by Bibi Belford
“I wondered if you’ll need the recycle unit. It’s a special dumpster with a locking bar. You load in the cans until it’s full, and then we come and pick them up,” she continues.
I know there’s a question I should ask, but I’m speechless. How fantastic is that? Then I gather my thoughts. “Is there a charge?”
“No, sir. We offer this for nonprofit organizations and charitable fundraisers. You have to be there when we make the pickup, and we give you a receipt. The four-yard recycle unit holds about twenty-eight garbage bags, or we can deliver a larger size if needed.”
“So, how much money is that?”
“Well, it varies. Right now, we’re paying eighty-seven cents per pound. Remember, don’t crush the cans. We won’t take them if they’re crushed.”
I’m pretty sure we get ten cents a can at Crusher, Inc. And it doesn’t matter if they’re crushed. Getting paid by the pound doesn’t seem good to me. Cans don’t even weigh very much. On the other hand, there’s no way to get all those cans to Crusher, Inc. unless I get my dad involved, and that means ruining the surprise. In the end, I decide that some money is better than no money. “Do you come just once, or can we fill the container up multiple times?”
“Oh, we will come regularly. Weekly if you want. Don’t forget, someone has to be there to supervise the pickup and take the receipt, though.”
Well, okay, I think. That’s a good deal. She asks me some more questions. I have to quickly look up the school address in the phone book. It’s getting close to soccer time. I sort of stop paying close attention to what she’s saying as I get all my soccer gear together. After I hang up, I realize I forgot to ask how I get the money. Do I take the receipt to the recycle place? The words “nonprofit” and “charitable” are rolling around in my head. What did she mean? Oh well. Plenty of time to figure that out.
At soccer practice while we’re running drills, I get a little uh-oh hiccup in my chest. Did I need to get permission from Mr. Smalley to put a dumpster on school property? And since we’re not on the best of terms, will he even let me?
Then while practicing shooting, I get another hiccup. How much does Girasol’s surgery cost? At least a thousand dollars, I’m betting. I’m working the math out in my head, but I seem to be missing some of the information. How many cans fit in a bag? How many cans equal a pound? I should get extra credit for all this mental math I’m trying to do.
I decide to make up some numbers. Let’s say one hundred cans fit in a bag. And let’s say twenty-five cans equal a pound. Then every bag would weigh four pounds. So twenty-eight bags is about 112 pounds. Stay with me now. I’m rounding the eighty-seven cents to a dollar. Only $112 for all that work? I figure I need to have ten pickups in all to equal a thousand dollars. And I doubt I will collect twenty-eight bags of cans every week.
My shot goes wild, and the coach yells, “Sandro, pay attention!”
I regroup, and when we practice our double whammy play, I execute like a professional. The team cheers. Saturday is the first playoff game. We will win. I feel it.
I get home and eat dinner by myself. My dad still isn’t home. I suppose Mrs. Arona is a good cook, but I miss my mom’s flavors and special dishes. It’s so quiet I can hear Franklin scratching around in his box. Dad keeps asking me if I think we should just return him to school.
“But Girasol . . .” I always say.
“Yes, I know, but . . .” he always says, and neither one of us wants to make a decision.
Anyway, tomorrow I have to ask Mr. Smalley about the cans, so tomorrow is definitely not the day to sneak Franklin back to Lincoln Elementary.
I’m daydreaming when a knock on the door makes me catapult out of my chair, fluttering my homework across the room. I jump up to turn the TV down and hope it’s not a burglar being polite. Mrs. Arona enters the unlocked door before I can even take two steps.
“Your papi call me. He is to work tonight.” Then she finishes telling me in Spanish that once she puts her kids to bed, she will come and rest on our couch until my dad gets home. Apparently he really did have an interview and got a job working the night shift at some factory. And that means I will have to wait to see him until the morning when I wake up.
I don’t know why this makes me sad, but it does. We need money. Girasol’s heart surgery costs a lot. But I feel like a soccer ball that is losing air and can’t roll right. Thud. Thud. Thud. I’m bumping along.
I finish my homework and do a lousy job on it. Then I dig around in my mom and dad’s closet until I find my video game. I’m actually grounded from playing it but whatever. They won’t know.
When the phone rings, I know it’s my dad.
Sure enough. “Sandro? Mijo?”
“Sí, Papi.”
“My night job is at TAICO. You must help out now. Your mother will worry if she knows you are alone.”
“Mrs. Arona is coming here. She said she’s going to rest here until you get home.”
“This is good, Sandro. You are not alone. Or your mother will worry. Do you understand?”
And then I do understand. I’m not supposed to tell anybody he’s working the night shift. Not even my mom. Mrs. Arona is ten feet away, so technically I’m not really alone. I can hear the TV on in her house and her husband yelling through the duplex’s thin walls.
“Sí, Papi.”
“I will see you in the morning, Sandro.”
Franklin pokes his head out of his box as I head to bed. I put a carrot in Franklin’s box. Maybe Girasol knew I would need company. Maybe that is why she stole Franklin.
“Stay strong and sleep tight. Dream of bugs to bite,” I tell Franklin.
I crack myself up.
•
It’s strange in the night when I get up to use the bathroom and see Mrs. Arona stretched out on our couch. It’s so strange that I can’t go back to sleep. Instead, I start thinking about Abiola and how I can get back at her for tricking me about the calendar contest. I also start to plan out what I’ll say to Mr. Smalley about my recycling plan. And then I have to tell Franklin to keep it down. He’s nocturnal, but really, that’s no excuse. I guess I do fall back asleep because the bright day wakes me up.
I don’t see my dad in the morning. His boots are by the back entrance and the bedroom door is shut. I don’t bother to eat breakfast. Just trudge off to school, feeling a little sorry for myself.
Abiola walks by me to get in line. A couple of girls give her the stink eye. She’s wearing a pink sequined cap perched sideways over her braid and a jean jacket that reads APPLE BOTTOMS. I begin enacting my revenge by turning around to Miguel and saying in a very loud hope-everyone-can-hear-me voice, “Do you smell something?”
“Maybe your shoe?” He points and I see something brown sticking to my gym shoe. I zip over to the grass and wipe off my shoe. Honestly, Mrs. Arona should keep her dogs out of my yard. I’ll have to try again later.
“Yes, Sandro?” says Miss Hamilton after we are all settled down and she sees I’ve been raising my hand since what feels like the beginning of time.
“Can I go see Mr. Smalley?”
“Did Mr. Smalley ask to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Then of course you may go.”
I secretly give myself a high five and start to get out of my seat.
“During recess. That’s when Mr. Smalley asks to see students.”
I make a little noise that sounds a bit growlish. Miss Hamilton writes my name down on her warning list. I’m not sure, but I think my name might be on that list every day. Some guys are just lucky, I guess. After everyone finishes journal writing, we stack our notebooks on Miss Hamilton’s desk and line up for gym. By the time I finish Lincoln Elementary, I will be a professional liner-upper.
Just as Miss Hamilton leads us down the hall, I call out, “Miss Hamilton, I forgot to change my shoes!”
“Hurry up, Sandro. Let’s try to remember that next time, shall we?”
Yes, we shall. Especially sinc
e I don’t even have another pair of gym shoes to change into. Especially if all I really want to do is score revenge on a mean old nasty rat. I sneak back into the room and find Abiola’s journal. I flip until I find today’s entry:
My Hopes and Dreams . . . I hope my dad changes his mind about transferring me to a private school. Private schools cost a lot of money. I think Lincoln is a good school. If I go to private school I will have to quit playing my favorite game because it costs money, too. My hope for fourth grade is to be the top student all year. My dad wants me to be a doctor, so that is my dream, too. My other dream is to . . .
I stop reading. The page is spotless. No eraser marks. No cross-outs. And the curly writing almost fills the page, but there is just enough room at the bottom for a little clever forgery. Soon I’m off to gym in my stinky old gym shoes.
Why can’t we have gym all day? Everyone loves gym. We learn all kinds of life skills. Teamwork and rules for games we’ll play for the rest of our lives. At least we should have it more than just two days a week. The time goes so fast, and before I know it, Miss Hamilton is at the door with a very sour pickle face. Abiola tries to tattle that I skipped her free throw turn at one of the stations in gym on purpose, but Miss Hamilton tells her to put her hand down with the same growl I had in my voice earlier.
This ought to be good, I think. Back in the classroom, Miss Hamilton gives us a math worksheet and invites Abiola out to the hall. Uh-oh, spaghetti-oh, Abiol-oh.
We all hear the yelling when it starts. “How dare you write this about me in your journal?” Miss Hamilton is so mad, and I see her jerking the journal up and down through the door window.
Abiola is crying and shaking her head. I can just see her braid whipping from side to side. “I didn’t write that. It wasn’t me.” Her clipped words sound rat-a-tat-tat.
“How dare you lie? This is your journal and your handwriting.”
“But I didn’t write that.”
“In this country teachers are treated with respect. What will your parents say?”
Abiola screams, “They will believe me! I didn’t write that. And if you don’t believe me, you are a fat cow just like it says.”
And then that perfect little princess turns into the Tasmanian Devil. I’ve never seen anybody go so absolutely berserk. Stamping her feet and waving her arms, gold bracelets flashing in the dim hall.
The last thing we hear her yell is, “Take your hands off me, you mean witch!”
No one in our class moves a muscle. We are all in shock. And when Miss Hamilton opens the door, a feather falling would sound noisier than a firecracker. We’re all acting busy, too, especially me, making sure my heart doesn’t thump so hard it breaks out of my chest. I am ashamed of myself and pleased at the same time. I didn’t plan for such a big spectacle. I didn’t figure on Miss Hamilton being so sensitive and Abiola being so infuriated. In-fyur-E-ate-ed. Here’s your word lesson. In means into, at least in this word. So Abiola went into fury—she became infuriated.
And speaking of Abiola—where is she? I ask Jazzy to find out, so she raises her hand, doing the restroom wiggle routine. She returns and goes behind my desk, whispering, “Not in the hall or girls’ bathroom.”
I can’t wait until recess so I can spy on the Tasmanian Devil in Mr. Smalley’s office, where I’m sure she is being held. Maybe she got suspended. Yelling at a teacher? Holy guacamole. I am guiltily gleeful. Serves her right, though, doesn’t it?
I’m not happy about missing recess to talk to Mr. Smalley. It’s the double whammy. Bam—you miss recess. Wham—you’re in the principal’s office. But at least I’m not in trouble. I head up the stairs, past the calendar pages locked up tightly in the glass display case. Good thing they’re locked, too, since Abiola’s January page taunts me as I walk by. I go right up to the counter in the office and stand on my tiptoes to look taller.
“Excuse me. I’m here to see Mr. Smalley,” I say.
“Is he expecting you?” I don’t recognize the secretary sitting behind the counter.
Good question. I decide to tell the truth. “No, but I have something to tell him.”
“He’s busy right now. Have a seat.”
Great. I’m going to miss all of recess. And probably lunch. I sit in the chair closest to Mr. Smalley’s door. At least I can entertain myself by trying to eavesdrop. Technically, I’m not eavesdropping because I’m not listening at a window or a wall, but I think eavesdrop sounds better than snoop. And it’s my lucky day. Mr. Smalley is busy, all right. And guess who is keeping him busy? You got it. Abiola.
“Name? Young man? Hello?”
Whoops. I was paying so much attention to Mr. Smalley’s office I didn’t hear what the secretary said.
“Sandro.”
“Sandro what?” She is tapping a pen impatiently on a sticky-note pad. Seems to me I’m notorious enough to be known even by new secretaries.
“Sandro Zapote.”
“Okay. I’ll let him know. You can go back to class now.”
Oh, no you don’t. Not when I’m about to overhear some really good information. And I’ve already sacrificed most of my recess. This new secretary doesn’t understand. Hopefully Mrs. Lopez, my favorite secretary, will come to my rescue. In my sweetest, most convincing angelic voice I say, “Would it be all right if I just waited a little bit longer? It’s really important.”
And it works. I lock eyes with Mrs. Lopez, who recognizes me. She pipes up and says I can stay, giving me a slight wink. This is great. Through the window in Mr. Smalley’s door, I can see the side of Abiola’s reddened face and a woman’s hand poking out of some gauzy material patting her cheek. Must be her mom. A man is talking with an accent and it’s not Mr. Smalley, so it has to be her dad. Abiola is either still crying or trying to stop crying because her neck is jerking up and down, rooster-style.
Abiola’s dad says, “You need to be more careful in this school, yes? Abiola has had many troubles here.”
Mr. Smalley says, “We have no tolerance for bullying here. I can assure you of that.”
Abiola snuffles and lets loose a sob. Her mom says something in another language, and Abiola shakes her head.
“It would be easier to handle this if your daughter gives us the name of the bully who is bothering her.”
“She is worried there will be retaliation. Is race bullying a problem at this school?” her father’s voice says.
Mr. Smalley’s chair makes a loud scraping noise, and he suddenly materializes in front of the door window I’m spying through. He sounds very perturbed. “Absolutely not. This is kids being kids.”
“We want the best education for her. Her opportunity to learn must not be wasted. There are other schools, yes? Private?”
Mr. Smalley turns the doorknob. “That will not be necessary, I assure you. I will keep an eye on the situation and discuss actions to be taken with Miss Hamilton.” He opens the door. “Thank you for advocating for your daughter.”
I’m thinking two things: One, maybe this is not a good time to talk to Mr. Smalley. And two, Abiola is a good faker. As the Kahns come out of the office, I drop my chin down and partially cover my face with my hand, hoping to look deep in thought, hoping they don’t see me.
Through a slit between my fingers, I see Mr. Kahn holding his head straight. He has a badge with his picture on it clipped to his suit pocket. It looks like the word TACO is written above his picture. Nah, I think. I’m just getting hungry. Mrs. Kahn strokes Abiola’s braid. Abiola says something in a language I don’t understand, then she and her mother turn and look directly at me. Her mother has a scarf around her head and face, so it’s just her eyes that convict me. Abiola’s mouth scrunches into an I-hope-you-drop-dead sneer, and then they are gone.
“Are you waiting to see me, Sandro?” Mr. Smalley is standing next to his office door. Mrs. Lopez just put a tasty smelling sack from the sandwich shop on his desk.
This is probably a very bad time to ask Mr. Smalley to allow me to become Lincoln Ele
mentary’s recycling entrepreneur, which, for your information, means independent business person. He’s still red in the face from his conference with Abiola’s parents and obviously hungry. But if I come back tomorrow, I will have to wait again and miss more of my lunch and recess time. So I put on my friendly business face and sit down across from him.
“Mr. Smalley, I have a proposition that will benefit both Lincoln Elementary and the environment,” I start.
Mr. Smalley nods and taps his fingers together. His eyes travel to his sandwich bag, then back to me.
I continue. “You see, I noticed we have a can problem.”
I start explaining, but while I’m talking my train sort of runs off its track, and I can’t seem to think straight. I keep seeing the word TACO from Mr. Kahn’s shirt, which is the same color and style of the word TAICO on the shirts my dad throws into the laundry basket. I mistakenly say fun-raiser instead of fundraiser, and a fleeting image of me on a brand new bike rides through my brain. I quickly add some stuff about worthwhile projects. I’m suddenly haunted by Mrs. Kahn’s spooky eyes accusing me without a word. Mr. Smalley listens, but you can tell he’s also preoccupied. I finish with my spiel, and he says, “Very philanthropic of you, Sandro.”
So he’s one-upping me on the word usage. I’ve never heard that one before. It could mean stupid or smart or enterprising. But whatever it means, he agrees to my recycling plan. I should be ecstatic. I should be overjoyed. I should be counting my chickens before they hatch.
But instead I have a nagging feeling that I have overlooked an important detail. I’m probably just traumatized by Abiola’s mother’s eyes and imagining my dad’s factory is on Mr. Kahn’s badge. And as soon as I get home, I’m checking out what race bullying really is. Something tells me it’s not good, and Sandro the brand new first-ever Lincoln Elementary Recycling Entrepreneur will not be want to be involved.
CHAPTER 7
Play Like a Zapotec
Suddenly my simple fourth grade life gets very complicated and full of secrets.