Don't Call Me Hero

by Ray Villareal

The woman asked, “Can you tell me where the ladies’ plus sizes are?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nevin said. “The elephants’ section is upstairs.”

  Rawly’s mouth fell open.

  The woman’s face flushed red. “What did you say?”

  Nevin smiled innocently. “I said the elegant section is upstairs. I assume you are looking for something elegant to wear. We have many lovely selections for you to choose from.”

  With a baffled look on her face, the woman said, “Yes. Thank . . . thank you.” She walked away, unsure of what she had heard.

  Rawly laughed nervously. “That was cold, man.”

  “You take life too seriously, dude,” Nevin said with a shameless grin. “I just try to bring a little humor into this dreary world. Come on. Let’s go pay for this get-up.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rawly shifted uneasily in his chair. His eyes were fixed on the failing notice in his hand. He had been expecting it, but still, it surprised him when his teacher handed it to him.

  “This is your copy,” Mr. Mondragón said. “Your parents will receive an official one in the mail.” He pushed aside a half-eaten sandwich from his desk and opened a bag of potato chips.

  “But I’ve started coming to tutoring, sir,” Rawly said. “I’m trying to get better at algebra.”

  Mr. Mondragón smiled, exposing a gap between his upper front teeth. “I know you are, son, and I have no doubt that your grades will improve. But district policy says I have to notify the parents if a student is not passing after the third six weeks. Would you like a chip?”

  Rawly waved off the bag.

  Mr. Mondragón shoved a handful of potato chips into his mouth. “The notice doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to fail,” he said. “It’s just to let you and your parents know where you stand at this point.” Flakes of chips escaped from Mr. Mondragón’s mouth as he spoke, and Rawly watched them land on a stack of papers. “Have one of your parents sign the notice and return it to me by Friday.”

  Parent, Rawly thought. Not parents. But he didn’t correct his teacher. Mr. Mondragón had over a hundred twenty-five students. Rawly doubted he knew all of them by name, much less anything about their personal lives.

  He could explain to his teacher that he didn’t have a father, and that one of the reasons he was doing poorly in algebra was because he had to work every night at his mother’s restaurant. But what could Mr. Mondragón do about it? Help him clean tables?

  Rawly peeked out the door, thinking Nevin might be waiting for him in the hallway. “Is there anything else I can do to bring up my grade?” he asked hopefully.

  Mr. Mondragón chomped on more potato chips. “Sure. Turn off the TV. And don’t spend all your time playing video games or talking on the phone. Use that time to go over your work. Maybe you’ll start seeing a change in your grades.” He held out the potato chips bag again. “Sure you don’t want some? They’re barbeque.”

  “No, thanks.” Rawly stood and headed for the door.

  “Don’t forget.” Mr. Mondragón pretended to press a remote control button. “Click! Click! No TV tonight.”

  Rawly couldn’t recall the last time he had sat down to watch a TV show. Sometimes he and his mother watched the late-night news after they got home from the restaurant. On occasion, he watched a little television on the weekends. But except for the Dallas Cowboys football games, there was little else on TV that interested him. And video games? He wouldn’t even know how to begin playing one.

  Rawly had managed to keep his head above water in his other subjects—English, social studies, even science —probably because they mostly involved reading. And Rawly could read, though admittedly, he preferred to read comic books. Algebra, on the other hand, was like learning a new language—a language made up of strange words and numbers.

  He read his failing notice again. YOUR CHILD IS IN DANGER OF FAILING DUE TO POOR PERFORMANCE IN CLASS WORK AND ON TESTS.

  Rawly had tried studying at the restaurant, but it was almost impossible to concentrate there. In addition to his regular duties, he greeted customers at the door and seated them if his mother was busy.

  After Rawly left Mr. Mondragón’s classroom, he found Nevin outside on the school steps talking with Miyoko and Iris.

  “Dude, I was just telling the girls about our skit for Open Mic Nite.”

  Miyoko said, “I think it’ll be hilarious. Yours will be the best act in the show.”

  Rawly smiled proudly. “See? And you said I couldn’t be funny.”

  Miyoko looked at him curiously. “I never said you couldn’t be funny. Who told you that?”

  Nevin cleared his throat. “Well, you know how some people are. They’re always making up crazy stuff like that.”

  “I’m going to play Moon River on my clarinet for Open Mic Nite,” Iris told the group, but no one paid attention her.

  “Where were you anyway, dude?” Nevin asked. “I was worried you might’ve gotten flushed down the toilet. I was getting ready to go inside the bathroom to rescue you.”

  The girls laughed.

  Rawly felt his face turn red. “I wasn’t in the bathroom. Mr. Mondragón wanted to talk to me after class for a few minutes.”

  “I think I know what it was about, Ronnie,” Miyoko said. “I had one of those talks with Mr. Mondragón during third period.”

  “It’s Rawly. My name’s Rawly.”

  Miyoko opened her purse and pulled out a failing notice. “Does this look familiar?”

  Nevin shook his head. “Ay, ay, ay. You see? This is what you get for not listening to me. It is so simple. You’ve got to think like Batman.”

  Rawly started to answer with something sarcastic, but a better idea came to him. He told Miyoko, “Um, since we’re in the same boat and everything, I was wondering if maybe we could, you know, study our algebra together or something.” He shrugged. “I mean, we are in the same Saturday morning tutoring class, right? What do you think?”

  Before Miyoko could respond, Iris said, “I can help you if you’d like, Rawly. I’m not an algebra whiz or anything, but my grades are usually in the high eighties, low nineties.”

  Nevin caught the awkward look in Rawly’s eyes. “I think that’s a great idea, Iris,” he said. “You can help Rawly and I’ll help Miyoko.”

  Rawly gave him a why-don’t-you-keep-your-mouth-shut glare.

  “Sure,” Iris said. “Rawly, I can get together with you any time before school or maybe during lunch. You can even come to my house after school, if you’d like. Of course, I’ll have to check with my mom first.”

  “Dude, you are so lucky,” Nevin said with fake sincerity. “With Iris helping you, not only will you pass algebra, you’ll probably end up on the honor roll.” He wrapped an arm around Miyoko. “And as for you, young lady, you will have the benefit of being tutored by the great Professor Steinberg himself, mathematician extraordinaire.”

  Rawly’s stomach knotted up. Nevin knew how he felt about Miyoko. Or at least, he should. Nevin was mocking him, purposely keeping Miyoko away from him. Maybe he wanted her for himself after all.

  “I can meet you in the cafeteria tomorrow morning at seven-thirty, if that’s okay,” Iris told Rawly. “That way, we’ll have at least an hour to work.”

  Yeah, sure,” Rawly muttered.

  “Yippy doodle!” Nevin cried. “I am so happy for you, dude. Iris will make an excellent tutor. Now you won’t have to worry about failing algebra.”

  “And you’re going to help me pass, too, right?” Miyoko said.

  “But of course, my cherry blossom. Your wish is my command.”

  Miyoko pushed Nevin away when she saw her mother’s car pulling up to the curb.

  After the girls left, Rawly glowered at Nevin. “Thanks a lot, man. Thanks a whole hairy lot.”

  “What’s the matter, dude?” Nevin asked, trying to hold back a smile. “I thought I was helping you. I mean, you’re the one who’s bombing out in algebra.”

  “You
know exactly what I’m talking about,” Rawly said.

  “Oh. You mean that little scene with Miyoko?” Nevin patted Rawly on the back. “Dude, I’m just trying to save you from yourself.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Look, Rawls, I hate to burst your little bubble, but you’re way out of your league if you think you have a chance with Miyoko Elena.”

  Rawly’s face filled with indignation. “You don’t know that.”

  “Of course I do . . . Ronnie!”

  Rawly sneered at him and said sharply, “You always have the answers to everything, don’t you? Well, then tell me this, Nevin Steinberg. How does it feel to be the smartest person in the whole world? To know more than anyone else?” He kicked a Coke can someone had thrown on the ground and sent it flying into the street. “Maybe I’m not the genius you are, but at least I know how to treat my friends.”

  Nevin stepped back and calmly replied, “Do you know why the algebra book went to see a therapist? Because it had problems. Get over yourself, dude. I’ll see you when you get control of your emotions.”

  With that, he walked away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Channel 12 News truck was parked in front of La Chichen-Itza Mexican Restaurant. A reporter Rawly recognized from TV as Delia Franco stood under the green awning of Rosario’s Salón de Belleza next door, while a cameraman videotaped her.

  “This year, the State Fair of Texas is once again featuring the popular pig races,” Delia Franco said into her microphone. “Those speedy little hogs race around a track while the crowds cheer them on. However, according to eyewitnesses, another kind of pig race was held here at La Chichen-Itza Mexican Restaurant in Oak Cliff.”

  Rawly was shocked. The man had actually carried out his threat to call the news. Rawly ducked away from the cameraman and the reporter and snuck inside the restaurant.

  His mother stood at the window, peeking through the blinds. Teresita, Isabel, and Fredo stood with her.

  The restaurant was empty, which was normal for that time of day. Except for Wednesdays, when the enchilada dinner special was offered, customers didn’t usually show up in the evenings until after five.

  “How long have they been out there?” Rawly asked his mother.

  She didn’t answer. Anguish and fear filled her face.

  “They arrived a little while ago,” Isabel whispered. “Unannounced. They tried to interview your mom, but she kicked them out.”

  Rawly’s mother whirled around and scowled. “Shh!”

  Isabel gave her an apologetic expression.

  For the next few minutes, everyone watched in silence.

  Finally, Mrs. Sánchez pulled herself away from the window. She let out a long sigh. Her shoulders slumped, as if all the air in her body had escaped. Her face was drained of color. “They’re gone, gracias a Dios.”

  She looked old to Rawly, much older than her forty-three years. Folds of skin sagged below her eyes. Her makeup, which she usually applied with great care, now looked caked on, like a circus clown’s.

  Mrs. Sánchez’s life was the restaurant. It had been that way ever since she opened it ten years ago. Rawly couldn’t understand why she worked so hard to hang on to the restaurant. It had never made any money.

  He hated working there—bussing tables every evening, plus having to do a million other chores. No wonder he stunk at algebra.

  His mother couldn’t pay him a regular salary, either. Something about child labor laws preventing her from putting him on the payroll. She did give him a few dollars a week for spending money. Not that it did him any good. Except for a couple of hours here and there when he had a chance to go to the mall or to Heroes & Villains, he hardly had any free time to spend it.

  Rawly doubted Jaime would want to help run the restaurant once he got out of prison, and that wouldn’t happen for fifteen to twenty years. The lawyers had been somewhat hopeful. They told Rawly’s mother that there was a possibility Jaime could be released in about seven years. Rawly wondered if La Chichen-Itza would even be around in seven years.

  The pig getting loose in the restaurant might have a blessing in disguise. Maybe it would be best if the restaurant did shut down. Then his mother could get a job that didn’t require her to work eighty to ninety hours a week.

  Rawly looked across the dining room. His mother sat in a booth, tapping away at her laptop. The restaurant, he thought, was slowly sapping the life out of her.

  It had long been his parents’ dream to own a restaurant. They used to talk about it all the time, back when they both waited tables at La Paloma Blanca in Marsville, Texas. Their boss, Mingo Salazar, had been encouraging and supportive, offering them valuable advice on how to succeed in the restaurant business.

  Rawly’s father came up with the restaurant’s name as a tribute to his home state of Quintana Roo on the Yucatán Peninsula in Mexico, near the archaeological site of Chichen-Itza.

  In the end, though, it was nothing more than a dream. Rawly’s parents had no money to open up a restaurant, not even a taquería. Their combined tips barely paid the bills, and the banks were not eager to lend them money based on their meager salaries.

  Then Rawly’s father died.

  It started with a cough—a mild, irritating, hacking cough his father thought would go away in a day or two. When it didn’t, he drank some cough syrup, thinking the medicine would take care of the problem. Still, his coughing continued. His wife urged him to see a doctor, but he refused. It was just a cough, for goodness’ sakes. Besides, they didn’t have money to spend on doctors.

  In the days that followed, Rawly’s father’s cough worsened. Mingo Salazar threatened to send him home if he didn’t see a doctor, because his coughing was grossing out the customers.

  Rawly’s father visited a clinic he had seen advertised on TV. A young doctor prescribed an antibiotic and a prescription cough syrup and sent him home.

  But the coughing didn’t go away.

  Growing desperate, Rawly’s father checked himself in at Landry Memorial Hospital. Finally, after a thorough examination and a series of tests, the doctor delivered the most shocking and unexpected news.

  “I’m afraid you have lung cancer.”

  Lung cancer? Rawly’s father gaped at the doctor in disbelief. How could he have lung cancer? He didn’t even smoke.

  The doctor went on to explain that Rawly’s father may have contracted lung cancer from second-hand smoke working at La Paloma Blanca. Then, as if the lung cancer announcement wasn’t devastating enough, the doctor added, “You have, at most, six months to live.”

  Six months!

  That was all the time Rawly’s father had left in the world.

  When he shared the news with his wife, her immediate reaction was to file a lawsuit against Mingo Salazar and La Paloma Blanca, but Rawly’s father talked her out of it. Mingo had been a good boss. It wasn’t Mingo’s fault he had lung cancer.

  Rawly’s father pulled out a life insurance policy he had bought from the Lone Star Life Insurance Company and studied it. An insurance agent named Ramos or Ramirez had shown up at their door one day and talked him into buying the policy. Rawly’s father had been reluctant to purchase it at first. Why did he need life insurance? He had planned to live for a long time. The insurance man convinced him to buy the policy, reminding him that life offers no guarantees.

  The value of the policy would cover the cost of his funeral; it would also leave his wife with enough money to start her own restaurant.

  After Rawly’s father died, Mrs. Sánchez quit her job at La Paloma Blanca and moved her family to Dallas. She leased a building that had once been a restaurant called Maggie’s Kitchen and converted it into La Chichen-Itza.

  Rawly’s mother decided her restaurant would be smoke-free, even if it meant losing customers. As it turned out, Dallas already had a law that did not allow smoking in any of its restaurants.

  The non-smoking policy hadn’t hurt her business. It was only after Rawly’s mother
gave up her liquor license that customers started to disappear. People wanted to enjoy their Mexican food with a cold beer or a margarita. Now it appeared that the restaurant would finally be done in by, of all things, a pig.

  Rawly thought back to something Jaime had said during their last visit.

  Look at these guys, ’manito. They’re a bunch of losers. Do you want to end up like them? Like me? A loser?

  We’re all losers, Jaime, Rawly thought sadly. Dad died of lung cancer even though he didn’t smoke. You killed a woman without meaning to. I’m flunking algebra, and Mom’s about to lose the restaurant over a stupid pig.

  Rawly felt the need to pray, but nothing came out. He and his mother seldom attended church. Sundays were spent at the restaurant. They did try to make it to the big church events—Christmas, Easter, and of course, Mother’s Day, but that was about it.

  Rawly figured they would have to go to church a lot more often than that before God would bother to listen to his prayers. On the other hand, what did he have to lose? Rawly tried praying again. This time the words that came to him were: Hail Mary, full of Grace. Bless us losers in this place.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nevin’s mother pulled up to the curb in front of the school. Heavy rains and high winds swirled around her car. The severe storms had begun to flood the streets.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but this is as close as I can get,” she told Nevin.

  “That’s okay. I can make it from here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m sure.”

  “Try not to get the costumes wet, especially the gorilla outfit. You know, I practically had to beg your father to let you borrow it.”

  “Yes, Mother. You’ve told me that about a hundred times already.”

  “No need to get snippy with me, Nevin. Just be careful with it. That costume cost a lot of money, you know.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Do you have on your galoshes?”

  Nevin showed her his feet.

  “And your umbrella?”

  “Right here.”

  “Try to avoid the mud puddles, if you can.”