The Midnight War of Mateo Martinez

by Robin Yardi

  Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  The bell rang, and me and Ashwin sprinted for the monkey bars over on the big playground. Okay, I thought, adjusting my deadline, maybe I’ll tell him by the last lunch bell. You have to run fast if you want to stake out the top of the monkey bars. The big playground looks like a huge wooden castle built up against the schoolyard fence. The monkey bars are way on the other end, poking out like a drawbridge. The slides and towers, the swings and hidden tunnels, all connect together, but that stuff is for the little kids.

  There are only a few things you can still do in the fourth grade that are really fun. It’s cool to play soccer, which I used to do every day, and handball, but that’s mostly for girls, and the swings, but those are for the third graders. So sitting on top of the monkey bars and keeping a lookout is pretty much the only thing that’s left.

  When me and Ashwin made it across the field, a couple of second graders had already started climbing up the slide, which isn’t allowed, but second graders are easy to ignore. I hopped up and grabbed the warm metal monkey bars and swung my feet through a gap. When I pushed myself up to the top, squiggling through the open metal square, I was still a little out of breath. This cool breeze blew up from down the hill, and I could see everything: the whole school, the golf course on the other side of the fence, and little snatches of downtown Santa Barbara. The golf course was pretty packed, and its grass looked all green and soft. There’s this little cart that drives around and sells drinks on hot days. Might even make golfing worth it.

  “I wonder if they sell root beer.”

  “Bet they do,” said Ashwin, kinda drooling. He heaved his backpack up from down below, and I caught it. He’s always got cool stuff in there to show me, stuff we maybe, definitely, shouldn’t have at school. I was hoping he’d brought a video game. Then a black-and-white soccer ball went whizzing past us—spish—and bounced off the chain-link fence between the school and the golf course. I tried to ignore it. I tried to ignore the whole field.

  Danny Vega, Gabe Romero, and Johnny Ramirez, who used to be my best friend, were kicking the soccer ball up the field with a bunch of other fourth-grade boys. I didn’t see Martin Ortega, but he usually played with those guys too. Last year, I played soccer with them every day.

  This September, I figured everything would be the same.

  Even though Johnny and I weren’t in the same class anymore, we could all still play soccer together, right?

  Wrong.

  Danny, who likes to pretend to be the guy in charge, said I could play but only on the opposite team, and that Ashwin wasn’t good enough period, which, no way could he know because he never even let Ashwin try. Johnny only shrugged, so I took Ashwin to see the library. We hung out in there at lunch for a couple weeks before we figured out that staking out the top of the monkey bars was kinda fun too.

  Ashwin has only lived here since the summer, and there are a few things about being his best friend that I’m still getting used to. Not playing soccer with all the other fourth-grade guys is one of them. Sometimes I wonder, if Ashwin hadn’t moved to Santa Barbara or if my birthday was just a couple of months earlier, would Johnny still be my best friend? Last summer, even before I wound up in the other fourth-grade class, Johnny got a BMX for his birthday and started riding around and doing tricks with Danny Vega and Martin Ortega . I … I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t even have a bike back then. I kind of just ran after them and jumped off rocks. Danny and Martin, dude, they said rude things. Things I can’t write down. And I’m not gonna lie, I cried a little.

  That day, I could see on Johnny’s face that he thought making fun of me like that was wrong.

  At first.

  “Dude, that was not honorable—no way would a knight say that,” I told Johnny, looking away so I could swipe at my face.

  Danny jerked his chin at us. “Whatever. How are you even a knight when you don’t have anything to ride?” He zoomed away. Martin Ortega rode after him. And Johnny, he rode off with them too.

  I tried to shrug it off like Dad always says to do. I didn’t have a bike. I got that. Later that day, I asked Mom and Dad to get me one, but I knew they would never buy me something so big unless it was my birthday. Which was two whole months away. Basically forever.

  The rest of the summer was weird. Johnny only came over a couple more times, and I only went to his house once. He lives on the other side of the freeway. To get there, all I had to do was walk across this cool fenced-in overpass—it goes over the whole freeway and the train tracks too. But the last time I came by, Johnny didn’t ask me to come into his apartment. He only wanted to go ride bikes, and I still didn’t have one, so … I stopped going over there. But, I don’t know, I still thought we were friends.

  When I got pushed out of soccer and started spending recess in the library, that’s when me and Ashwin really started to go bananas together. That’s when he became my best friend.

  The funny thing is, I don’t know when Johnny stopped being my best friend. Was it that day with the bikes? Was it the day he didn’t ask me to come into his apartment? Was it the day I got kicked off the soccer team? I only know he doesn’t come around anymore. Not to my house.

  I used to think I understood everything about my neighborhood and my school—even my city. When you’ve got lots of friends, you kinda know where you belong, and things are simple. After all that stuff happened, it didn’t feel simple living here anymore, even before I knew I had to worry about trike-stealing skunks. I needed to figure everything out. I decided to start with the skunks. I know it sounds crazy, but I thought that would be easiest to understand.

  Watching the soccer ball zig up the field while trying not to think about all the guys who were kicking it was making me dizzy. Ashwin leaned over his lap, playing a video game half-hidden in his backpack.

  “What do you know about skunks?”

  “Uh … they stink. Do we have some kind of a report to do?” Ashwin squinted. “I don’t remember Mr. León saying anything about a report.”

  I laughed and even thought, only for a second, about convincing Ashwin that we had a research report due Friday to see his freak-out face. But I didn’t. “Nah,” I said. “I just thought you might know something about skunks, that’s all. Last night, these skunks …”

  Danny darted by, his forehead all sweaty, to get the soccer ball.

  He must have heard.

  “Skunks—yeah, I bet Ashwin knows all about skunks! What’s the matter, Mateo? Your new friend farting it up?” Danny said.

  Then he made this gross sound with his tongue.

  Fpthhhhhhzz.

  Fpthhhhhhzzz.

  Fpthhhhhhzzzzzzz.

  And the guys on the soccer field laughed. Even Johnny.

  “If it gets too stinky up there for you next to that weirdo, you can come play soccer for us. Today. Martin’s not here.”

  Ashwin smiled. Not his real one but the freaked-out smile he gets whenever Danny gives him a hard time. I bet he knew I was thinking about it. Playing soccer. But no way was I going to leave Ashwin hanging there on the monkey bars all by himself. By that point, he was totally my best friend, so it was my job to, you know, back him up. I’d only have played soccer for one day, anyway. Once Martin was in school again, I’d have been out of the game, and Ashwin would’ve been all ticked at me.

  So I ripped a big one.

  All those guys heard it.

  Swear.

  “Nah,” I said to Danny. “It’s not too stinky up here for me.”

  I told you I’m supposed to be like a knight. For real. I’m full of honor and loyalty, and I can rip big ones whenever I want.

  “Ewwww, zorrillo!” Danny pointed at me, his face a crooked sneer.

  The other guys on the field laughed. Johnny laughed too, but it was the good kind of laughing, like I was some funny dude. And besides, they weren’t laughing at Ashwin anymore. The other guys all ran off to finish their game. But Danny had gone dark red, like when you wrap a string arou
nd your finger and the blood can’t get out. He glared up at me, then swung his arms back to pass the soccer ball back in. At the last second, he switched up his aim and threw the ball hard.

  Right at Ashwin.

  4.

  The Library Book

  When Danny threw the soccer ball straight at Ashwin, it was like slow motion and fast-forward at the same time. The ball arched through the air. Everything was quiet, and then …

  Thup.

  The soccer ball smacked Ashwin in the nose, knocking him off the top of the monkey bars. Then, thud, Ashwin went down into the almost-brown grass. He sat up, coughing. Bet that fall knocked the wind out of him. He grabbed at his nose. There was a little ooze on his hand.

  Danny caught the ball when it bounced off Ashwin, kicked it back toward the soccer game, and ran off laughing.

  Ms. Printz, the lady on yard duty, was way on the other side of the field. Nobody but Johnny and the other guys had seen. Nobody but those guys ever sees, and those guys never tell. I guess when I hung out with Johnny and them, I didn’t tell on Danny either. You just didn’t.

  Lately, Danny and Martin have been kicking soccer balls at littler kids when they try to sit up on the monkey bars. Danny calls it launching missiles. Whenever Ms. Printz comes over, he and Martin act like it was all a big mistake. So Ms. Printz only tells the little kids not to sit up there. But Danny and Martin had never launched any missiles before when I was up there.

  Ashwin flopped in the dirt, and I knew there was nothing much I could do. Danny’s always been kinda rude, but ever since he got back from winter break, it’s been worse. I think he grew an entire foot. He’s walking around looking like the Incredible Hulk, ready to explode out of his too-small shorts.

  So, no big surprise, he finally exploded.

  Not, like, out of his shorts.

  Just all over Ashwin.

  “Jeez, Mateo. Help me up, man.”

  Ashwin kept holding his nose, and his words sounded like echoes.

  I could tell he was hurt and, maybe worse, embarrassed. I jumped down and took a peek at his nose. It was starting to puff up, and the blood was oozing all the way down into his mouth.

  “So gross,” I told him, thinking he’d laugh. But he didn’t. Ashwin’s face was getting all deep red, and I could see him trying not to cry. “Let’s go to the library and get an ice pack from Mrs. Deetz—it’s closer than the office.”

  Ashwin let me help him up and nodded, hands hiding his nose again.

  “Hey, I thought of one for the bulletin board,” I said. “Have you heard the skunk joke?”

  “I don fink soh.” Ashwin kept talking through his hands, but at least he didn’t seem like he was gonna cry anymore.

  “You don’t want to hear that one.” I shook my head. “It really stinks!”

  Ashwin’s shoulders hunched up like a cartoon character. “Ouch—don’t make me laugh, it hurts too much,” he said.

  But I knew he was glad I made him laugh.

  It was better than crying on the playground.

  By the time we thumped up the metal ramp to the library, Ashwin was still holding his nose, but he looked better than before. He’d wiped a bunch of the blood off his face onto his shirt, and the oozing had stopped.

  “Man, Mrs. Deetz is not gonna let me in like this.” Ashwin dabbed at his nose with his white shirt again, making the disgusting splatter of blood down the front even worse.

  “Just try not to bleed on any books and we’ll be fine,” I whispered. Mrs. Deetz usually lets kids come in during recess, and you don’t have to be as quiet as you’d expect, but I wanted to stay on her good side.

  In the weeks when me and Ashwin were hanging out in the library during lunch, right after I got kicked out of the soccer game, we found this book, Medieval Weapons and Warfare, and now we’re pretty much obsessed with it. I was already into knights, but that book took things to a whole new level. Right away, Ashwin agreed to be my squire so I could teach him all about being a knight. We probably shouldn’t have started with swordplay in the library stacks.

  “Mr. Martinez. Mr. Vaz.” Mrs. Deetz nodded to each of us when we passed into the cool of the library. She gives me and Ashwin these sideways looks whenever we come in—like, she peeks through her cut-in-half glasses, still typing on the computer. “You both have five minutes to pick your books, and then you will need to take your bananas outside. And before you ask, no, you may not check out Medieval Weapons and Warfare. It won’t be available until—” She click-click-clicked on her keyboard. “—tomorrow.”

  After the Swordplay Incident, Mrs. Deetz made up the five-minute rule. I think she and Mr. León talk about us in their teacher meetings or something. How else could she come up with the bananas thing on her own? And then, after Mrs. Deetz set the five-minute rule, came the Catapult Catastrophe. Mrs. Deetz called it that, not me. I think the actual catapult was pretty cool, even if it did get us into a bunch of trouble. But we can’t check out Medieval Weapons and Warfare whenever we want anymore.

  I peeked down one of the aisles. I could see the book propped up against Mrs. Deetz’s Amazing Engineering display. Even though I thought she would say no, I figured I’d give it a try. All our best ideas, and some of our worst, come from that book. Maybe it would give me an idea about how to track down those skunks. “Come on, Mrs. D,” I said. “I feel like me and Ashwin are gonna need the book today, and nobody’s even checked it out.”

  “Ashwin and I are going to need the book,” Mrs. Deetz said.

  “Yeah.” Ashwin wiped some blood on his shirt again. “That’s what Mateo said. But by the time we come back, someone else could get the book.”

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Deetz said. “Someone certainly could check the book out today and use it to get into the same sort of spectacular trouble that you boys somehow manage. Let’s give them a chance, shall we?”

  “Fine. Can I get the other one then?” I asked. Ashwin elbowed me. “Oh yeah, and Ashwin needs an ice pack.”

  Mrs. Deetz reached under her desk and took out Amazing Knights, my second-favorite book about medieval stuff. She scanned the book with her wand, bop, and handed it to me. “Mr. Martinez.”

  She swiveled around on her chair and opened the tiny fridge behind her desk. Inside I saw a chocolate milk, about ten jars of iced tea, and a moldy salad. She pulled out an ice pack with little penguins on the cover. “Mr. Vaz,” she said, handing over the ice pack. “That looks like quite a war wound.”

  Ashwin smiled from under the ice pack.

  Mrs. Deetz is pretty cool. She never asks dumb questions like, “What happened to your nose?” or “What are you going to do with that book this time?” or “What were you thinking?”

  When I checked out Medieval Weapons and Warfare the first time, me and Ashwin got pretty obsessed with the catapult page. Building our own catapult was Ashwin’s idea, but I’m the one who figured out how to make it. And it was awesome. But Mr. Mendoza, this old guy who lives down the street from school, wasn’t happy about that catapult, and neither were his persimmons. Or his cat. Just to be clear, the cat was an innocent bystander and not a target.

  When Mr. Mendoza caught us with the catapult, the cat, and that book, he dragged me and Ashwin to my house by our ears. I wish he’d dragged us to Ashwin’s house. Mrs. Vaz would have niced Mr. Mendoza to death and promised him all sorts of stuff, and that would have been the end of it. But my mom? She made me write a letter to Mr. Mendoza apologizing for all the mayhem and offering to clean the gooey brown persimmon smudges off his wall, plus a letter to Mrs. Deetz for using a library book in an inappropriate manner. Mom even told Mr. Mendoza he should write a letter. I don’t know what the deal is with my mom and letters.

  Mr. Mendoza shoved the book into Mom’s hands and told her, “You bet I’ll write the school a letter. It’s criminal, letting these kids read something filled with such dangerous ideas.” Then he pushed his thick, square glasses up on his nose with one finger and marched down our driveway, grumbli
ng.

  Mom sighed and sent Ashwin home.

  When I gave Mrs. Deetz her letter, I swear she almost smiled. Almost.

  “This is the second letter I’ve received about your Catapult Catastrophe,” she said. Her gray hair was like a thundercloud right before the rain, still and quiet and high as the sky. I just stood there, feeling like a squashed persimmon, waiting for her to rain on me.

  Deetz wasn’t too happy with us, but she didn’t make such a big deal about it. No actual lightning exploded out of her head. Now, when we return the book, we have to wait a whole two weeks before checking it out again. She calls it a cooling-off period, which is pretty lame. But other than that, things are pretty much the same.

  “All right, gentlemen. You each have what you need, and your five minutes is at an end. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” Mrs. Deetz said.

  “Hey, Mrs. D,” I said. “When do we get to stay in the library for more than five minutes?”

  “When you two can make it through those five minutes without knocking something down, telling inappropriate jokes, … or bleeding on something.” She eyed a couple of new red dots on the blue carpet.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Deetz,” we said, backing out of the library before turning to stomp down the ramp.

  I opened up Amazing Knights, which is maybe half as good as Medieval Weapons and Warfare, and somebody laughed. I knew it was Danny Vega without even looking.

  “Why do you guys keep getting that dumb-ass book? There’s no such thing as Mexican knights, weirdos.” Some of the guys around Danny snickered. My old friend Johnny pulled at the bottom of his shirt. I flinched a little but kept walking, kinda hoping that the bell would ring so me and Ashwin could go inside.

  I know Danny’s wrong about the book and about me. I am a knight. And I’m not Mexican—I’m Mexican American. And Ashwin definitely isn’t Mexican—he just moved here from Louisiana, and I guess his grandparents are from India. But we are, like, the exact same color brown, and we are exactly the same kind of knight.