The Midnight War of Mateo Martinez

by Robin Yardi

  We have honor.

  Which Danny Vega does not.

  Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  The bell rang, and all the guys scattered. Some of them were still laughing at us. My shoulders unhunched, and I felt like I could breathe again.

  “Come on,” said Ashwin. “Let’s see if Mr. León will let us put your skunk joke up on the board before social studies.”

  That’s when I realized I still hadn’t told Ashwin about the skunks. The real ones. On the trike. I’d missed my deadline. But lunchtime was over, and at least I wasn’t Danny Vega’s dead lunch meat.

  5.

  The Knights

  Mr. León didn’t let us put any of our jokes up, not the one about gorilla boogers, not even the one about the stinking skunk joke, but he laughed at both. “Go sit down, guys—it’s time for Mission Studies.” He was still smiling and trying not to.

  Mission Studies was sort of cool, ’cause our class got to learn about where we actually lived. I had liked social studies last year too—we did a whole unit on the Chumash, the American Indians that lived here before, you know, everybody. But after lunch, concentrating on school was hard no matter what we were studying. I swear, Mr. León sounded like one of the flies stuck between the glass and the window screen next to my table. “Mexico, buzzzzzzz, Spain, buzzzzzzz, missions, buzzzzzzzz, Chumash …”

  Smack.

  I squooshed the fly closest to me against the glass so it would shut up.

  Whenever we do Mission Studies, I end up wondering who Santa Barbara really belongs to and feeling like it definitely isn’t me. I mean, Mr. León says some Spanish families have been here for hundreds of years. Really. They’ve got streets named after them: Cota, de la Guerra, Ortega, Carrillo, Castillo. I figure they all go to church up at the fancy mission.

  When Spain sailed ships to America, after they finally figured out that it was here, they set up all these Catholic churches on the coast to turn the American Indians into Christians. In Santa Barbara, the Spanish built a presidio too, which is like a military fort, and the soldiers were called conquistadores. Our class got to go to the presidio on a field trip. It even has these super-old cannons.

  Martin always tries to act like he’s a been-here-since-the-conquistadores Ortega. I don’t buy it. I’m not gonna lie, it sounds pretty cool—having a street named after your family. But that’s not me. I mean, that’s not my family. We moved here from San Diego when I was a baby, and there are no streets named Martinez.

  For a while, I thought that’s why Danny was so rude and Johnny stopped being my best friend. Because they’d figured something out about me. Like that I didn’t belong here. I mean, I don’t even speak Spanish. I don’t think that anymore, but I still don’t get why they have to be such jerks about everything.

  Danny says he was born in Santa Barbara and that he and his mom went back to Mexico to live with his grandma until he was five. Ashwin doesn’t believe that. He thinks maybe Danny’s mom got deported, which is a word Mom had to explain to me, and so Danny had to go with her. If Ashwin said “deported” to Danny’s face, though, Danny would probably throw another ball at Ashwin’s nose. And maybe I wouldn’t blame Danny. It’s not the kind of word you can say on the playground.

  For a while, I worried about stuff like that. Like, could my parents get taken away? Then Mom explained that since she and Dad were both born in San Diego, that could never happen to us.

  “What about Johnny’s parents?” I asked. She didn’t have an answer for that one. So I just try not to think about it.

  I decided to think about something else.

  I decided to think about the skunks on my old trike.

  What I couldn’t decide was what to do. It’s impossible to think, really think, in a classroom. I needed to get out of there.

  When the last bell finally rang at three, I jerked out of my seat, banging my shin on my own desk. I didn’t even care. I snagged my homework in my backpack zipper too, but I was the first one in line on the way out the door. I wanted to figure out what was happening with those skunks pretty bad. I still couldn’t remember if the trike had been in the driveway that morning—I was twitching to go check. I’d bring Ashwin along and show him too.

  I bolted down the hall, heading for the big glass doors. Kids were already pouring down the front steps and scattering off into the neighborhood.

  “Slow down, Mr. Martinez,” Mr. León called after me. “You need to head to after-care.”

  My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.

  I forgot about afterschool care.

  Again.

  After the Catapult Catastrophe, our parents wouldn’t let us roam around the neighborhood until they got home from work anymore. We had to stay on school grounds, just like Mila.

  I gave the school doors one last look, then ran back down the hall to catch up with Ashwin at afterschool checkin.

  “Walk, Mr. Martinez!” Mr. León eyed me all the way down the hall. There was the tiniest flicker of a smirk on his face. He closed his door, and I started running again.

  Out in the courtyard, I bumped into Ashwin at the back of the line.

  “Walk, Mr. Martinez!” Ashwin said, just like Mr. León would have, with the same half-hidden smirk.

  When I got to the front of the line, I wrote my name all messy at the bottom of Mr. Rocklin’s list.

  Mr. Rocklin runs the elementary afterschool care. Thankfully, the kindergarten kids have their own thing. After-care is always the same: craft table, snack table, the dungeon (that’s what me and Ashwin call the multi-purpose room), or something Mr. Rocklin likes to call active play. You’d think active play would involve the playground. It doesn’t, though. Mr. Rocklin is always digging weird equipment out of the back of the storage shed or trying to teach us some goofy game. But me and Ashwin are in fourth grade. No way are we playing duck-duck-goose. As long as we don’t make fun of little kids, accidentally knock over the glitter shakers, or make too much noise in the dungeon, Mr. Rocklin kinda lets us just hang around. Me and Ashwin plunked down at the end of the craft table and scooted some of the art junk out of the way. Mr. Rocklin waved at us with his hands full of glitter, smiling at everybody. The little kids love him ’cause he can draw and he’ll turn the long jump rope forever, but he never lets me and Ashwin use the playground “unattended.” Even when the playground’s just sitting there, empty.

  “Come on, Mr. Rock,” Ashwin said. “Can’t we just go over for five minutes?”

  Mr. Rocklin didn’t even answer. He pointed to a pile of stuff he must have dragged out of the shed for active play. A heap of bent Hula-Hoops and a tangle of jump ropes. Ashwin sighed and spread his arms across the table, bonking his forehead on purpose. “So boring,” he said.

  I laughed a little under my breath. You would too if you’d ever seen Ashwin try to Hula-Hoop. He always bends his knees and bugs his eyes out like a giant, frustrated frog. But I didn’t say anything.

  I was thinking, trying to remember everything about the night before, trying to figure out if seeing those skunks was a dream or what. Ashwin pulled out his video game and played it under the table. I didn’t mention the skunks. I kept pushing my deadline to tell Ashwin forward, because my story was gonna sound so crazy. If I tried to whisper it across the craft table, I knew Ashwin would say “No way!” or he’d start laughing and then Mr. Rocklin would come over. Nobody wants that. So I had to wait, even if I felt like the secret was going to jump out of my mouth at any second.

  “Are you okay, Mateo?” Mr. Rocklin finally asked, staring at me from the end of the table.

  “Yeah, fine,” I mumbled, sliding a sheet of paper out of a pile. I picked a marker and doodled until Mr. Rocklin stopped staring. After a while I gave in to my boredom and did some math homework, but I still couldn’t get those skunks out of my brain. If you stare at a page of math problems long enough and let your eyes go all blurry, guess what you see?

  Skunks.

  When we finally signed Mila out of afterschool c
are and started home, I rushed Mila past Oak Park, even though the mango lady had her rickety wooden wagon set up next to the guy selling ice cream from the rolling cart with the bell.

  Ting-ting—ting-ting-ting!

  “Mateo, do you have two dollars? Do you have two dollars?” Mila said. She’s this tiny thing, but she can suck down a whole mango on a stick with peppers and lime before we even get home.

  “Nah,” I lied, tugging her down the sidewalk. “Besides, Mom says I’ve got to stop buying you those on the way home. Spoils your dinner.”

  Mila scrinched her eyes at me, but that thing I’d said about Mom not wanting me to get mangoes for her anymore was true, and she knew it. Besides, after Mila saw some homeless man taking a leak into the creek at Oak Park, Mom didn’t really want us playing there by ourselves anyway.

  Once we were past the park, I checked up and down the block. No kids. No grownups. It was time to tell. “You know my old red trike?” I said to Ashwin. He nodded. “When we left the house this morning—I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there! And last night, I think I saw two skunks steal it.”

  Mila kept walking as fast as she could to keep up with us, and I saw her eyes get all big, but Ashwin only laughed.

  “You’re dreaming, genius,” he said, dragging his backpack with one hand. Chrrrrrr. The backpack scraped behind him on the sidewalk. One time, he dragged his backpack all the way home, and when he got there, he realized he’d worn a hole in it and all his homework had fallen out. He’s got a bunch of duct tape on the bottom now, and he only lets it slide for a minute before swinging it up to check for a new hole.

  Chhhh …

  Chhhh …

  Chhhh …

  Kinda annoying, right? Especially when I was trying to convince him to go on a quest with me. I needed him to be serious. I needed him to pay attention.

  The dragging-backpack noise is one of the things about being Ashwin’s best friend that I was still getting used to. I’m not saying I wished we weren’t best friends. Even though I do still miss Johnny sometimes, I like rolling with Ashwin. He can think on his feet, even when he’s tripping, and he’s this walking idea-factory. Being around him is never boring. He’s a goofy dude and now he’s a knight—just like me.

  If I was ever going to figure out what was going on in the neighborhood, I needed an ally, a brother-in-arms, a friend who understands honor. That’s Ashwin.

  So I had to convince him I was telling the truth.

  Somehow.

  6.

  The Truth

  Well, convincing my brother-in-arms that two skunks stole an old trike in the middle of the night was a little harder than I thought it would be. I kept saying the same thing—“Seriously, we’ve got to check if it’s in the driveway”—and Ashwin just kept laughing. Not at me, but like I was telling another joke. Even I knew it sounded like a joke, but by that time, I’d gotten myself pretty worked up thinking about it. So every time Ashwin laughed, dragging his green duct-taped backpack along the ground, I had to remind myself that we were friends and that knights never give up.

  Ashwin stopped walking at our driveway and swung his backpack back and forth with one hand. When he bumped it against Mila, she glared up at him but then edged a little closer so he’d bump her again.

  “Come on!” I said. “Let’s go check—I bet you the trike’s not there.”

  I ran past Dad’s work truck, parked crooked on the street, and up the driveway, past all our old junk, to show Ashwin the spot where I used to keep the trike.

  The trike was not there.

  After getting so worked up, thinking about it all day, I was actually relieved that the trike didn’t just magically show up in the driveway. That meant I had been right. That meant I wasn’t going crazy. Most of our stuff was scattered along the driveway: Mila’s little polka-dot baby stroller. My new bike, Steed. Even our dusty old wagon. But the red trike with the cool horn had definitely vanished.

  “See!” I said, finally sure. “Two skunks stole the trike!”

  “Did they really?” Mila asked, staring at me crooked.

  “Yes! The skunks rode the trike right down the middle of the driveway and turned out onto the sidewalk, and we’ve got to figure out what they’re up to,” I said for the fifth time.

  Ashwin laughed. Again. “I gotta get home. I have my piano lesson today.” He leaned in and whispered, “Good move hiding the trike, but no one is going to believe you. Why do you even care if Mila rides it? You’re totally awesome on your bike now.”

  Ashwin didn’t wait for me to answer. He hurried back down our driveway and onto the sidewalk. He only lives around the corner, which is one of the coolest things about being his best friend—I don’t even have to ask to go to his house. But that day I wanted him to stay and I needed him to believe me.

  Chhhh …

  Chhhh …

  Chhhh …

  My ally, my brother-in-arms, had just walked away—for a piano lesson. He didn’t believe me. He thought I was hiding the trike so Mila would stop riding it. And he thought I shouldn’t care if Mila made it hers.

  I looked at my shiny bike, with its own speedometer, and knew I shouldn’t care. It had taken me forever to learn to ride Steed. I didn’t even want to try at first. It’s not like I was afraid or anything. I’m just, you know, careful. If I fall down, Dad always says, “Shake it off, little man,” like that’s so easy to do. Personally, I just want to not fall. Danny and Martin and Johnny do this thing where they ride down the overpass ramp all fast, trying not to crash into the fence at the bottom, knowing sometimes they will. I don’t get it. Anyway, Ashwin was right—I am totally amazing on my bike. So I knew I shouldn’t care about that old trike.

  But I just did.

  Would a knight stop caring about his first horse if it was too old to ride? No way! I didn’t care if my knees hit the handlebars whenever I tried to pedal. I didn’t care that I was supposed to let Mila use it. I did, all the time, but it was still my trike.

  “Really?” Mila said again, staring at the empty place in the driveway.

  “Ahhhhg! Yes, really!” I pushed her toward the front door.

  Then, at the edge of the driveway, I heard a noise in the oleander bushes, almost like someone whispering. Something black flickered behind the branches.

  “Shhh, I hear them.”

  I ran for it.

  My sneakers slid at the edge of the bushes, and Mila crashed into me.

  “Where? Where?” She hung onto my shirt.

  I bent down and peered into the dark space under the bush. My ears felt hot, and I was sweaty-prickly all the sudden.

  But there wasn’t anything in that dark space.

  No trike.

  No skunks.

  Only an old, torn piece of a black garbage bag.

  “I don’t see anything,” Mila said, letting go of my shirt.

  I felt pretty dumb. I knew my ears were turning dark red.

  “Eh, I was just kidding,” I said, pushing Mila toward the door again. “Skunks only come out at night anyway.”

  Mila made a face and stomped up the front steps like a little lightning bolt.

  “Daaaad,” she shouted, “Mateo said two skunks stole my trike!”

  “Great,” I whispered, clumping up the steps.

  Dad stood in the kitchen, eating a sandwich over the sink. He laughed and told me to stop messing with my sister.

  “He did!” Mila complained. “He said two skunks stole my trike. Then he pushed me into the bushes where the stinky skunks live.” She leaned forward, pointing at me and looking ready to explode.

  “Where did you put your sister’s trike?” Mom asked, clicking into the kitchen from the garage.

  “It is not Mila’s trike,” I said. “It’s mine, and I didn’t put it anywhere—two skunks stole it.”

  “Mateo, I am not in the mood. Go get your sister’s trike, now.” Mom pointed at me with a hand full of mail.

  Nobody believed me.

  Nobody wou
ld listen.

  I crossed my arms and glared at the floor. If they weren’t going to listen, I wasn’t going to talk. So I stared at Mom’s work shoes.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad shrug. His mouth was full of sandwich.

  Mom dropped her keys into the bowl with a little crash. She swung her bag down off her shoulder and sighed. “Mateo, go to your room—until you are ready to tell us the truth.” She was all quiet and mad. Mom after work is never like Mom at breakfast. She never smiles that smile.

  I threw down my backpack.

  I slunk off to my room.

  I slammed the door.

  Glaring out the window at Steed and Mila’s dumb pink baby stroller and the empty place where my old red trike should have been only made me feel worse. “It’s not hers.” I thumped my head against the window. I had the trike even before she was born. Before it was my job to hold Mila’s hand and walk her to school and keep an eye out and be everybody’s little man. Before I had to share Mom.

  Before I had to share everything I ever got with Mila.

  So the trike was mine all the way.

  Even if I didn’t use it anymore.

  7.

  The Lies

  Getting sent to my room isn’t such a big deal. I mean, I’ve got books and card games and cool junk and stuff. It’s just, I sat in my room while my family was out there, you know, doing stuff. And they all thought I had lied. But I hadn’t.

  Not this time.

  I pressed my forehead against the window, staring at the empty spot in the driveway where the trike used to be. Something shook the oleander bushes a little, and I caught my breath.

  But nothing burst out of the bushes.

  No skunks.

  No whispers.

  Only wind.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  In the kitchen, pots and pans clattered, and I knew Mom was cooking dinner. The side door smacked shut, and then I saw Dad rummage around in the shed halfway down the driveway. He lugged the hedge clippers over to the eugenias, and I wished I were out there helping him instead of just watching from the window. Pretty soon, leaf bits were flying everywhere. Then Mila clunked down the front steps. When she hopped off the last porch step, her black cowgirl boots came peeking into view. Then the rest of her appeared like some rabbit at the end of a bad magic trick. She did this little ta-daaa thing with her hands and then stuck her tongue out when she saw me staring through the window.