“Yep. Is it really sour?”
We both take a quick sip and scrunch up our faces until we both laugh. It is super sour, but good. It’s just like last year until Hayley takes the seat across from me. Is this some sort of April Fool’s Day joke?
Victor plops down next to Hayley. “What’s up, Hays?”
“Don’t call me that!” she yells at him.
I giggle and am surprised when Sara laughs too. “Allie, thanks for the nice words about my song,” Sara says.
“It was good. And I like your socks,” I say.
Principal Vihn is suddenly speaking over the intercom. He announces in a very serious tone that the library will be closed this afternoon due to a worm infestation.
“Apparently, some of the worms from your pizza escaped to the library and have made new homes inside of the books.”
A bunch of us groan because Principal Vihn is the biggest April Fool’s prankster ever! Every year he comes up with something crazy.
“And don’t forget, starting after lunch all students will have GPS chips inserted into your noses so we know where you’re at all the time. The only drawback is that you must refrain from sneezing for the rest of the school year. Teachers will be confiscating all tissue boxes in the classroom. Remember, no sneezing! Good luck!”
“This school is loco!” Victor exclaims and claps. “At my old school in San Antonio, they weren’t down with any pranks. They’d call our parents if we even mentioned April Fool’s.”
“Speaking of April’s Fool’s Day …” says Hayley. “Did you see that Sara and I were wearing mismatched socks?”
My stomach twists and turns.
She pulls her feet up to the chair and rolls up her jeans. “See?”
She also has one lavender sock and one pink-and-orange-striped sock on. The same mismatched socks as Sara. How dare Sara share our tradition with Hayley! If they’re going to be best buddies now, they should start their own stupid tradition.
“Look at mine,” I snap. I pull my jeans up to show my mismatched shoes and socks. “This has been Sara and my tradition since third grade. You’re just a big copycat, Hayley!” I push away from the table and glower at her shocked face.
“Why would I want to copy you?” Hayley says. “There’s nothing you do that’s worth copying.”
“Hayley, stop!” Sara says.
“Tell that to your mismatched socks! And, Sara, don’t bother. You don’t really care about making a tribute to my bisabuelo, anyway. You just want to win—”
“That’s not true!” she says.
“Whatever! There’s no way you’re taking first with that dumb song anyway!” I can’t stop myself from continuing. “My great-gramps is going to be so embarrassed by your corrido.”
Sara’s mouth drops open.
“Allie,” Victor says softly. Sara looks like she wants to cry, but I have a whole bunch more to get off my chest.
“A friend doesn’t sabotage another friend’s chances of winning a contest. Even if they aren’t talking anymore. You know how much winning this trophy means to me, and you’re trying to wreck it on purpose.”
“Allie,” Victor tries again.
“Victor wants me to win and doesn’t try to compete with me. If you stopped trying so hard to become Hayley, you’d realize what true friendship looks like.” I gesture wildly at Victor. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I don’t bother to pick up my lunch tray as I get up and stomp out of the cafeteria. April Fool’s Day or not, I’m tired of being Sara’s fool. One day, she’s a fuzzy kitten and then the next day she’s a snake. We will never be best friends again. I take off the bracelet she made me last year and throw it into a trash can on the way to the nurse’s office.
Within twenty minutes, my dad picks me up at school. Cinder, the firehouse dog, is in the backseat, which calms me down. I pet Cinder, and she licks my entire face.
“You sounded angry on the phone so I thought seeing Cinder would cheer you up,” he says. “Is everything going okay with school? Was the contest deadline today?”
“No, it’s tomorrow.” I mumble between Cinder’s kisses. I remember the day my dad and the rest of the guys from the firehouse adopted Cinder from the animal shelter. My dad was so excited. After school, Adriana drove all of us to the station to meet the young Rottweiler who had a ripped ear and tail. My dad said the shelter had tons of cats there for adoption, so Sara and I went with my mom to check it out and we ended up adopting Secret. The shelter staff asked us if we would change Secret’s name, but Sara and I agreed it was the perfect name for such a fluffy, shy kitten. It’s memories like these I have to push away now. It’s over for Sara and me. I’ve lost my best friend for good, but at least I still have Secret.
“Do you want to talk about it? Are you stressing out? I know how you get with these contests. Is there anything I can do to help?”
I shake my head. “It’s almost finished. I just have to take a picture of Bisa with his medal. Then I’ll be done.”
“Whoa! That’s a photo I’d like to see. He’s always so mysterious about that medal. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen it.”
I nod. I’m trying to listen to my dad, but honestly, my mind is back at school. I didn’t even say good-bye to Victor. I feel bad about that. Twice, he called my name. Maybe he thought I was being too rough on Sara, but I wasn’t. Sara deserved it. I’ll call him tonight.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well, kiddo. I called Bisabuelo. He’s at the GI Forum helping out. I’ll take you there and then you can go home with him. He’ll make you some manzanilla tea.”
“Thanks.” Whenever one of us is sick on a school day, we always go over to Bisabuelo’s house because he’s usually home. If he’s not, he’s at the GI Forum hanging out with other war vets. I’ve gone with him to the GI Forum several times, and it’s always fun. They have a refrigerator full of root beer, a pool table, and two big flat-screen TVs.
Over the years, the veterans have gotten younger and younger. There aren’t too many WWII veterans hanging out there anymore. Bisabuelo says all his brothers are “passing on.” I know that he means that they’re dying, but he likes to say “passing on.” I don’t want to even THINK about Bisabuelo passing on.
The few WWII and Korean War vets there have known my bisabuelo a long time, and they like to talk politics and use their own vocabulary. Last year, I heard one of them call our new mayor a “whippersnapper” because he thought he was too young, inexperienced, and cocky. I told Sara about that, and for an entire week, she went around calling the boys in our class “whippersnappers.” It was hilarious. But that was then. Now, I don’t think anything she does is hilarious. She’s the “whippersnapper” now.
Once Dad has pulled up at the curb in front of the center, Bisa is already there. He comes over and opens the car door for me. “¿Qué pasó, Allie? How do you feel, mija?”
“Not so good,” I say softly. I kiss Cinder good-bye. My bisabuelo grabs my book bag for me, but before we leave to go inside, he gives my dad a hug and kiss. Bisabuelo always says that no matter how big firefighters are, they still need kisses and hugs from their abuelos. And the way my dad hugs back and smiles, I know it’s the truth. I don’t think I’ll ever be too old for hugs and kisses either.
My bisabuelo locks arms with me and guides me into the GI Forum the way I imagine he probably helped injured soldiers get off the battlefield. Once we’re inside the center, he introduces me to a bunch of the guys and settles me onto a couch in front of a television.
“I’m just going to finish up some things, and we’ll be on our way in a jiffy.” Bisa kisses my head and rushes off to the center’s office. I’m surrounded by walls covered with photos of veterans from every war … WWII, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan. There are also Prisoner of War banners that say You are not forgotten and framed medals with different color ribbons. I take my camera and start snapping some shots. These medals will look good in my project.
My bisabuelo puts a
hand on my shoulder. “Some great stuff here, eh?”
I nod. “So many awards!” I squeal. “I hope it’s okay if I took some photos of the walls with all the medals and banners.”
“You’re feeling better, eh?”
I bite down on my lip. Time to confess the truth. “I’m not really sick sick,” I say. “It’s just school stuff and I didn’t want to be there.”
“What happened, mija? Was someone bullying you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just stuff with Sara. She’s still being a jerk.”
“Mija, school is important. You can’t just quit when it’s tough. You don’t want to make walking away when things get hard a habit.”
I know I’m being a big baby, but I can’t help it. Today was just a bad day. “I’ll make it up by working on my project, okay?” I’m relieved when Bisabuelo puts his arm around me. I never want to disappoint my great-gramps.
I point up at a picture of two young men standing on top of a tank. “This one is from the Korean War. Are there any guys here today from that war?”
Bisa looks around the room. “Yep, Auggie over there, the one playing pool. Good guy. The young man next to him is Michael. He served in Afghanistan. He has the best singing voice. We keep telling him to try out for one of those singing shows on TV. He could win.”
“Do you think they would mind if I took photos of them?”
“Everyone is familia here. Why not?”
I follow my bisabuelo to the pool table. “Brothers, my great-granddaughter would like to take some photos of you, would that be okay? Maybe she’ll use them in her school project, and we’ll all be famous!”
Everyone laughs and makes comments like, “Not as famous as you, Rocky!”
As I take one photo after another, I notice that everyone wants a photo with my bisabuelo. They put their arms around him. In return, he is quick with kind words and hugs. Everyone is so nice. No one even makes fun of the fact that I’m wearing mismatched shoes.
As Great-Gramps drives us home, I realize that the whole time I was with him at the center I forgot about dumb Sara and Hayley.
When we get to his house, all I can think of is seeing Bisa’s Medal of Honor. He puts on a kettle of hot water and then goes downstairs to “dig it up.” Sara may have her silly little song, but I’ll have this photo. This will be my chance to blaze my trail to the top of the contest like Junko on Mount Everest. I’ll leave Sara behind once and for all. After all, no one can resist a hero with a great medal. Don’t all the best movies end that way? The underdog hockey team rallies to win the championship trophy. The daring space warrior gets a medal draped around her neck for saving the universe. The orphan prince gets his shiny crown at the end. It’s the perfect ending for my presentation too. My secret weapon for the first-place prize!
Bisa comes into the living room with a wooden box. Chills run through me. It’s the medal I’ve heard about all my life and never seen. I guide Bisa where to sit. “Okay, so I’m thinking you sit here on your chair. With the window behind me, we’ll have perfect lighting.” Bisa takes his seat, still holding the wooden case in his hands. I pull the sheer drapes across the window to give the setting a golden glow, a tip I learned on a photography blog. “You’ll open the box and I’ll snap a bunch of shots. Just look natural. Ready?”
He nods. I take a deep breath, hold the camera up, and focus it. He opens the box slowly, I zoom in, but the box is empty. I blink rapidly and look again, but there’s still nothing where the Medal of Honor should be. No sky-blue ribbon. No shiny, star-shaped award.
“Bisa, where is your medal?” I gasp.
I lower my camera, half expecting Bisa to yell, “April Fool’s!” but he doesn’t. He pulls a photo out of the box instead.
“Bisa, please tell me this is some sort of joke,” I say. “You have the medal, right? Did it fall out on the stairs?” My face is turning hotter the longer he stays silent. My heart beats fast.
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, mija, but I gave the award away a long time ago.”
What? “W-why would you do that?” I stammer. Who could he possibly have given it to? If my parents find out about this, they will flip out. “Do Mom and Dad know?”
“Nope! Only you know and maybe some of the guys at the Forum,” he says. I slump down on the couch. I don’t want to be first in our family to know because I don’t want any of this to be true. What about my picture for my project? What am I going to do now?
“Who did you give it to?” I wonder briefly if there’s a way to get it back.
“You know why I won the award, right?” he asks.
I nod. The story of my bisabuelo’s heroics during a battle in Italy was described in the documentary and in the newspapers. Every single Veterans or Memorial Day, the governor or mayor invites him to speak about how he took down a nest of machine guns, but my bisa isn’t comfortable talking about it. He says it sounds too much like he’s bragging. He doesn’t believe in bragging. Instead he likes to tell stories about the soldiers he knew and the many ways people can help veterans coming home. Everyone enjoys his stories.
“Well, after the documentary was released, one of the grandchildren of a man in my unit looked me up. His grandfather was Olin Baxter. Anyway, he came all the way from Loganville, Georgia, to visit me. He’d seen the documentary and wanted to meet the man that served with his grandpa. Olin was one of the best men I ever knew. He was a brother to me, so I gave the medal to his grandson. This is a picture of Olin and me during the war.”
“Oh, Bisa …” I ignore the photo and instead bury my face into my hands. My secret weapon against Sara is poof, gone. “The president gave it to you. I can’t believe you gave it away.”
Bisabuelo shakes his head. “I won that award doing what any other soldier would have done in my same situation. His grandpa, on the other hand, made the ultimate sacrifice.”
I know that means Olin died, but disappointment bubbles up inside me. “This is so not fair,” I say. “Here I am trying to get an award to put on the family shelf and you’re giving them away!”
Great-Gramps puts the photo of Olin back into the box. He closes it gently. “Mija, that medal was never mine. I always felt like it belonged to the men who died. For me, giving it to Olin’s grandson was the right thing to do.”
“What do I do now?” I say. “You holding the medal was going to be my winning shot.”
“I’m sorry, mija, I didn’t realize how important having a photo of me and my medal would be to your contest. My apologies, mija, but I hope you’ll understand.”
No, I don’t understand. I’ll never understand.
“Let’s take one more photo anyway,” Bisa says. He sits forward with the medal-less box cradled in his hands, ready for the picture to be taken. He waits for me. I don’t really feel like taking the photo anymore. How will I ever win this contest now?
“What’s the point?” I say.
“Please, for me, Allie.” The lighting from the living room window casts a golden glow around his face. I step forward and raise the camera to take a few pictures. The only thing that would make the photo more perfect is if he had the actual medal in his hands. This feels like an icy cold avalanche just as I reached the mountain peak. All is lost. I look down at my mismatched shoes and socks and want to cry. Stupid shoes. Stupid tradition. Stupid medal. Stupid contest. Stupid me.
“Now if you haven’t already done so, please double-check your subject line,” says Mrs. Wendy. She hovers over us in the computer lab. Most of the class has already submitted their contest entries from home, but there are still a few like me who need to submit it today.
Mrs. Wendy seems more nervous than all of us put together. She thinks we’re going to mess up a submission rule and be disqualified. I know the submission instructions forward and backward. I’m not about to lose this contest to Sara because I didn’t use the correct online application or proper subject line. No way!
Victor is sitting in the reading
lounge with Ethan and Diego. I never got a chance to call him last night. I was feeling too bummed about Bisa giving away his beautiful medal. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Even Secret could see I didn’t want company last night. He hung out for a while with me in my bedroom and then moved on to Aiden’s room. Cats hate being ignored.
Sara is in the computer room five seats down from me. Hayley is helping her submit her entry. A few days ago, seeing them together laughing and helping each other would have hurt my feelings, but now I could care less. Who needs her anyway?
My presentation is done. And even without the photo I wanted of Great-Gramps with his medal, I think it will beat Sara’s song. I started it with a photo of Great-Gramps as a young soldier and ended it with the image of him receiving the Medal of Honor from President Truman. It’s a photo from the newspaper. It’s not the secret-weapon shot I wanted so badly, but hopefully it’ll be enough to win. My entire reputation at Sendak and as a Velasco is riding on this contest.
Victor takes the seat next to me. “You’ve already submitted your photo essay?”
“I’m about to. I just need to click submit.”
“Hurry up so you can sit with me in the reading lounge. Mrs. Wendy said that if we’re not submitting contest entries today, we could hang out there and read whatever we wanted. Diego found a new comic book series about zombie cats.”
“Zombie cats?” I look around and catch Diego and Ethan watching me from across the library. When they see I notice them, they turn away. “Is everyone talking about me and what I said to Sara yesterday at lunch?”
“Sort of, but it’s no big deal. Everyone thinks Hayley started it because … well, she sort of starts everything, right?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “I wanted to say sorry for not saying good-bye to you yesterday after everything. I felt bad about leaving my tray and stomping off.”
Victor shrugs. “No worries, Allie, but Sara was really upset. Grace told me that Sara was thinking of not submitting her song for the contest, but I guess she’s decided to do it after all.” He glances over at Sara and Hayley.
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