nodded and disappeared into his shop.

  Our first adult had arrived.

  The passenger door of the van creaked open. Sophia emerged decked out in her red-and-black cheerleader uniform, with a pom-pom clutched in each hand. She even had those shiny metallic ribbons in her hair, reflecting light all over.

  “Ejole! Wow,” Janie said.

  Sophia cleared her throat. “Ready, okay?” She shook her black-and-red pom-poms and cheered: “Soap ’em up! Rinse ’em off! Way off!”

  “That’s way off for sure,” Janie said under her breath.

  “Go-o-o-o-O, Alamos!” Sophia landed on the pavement in the splits, both arms up, pom-poms shimmering in the morning sun.

  Marquis looked up from his calculator. “She’s got spirit. Yes, she do. She’s got spirit, how ’bout you?”

  Janie and I stared at Marquis.

  “What?” Marquis threw up his hands.

  The side door of the van creaked open. Cliché popped out with a bucket and soap, and Raymond followed.

  “Where are the customers?” Ms. Segura looked around, smacking her gum.

  “Would you like your van washed, ma’am?”

  “Oh, do I get to be the first customer?” She touched her hand to her leopard print top. “What an honor!”

  She looked around. “Where are the beautiful signs you and Chi Chi made, mija?”

  “I asked you not to call me that.” Cliché slammed her bucket down on the pavement.

  Without a word, Raymond leaned into the van and came out with the signs—he’s got that strong-silent-type thing down. Sophia read the sign in a cheer: “CAR WASH! Five Dollars! Help Davy Crockett Middle School Dance!” But this time she skipped the splits.

  The message was simple, that’s for sure. But it made the point. There was a gold glitter Alamo at the bottom that added sparkle. And to top it off, a puff of loose gold glitter fell off the Alamo every time the sign moved, giving it special effects.

  “If y’all want customers, you have to get these signs on the street, mija,” Ms. Segura said.

  “My hands are full already. I’ve got a pom in each one.” Sophia proved it by shaking each pom-pom.

  “I’m out.” Chi Chi, aka Cliché, kneeled and filled the empty five-gallon pickle tub with the hose and mixed in a squeeze of dishwashing soap.

  “I’ll hold the sign for you, mija. Give me a sec.”

  I began spraying off the side of Ms. Segura’s van.

  “Be careful, don’t spray my pretty seascape off, mijo. It’s airbrushed,” Ms. Segura announced proudly. “I got that done custom from a guy at the flea market!”

  “We’ll treat it right, ma’am,” I said.

  After we finished, I looked around for Ms. Segura so she could pay. I walked to the card table. “Marquis, have you seen Sophia’s mom?”

  Marquis pointed his crutch toward the street. On the curb, Ms. Segura waved the sign at the cars. Cars honked. Sophia twirled and cheered. Two cars’ tires squealed as they turned into the parking lot. Ms. Segura and Sophia jumped up and down like we’d just scored a touchdown. Our own car wash cheerleading team. It was official: we had a line.

  Big cars, little cars, trucks, SUVs came one after the other. We washed them in an assembly line. Cliché took the bottom halves, and Raymond and some of his football-player friends cleaned off the tops. José decided to show up. But why, I don’t know. He wasn’t washing cars. He was trying to dance the Worm on the wet pavement, and I rinsed the soap off the cars. Janie did whatever else was needed, but soon she became the official dryer.

  “I’m going to finish this car off like a bag of Doritos.” She wiped away, making tight little circles like a towel ninja.

  I had to face it. Janie worked harder than anyone else to fix this mess. I had to give her credit.

  Unexpectedly, at about nine o’clock, Chewy and some other sixth graders I didn’t really know showed up all at once to help. This car wash just might work, I thought to myself.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Chewy asked.

  “Use the one in the shop over there.”

  “Who’s in charge?” a guy in a black Spurs T-shirt asked.

  “That’d be me.” I straightened up. You could say I was owning it. I pointed over to Janie, who looked up from drying the bumper of a station wagon. “Janie, here’s your drying team. You’re in charge.”

  Janie saluted me. “Aye, aye, sir. We won’t let you down.”

  Her team quickly went through the mounds of towels Marquis’s grandma had brought.

  Janie really hustled. “Let’s see if we can beat our time from the last drying job. Two minutes. Go!” Then, Janie blew a whistle. Where’d she get a whistle?

  “I don’t know about that whistle, but she’s really killing it today,” Marquis said.

  Cars lined up and moved through our assembly line like a flowing river, and cash flooded the pencil box.

  Marquis fanned himself with a handful of bills, laughing in his cartoon villain deep laugh, “Bwah ha ha ha! Only one hundred fifteen dollars to go.”

  I even had to pull Sophia and her mom off sign duty for an extra set of hands.

  CHAPTER 21

  A CHANCE FOR CASH

  After a couple of hours of washing and drying cars, Mrs. Harrington’s white minivan drove up. She looked different with sunglasses on. The minivan was coated in a layer of dust so thick it looked like she’d just driven across a desert. “Wash me” was written in the dirt layers down the side panel.

  “Since this is a good cause,” she pulled a wallet from her flowery quilted purse, “I’ll pay you extra. How about fifteen dollars if you clean out the back of the van too?”

  Sweet!

  “With my three kids and teaching and grading essays, the last thing I have time for is cleaning my car.” She counted out fifteen dollars into my hand. “I’m so embarrassed.” She blushed. “It really is filthy.”

  “Cliché, you’re in charge of cleaning out the back of Mrs. Harrington’s minivan.”

  I wiped sweat from my forehead on the shoulder of my T-shirt.

  “We’ll make it as clean as a whistle,” Cliché said.

  Mrs. Harrington pressed a button on the minivan key to open the sliding door on the side. A grimy garbage avalanche slid to the asphalt: a half-eaten hamburger, a tennis shoe, a bunch of empty juice boxes, straws, a scratchy striped sweater, a basketful of dirty underwear, a folded-up diaper, and a ridiculous amount of Goldfish crackers.

  “This is a pigsty,” Cliché said, shaking her head.

  “Shhhh!” I tilted my head toward Mrs. Harrington.

  “Sometimes the truth hurts, Zack.”

  The aromas of the van began poisoning the air. José stopped dancing around and pinched his nose. “Aye, this reminds me of the compost heap my abuelito kept in his backyard.”

  “Okay, what if I give you twenty bucks?” Mrs. Harrington pulled out another five-dollar bill. “Will that do it?”

  Now this lady is speaking, Zack, I thought. We needed that money. I smiled at Cliché, lifting my eyebrow to my scalp.

  But Cliché wasn’t having any of it. “I’m sorry, Zack. It’s my break time.” Cliché turned and walked over to the Car Wash Cabana that Sophia had begun fixing up wit
h used wet towels.

  I didn’t know what to do. Everybody else had a job.

  Janie took off her hat, turned the bill of her cap to the back, and walked right up to Mrs. Harrington, circling her as she spoke.

  “Of all the car washes in all the world, she drives into mine. Inspired by Casablanca, nineteen forty-two, starring Mr. Humphrey Bogart.”

  As Janie placed her foot on the garbage pile, she slid back a bit. But somehow she managed to balance long enough to stick her head in the minivan.

  She popped her head back out. “This is my destiny.”

  “Thank you so much, kids.” Mrs. Harrington sighed. “I’m so impressed with your cooperation.” She shook all of our hands, even the soapy and wet ones—but not Janie’s. She was too busy slipping on one of the masks she’d brought. Then she yanked a pair of white rubber gloves from her coverall pocket. The gloves snapped as she pulled them over her hands. Janie looked like some kind of garbage surgeon about to operate on Mrs. Harrington’s messy minivan.

  “I need trash bags. Lots of trash bags. Stat!” Janie held both gloved hands up like a doctor entering the operating room.

  I borrowed a few industrial-sized trash bags from Dad.

  Janie plowed through the debris, ridding the van of all that was not bolted down. “This is even worse than my dad’s all-night poker parties.” Her muffled voice rang out from the van.

  “Hey, small fry, this is fun,” said Raymond, wiping down the minivan roof, coolly stepping out of the way as trash flew from every opening in Mrs. Harrington’s van. “Thanks for setting this up, so my girl Sophia can come to the dance with me.”

  “We only have sixty-five dollars to go,” Marquis announced from his table, tapping on the pencil box. “Bwa ha haha!”

  I giggled.

  But like Cliché always said, “Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.”

  And as quickly as the river of cars began, they slowed. First to a trickle, then a drip, then totally dry.

  “I’m bored,” Chewy Johnson said. He’d already used the Instant Lube bathroom more than the rest of us combined.

  “Yeah, this is boring, Zack,” another sixth grader said. “We’re leaving.”

  We were so close. But without cars, without a crew, we weren’t going to make that last bit of money. Everyone was slumped over and thirsty, dry towels were running low, and kids were calling their parents to pick them up. Even Sophia’s mother left to do some errands.

  I had to do something. But what?

  “Zack,” Marquis said, grimacing, “I think I’m going to call Ma in a few. My foot’s throbbing.”

  “Does she need her Lincoln washed?” I asked.

  “Zack!” Cliché screamed. José was spraying Cliché with the hose. Water splashed the side of her face and soaked her down to her little white socks.

  “I’m HOSE-A!” José held the hose above his head.

  I ran over and yanked the hose away from El Pollo Loco, but not before he sprayed me too.

  “You’re all wet!” El Pollo Loco laughed. “Get it?”

  Dripping, I dragged the hose across the cracked asphalt and dropped it by Marquis’s table.

  “Stop being a jerk, José!” Sophia handed Cliché a towel.

  Then I sat on the hose, on the sprayer, which dripped. It wasn’t comfortable or dry.

  “Calm down, I was just trying to have some fun.” José blinked rapidly.

  The way Raymond looked at José I thought he was going to put the fun in funeral. José’s.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud. The wind blew, and my soaked shirt felt like ice.

  “I can stay a little longer,” Marquis said.

  I nodded, the sprayer poking my rear. The weight of the dance stuck to me like my soaked T-shirt to my back.

  “Hey, esé,” Raymond looked down at a soaked and crumpled me, “we are going across the street to the Church’s Fried Chicken for a Coke.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I said with all the energy of a flat tire. Raymond and his eighth-grade friends swaggered off.

  Defeated, I stared off at the others laughing in the Car Wash Cabana. We had gotten so close. José danced around making a fool of himself, and everybody watched. Wait. I had the perfect job for him.

  “Hey, José!” I stood. “Come here.”

  “What for?” José asked, looking as if I planned to spray him with the hose.

  “I noticed you’ve really got some dance moves.”

  “Well, yeah, everybody knows that.” He chuckled, looking around.

  “Why don’t you work your magic with these signs?” I held them up.

  José grabbed one.

  “Hey, Sophia, José is going to join you on sign duty,” I said.

  “No way!” Sophia barked, hands on hips.

  “Come on, Sophia, the hose won’t even reach the street,” José reassured her.

  Moments later a bright beam of sunlight came from behind the clouds and shone a spotlight on Sophia and José, dancing and spinning the signs as if they alone could make the clouds disappear.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE BIG BAD TRUCK

  A black Chevy pickup truck crept into the Instant Lube parking lot, the loud muffler growling.

  Chewy walked up beside me, blowing his nose. “Uh-oh.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This is gonna be trouble.” Chewy dropped the tissue.

  “Why?”

  “That guy always drives around with his big high school punk friends picking on kids. One time they chased my brother and me, hurling eggs at us till we hid behind some big bushes.” Chewy shook his head. “They like torturing middle school kids.”

  The dark tinted window of the pickup truck lowered: three huge high school guys were lined up across the front seat. Heavy metal music blared from the open window.

  “I gotta go.” Chewy backed away.

  On his crutch, Marquis leaned his head down by the truck window. The driver turned down the music and said something. Marquis shrugged his shoulders and backed away. Nobody yelled. That was a good sign, right? But I couldn’t hear anything over the muffler.

  Then the driver motioned to the bed of the truck and laughed. Marquis walked over to it, and his face twisted up.

  “Bam!” one of the boys yelled.

  Marquis walked back to me with his head down.

  “This guy told me we have to wash his truck for free—or else,” Marquis said.

  “Or else what?”

  “He said if we don’t do what he says,” Marquis swallowed, “they’ll throw water balloons of pee they’ve been filling all week. They have enough to get everybody here. I saw them in the back of the truck. And it really smells.”

  “Water balloons full of what?” My forehead wrinkled.

  “Pee,” Marquis whispered. “And he asked me if I wanted something to happen to my good leg.”

  I was confused. Who threatens kids like that? Who tries to steal a free car wash from a fund-raiser?

  “I told him he had to talk to you because you’re in charge. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  The truck revved.

  “We’ll show you who’s in charge!” yelled a bearded guy, sticking his head out of the truck. The guys doubled over laughing, and the driver mashed down on the horn.

  Slowly, I stepped over to the honking truck. I can do this, I repeated each time my foot hit the wet asphalt. I can do this.

  “Hey, kid.” The driver took a toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at me, a string of slobber dangling from it. “You gonna wash my truck? I’ve been nice so far, but it seems like you’re forcing me to come back and make a big mess. Is that what you want?” The whole time this creep talked, he looked around like he was deciding which one of us he’d take out first.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “How fast do you think your little friends can run?” He jutted his chin at the car-wash crew. “Oh, no! My foot’s starting to slip off the brake,” he taunted.


  I sucked in a breath. I knew I had to tell him no, to stand up to him, to tell him to leave, but my voice stuck in my throat like I’d swallowed a jar of fake peanut butter—the plastic jar, the lid, all of it.

  I turned to Marquis.

  He shrugged from his chair.

  Sophia and José walked back from the curb to see what was going on.

  The truck engine revved again.

  Somebody had to end this. I took a step back. My heart thumped loudly in my ear. You be the change. You be the caboose.

  Pounding.

  Pounding.

  I pictured the balloons exploding all around us.

  Oh, man, stranger danger, stop drop and roll, give a hoot don’t pollute, take a bite out of crime, the more you know—every little save-the-day advice I’d ever heard flooded my brain till I drowned in worthless words.

  “We’re out of water,” I blurted, taking a step away from the truck.

  “What?” The driver sucked air in through his nose, revved his engine, and licked his chops like the big bad wolf or something.

  “And towels. We’re out of towels.” It might have been convincing, except my voice broke.

  “Just so you know, little man, you’re forcing us to get the pee balloons out of the back of the truck and nail all you losers.” The driver grinned. It seemed like this was the answer he was hoping for.

  This was my last chance. This was go time. I had to pull out every last thing I had in me—all the way down to my Nikes. I swallowed hard and planted my feet on the pavement. And then the words came.

  “Before you do, just so you know, that guy over there”—I pointed at Marquis—“he just memorized your license plate number.”

  “It’s true.” Marquis nodded. “I know my numbers.”

  “And see that girl over there?” I pointed at Janie. “She memorizes movie lines for fun.” Janie tapped the side of her head, nodding. “She’ll be able to quote, word for word, every threat you and your pals have made … to the police.”

  The guys in the truck glared at me, then Marquis, then at all the kids standing around watching.

  “And Sophia. She’s a cheerleader, and she knows how to get loud. She’ll make so much noise, help will arrive before the first balloon hits the ground.”