Sal and Gabi Break the Universe (A Sal and Gabi Novel)

by Carlos Hernandez

  “No,” said Principal Torres. “You were having a bad day. Now you’re having the worst day of your young life. Because now I have to expel you.”

  What? “Wait!” I interjected. “It wasn’t that big a deal, Principal Torres. He shouldn’t get expelled just for knocking my med bag out of my hands.”

  She pushed her huge glasses up her face. “Unfortunately, Mr. Robles has a history at this school. Since the moment he got here, I have been bending over backward to try to give him a proper education. Do you remember, Mr. Robles, how I helped you to complete the paperwork last year so that you could attend this very special magnet school?”

  Yasmany hunched over even more. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember, at the end of last year, after all the fights you got into and the problems you caused me, the little heart-to-heart we had, right here in this office?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did I tell you then, Mr. Robles?”

  “That I was on probation.”

  “That you were on probation. One more altercation with another student and it would be a-di-os.” She pronounced “adios” like an American, with three syllables. I wondered for a minute if she was a Latina who didn’t know Spanish. But she cured me of that idea with her next sentence: “Y si no tienes ninguna defensa para ofrecer, te digo ‘¡Chao pesca’o!’ ahora mismo.”

  My own Spanish is pretty okay, though I hadn’t gotten to practice it much since Mami died. “¡Chao pesca’o!” basically means “See you later, alligator!” And “defensa” means “defense.” She was asking him if he had anything to say in his defense. Or it would be bye-bye, Yasmany.

  And, I mean, I clearly wasn’t the first kid he’d bullied. Chacho was in big trouble.

  “Yes,” he said. He looked at the door, then back at Principal Torres. Then the door. Then Torres. “I will have a defense. In a minute.”

  Principal Torres cocked her head. She almost laughed but inhaled instead. “In a minute? Mr. Robles, the time is now. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  He didn’t look up or raise his voice or anything. He just said, “I just need a second, Principal Torres. My lawyer is coming.”

  Now she did laugh. “Your lawyer?”

  Her office door opened. In walked a very recognizable seventh grader, bringing in her own chair from the hallway and wearing a big smile on her face. I knew her, even though I’d only been at this school for a few days. It was Gabi Reál: student council president, editor of the school newspaper, and, apparently, Yasmany’s lawyer.

  “I came as fast as I could,” she said. “So, what’d I miss?”

  GABI PUT HER chair next to mine and sat down. Not next to her “client,” as you might think she would. She offered her hand for a proper, businesslike shake.

  “Hi there! My name is Gabrielle Reál, and I am your student council president, duly elected at the end of last year to serve all my fellow students. I want you to know that, even though right now I am serving as Yasmany’s counsel, this in no way means I have anything against you. I am your advocate, too, and when you need representation someday, you will see how well I defend you from miscarriages of justice. What’s your name?”

  I just kind of blinked back at Gabi, trying to take her in.

  It’s a scientific fact that not all your body parts grow at the same rate, which may explain why Gabi’s smile made up three-quarters of her lower face. I mean, she had a mouth like her mama was a shark and her daddy was shark food. It also probably looked bigger because Gabi was short. (Trust me, I don’t mean that as a burn. I’m short, too. I’m just saying that three raccoons in a trench coat would be taller than she was.) Her skin was the color of the Pinewood Derby race car I made in shop class last year, after I’d brushed on two layers of stain. She had poofy black hair that she’d tried to control with Shaolin-monk barrettes. I’d never seen barrettes that looked like Shaolin monks before. They were fighting each other all over her head, and they kind of made me want to wear barrettes. She wore jeans, running shoes, and a T-shirt that said WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY. —LAUREL THATCHER ULRICH. Every fingernail on the hand she held out to me was painted a different color.

  Sometimes the most honest response is the best. I shook her hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Sal Vidón. You seem like someone I can work with.”

  Gabi smiled, but she side-eyed me as we shook hands. I don’t think she understood what I meant. Fine with me. As a magician, that’s exactly how I want people to react.

  “Ahem,” said Principal Torres.

  Gabi let go of my hand so she could get up and shake hands with Principal Torres. “I am so sorry, Principal Torres, I didn’t mean to waste your time! I’m sorry for being late.”

  “Not sure how you could be late, since I didn’t even know you were coming.”

  Principal Torres had the brutal timing of an insult comedienne—or a middle school principal.

  “You…didn’t know?” Gabi looked at Yasmany. “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

  “Yes I did!” said Yasmany.

  Principal Torres shook her head. “You said ‘your lawyer’ was coming, Yasmany. And while it’s true that, one day, Gabi will graduate at the top of her law class, that won’t be for a few years yet.”

  Gabi shook her head exactly the way Principal Torres had. “I don’t understand why you make things so hard for yourself, Yasmany. When you texted me, I told you to tell Principal Torres I was coming.” She turned back to Principal Torres. “You must think I just barged into your office uninvited. I am so sorry!”

  “It’s okay, Ms. Reál. Frankly, I’m glad you’re here. I’m about two seconds away from having to expel Mr. Robles”—she talked over Gabi, who had started to interrupt her—“but I would love to be convinced that there’s some way he can be allowed to stay. So convince me.”

  Gabi straightened up, squinted her eyes, and nodded, and all the Shaolin monks in her hair nodded along. “I will, Principal Torres. I am here to present vital evidence on the incident in question.”

  Principal Torres settled into her chair for a good listen. “What do you know, Gabi?”

  “I have gathered testimony from eight students, Your Honor.”

  “‘Principal Torres’ will do nicely, thank you.”

  “Oh. Right. Principal Torres, I have eight witnesses willing to testify, under oath—”

  “No one has to testify under oath. This isn’t a trial.”

  “Okay. Ahem,” said Gabi, clearing her throat. Clearly, she’d seen one too many Law & Order reruns. I almost laughed but swallowed it. Gabi collected herself and continued. “Those witnesses swear that Yasmany hasn’t been able to open his locker since the first day of school. Which means Yasmany couldn’t have put a chicken in there, even if he’d wanted to. In fact, the only person who has opened that lock so far this year is Salvador Vidón.”

  “Oh, ri-i-i-ight.” Principal Torres turned her searchlight glasses back on me. “The health code violation and salmonella outbreak waiting to happen. We haven’t gotten to that part yet, have we, Sal? Let’s take a small detour from Yasmany’s bullying—which will not be tolerated under any circumstances—and talk to our number one suspect. Now would be a very good time to fess up, Mr. Vidón. Because if you lie to me, by the time you get out of detention, your grandchildren are going to have to come pick you up from school. Did you put a raw chicken in Yasmany’s locker?”

  I felt my face go hot. The conversation had been going so well for me before Gabi showed up, but now? She’d managed to redirect Principal Torres’s wrath toward me. And I hate it when wrath is directed toward me.

  This would not do. That girl definitely needed to be managed.

  Fine. It was nothing that a little more magic couldn’t handle.

  I sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, and relaxed.

  YOU MIGHT THINK I would find it hard to relax just then. But I’m good at relaxing. Like, really good.

  I can lean back into
life like it’s my favorite armchair. I can zone out so far that my body disappears. I’m like a sponge at the bottom of the ocean, just hanging, absorbing whatever comes my way. Nothing is ugly or beautiful, nothing is good or bad, nothing can hurt me or help me, nothing is anything. I just sit there while time floats on by without me.

  When I lean back into life like that, it’s like I can hear it. Life, so you know, sounds like the snoring that would rumble in your ear if you were resting on the belly of a sleeping giant.

  And if you wait long enough, you’ll be there when the giant wakes up, yawning and stretching.

  The giant likes you, has been your friend since the day you were born. Will even do you favors, if you know how to ask.

  I learned how to ask when my mami died five years ago. “I want my mami!” I cried.

  “Pero ella se murió,” said the giant. It’s a Spanish-speaking giant, and very kind.

  “Then I want my Mami Muerta,” I sniffled.

  And the giant took pity on me and helped me. And gave me way more than I bargained for.

  Here in Principal Torres’s office, I asked the giant to do me another solid. Then I opened my eyes.

  “What chicken?” I asked Principal Torres.

  Gabi, I saw out of the side of my eye, flicked her eyebrows at me, as if to say, It’s your funeral, buddy.

  Principal Torres bowed her head in disappointment before she answered. “I expected better from you, Mr. Vidón. I thought you were an honest young man.”

  “I am.” And I really am. I only say things that are true. At the time. They might not always have been true, and they might not be true in the future, but they are true when I say them.

  “Then explain to me why Mr. Milagros”—he was the school’s chief custodian—“brought you and Yasmany here on account of a whole raw chicken that he had to clean up?”

  “He fell for my illusion, just like everyone else,” I said. “Did you know I am a magician?”

  Yasmany shot up out of his chair and yelled, “He’s a liar!” Between the words “a” and “liar” he added a word that students do not say in front of principals.

  “Sit down, Yasmany!” yelled Gabi. “I told you to let me handle this!”

  “Two weeks’ detention!” said Principal Torres, pointing at him. I think she forgot she was going to expel him for bullying me.

  “But he’s lying, Principal Torres!” Yasmany said desperately. “There was a chicken! I can prove it!”

  “Sit down,” Gabi said through her teeth. She bolted over to him and tried to push him into his seat by the shoulders. “Sal’s digging his own grave.”

  Yasmany looked at Gabi and almost laughed. “You’re like a hamster,” he said. “You can’t move me.”

  “I am your student council president!” she said. “I order you to sit!”

  He let her keep trying to push him down while he kicked his right leg onto Principal Torres’s desk with the easy skill of a pro dancer. Which, since this was a performing arts school, probably meant he was a dancer and not a track champ like I had assumed earlier.

  A bully ballerino. Interesting. There was more to this Yasmany than I had first thought.

  “Check out the blood on my shoe,” he said, pointing at it but glaring at me. “That’s all the proof we need.”

  Gabi and Principal Torres came over to see for themselves. I finally got a good look at Principal Torres’s red pantsuit, which looked like it had been co-designed by Hillary Clinton and Santa Claus.

  I stayed where I was, since I already knew what would happen next.

  “There’s no blood on your shoe,” said Principal Torres.

  Gabi smacked her forehead and left her hand covering one eye. “Why do you insist on making things harder for yourself, Yasmany?”

  Yasmany looked at his shoe, his mouth open. His face went through a cycle of fear expressions, like he was practicing to star in a horror movie. “But there was!” he yelled. “I’m not lying! There was blood on my shoe.” He pointed at me accusingly. “You must have cleaned it off!”

  “When?” I asked, innocent as apple pie.

  The correct answer was “about thirty seconds ago,” when I’d relaxed. But only I knew that. Nobody else could possibly think I’d had the opportunity to do anything to Yasmany’s shoe. And questions can’t be lies.

  “Yas! Ma! Ny!” Gabi almost climbed on his back trying to get him into his seat again. When she got to the third syllable of his name, he finally allowed himself to be pushed down. He fell like deadweight, his foot dragging heavily off the desk.

  Gabi straightened herself, patting down her hair and all its Shaolin monks, and turned to Principal Torres. “I don’t know why Yasmany insists on sabotaging himself, Principal Torres. But I have eight witnesses, remember? And Mr. Milagros! He brought Yasmany and Sal here because he saw the chicken. Mr. Milagros wouldn’t lie. I mean, I can administer a lie-detector test on him, but—”

  “You are not giving anyone a lie-detector test!” Principal Torres said, working very hard not to raise her voice. Then, clearly curious, she added, “Wait. You have a lie detector?”

  The way Gabi smiled and nodded was kind of scary.

  Principal Torres looked tempted for a few seconds. What a principal could do if she always knew when her students were lying to her! But she shook off that dream and said, “We don’t need a lie detector in this case. If Mr. Milagros says there’s a chicken, there’s a chicken.”

  “You should ask him again,” I said.

  Gabi buzzed her lips at me. “Getting desperate, Sal? You’re just trying to buy yourself time. Why would Mr. Milagros change his story?

  “Trick’s over now,” I said, soft and low-key spooky.

  Principal Torres lowered her head and looked at me over her glasses. She didn’t need a lie detector. Her Ghost Rider stare could make any kid spill.

  Any kid but me. For I am a showman. And I live by the magician’s code: Never let them know how the trick is done.

  Since she couldn’t break me with her eyes, she went back behind her desk, sat down, and pressed a button on her phone. “Mr. Milagros,” she said, “are you there?”

  A second later, a crackly walkie-talkie voice with a thick Cuban accent said, “Para servirle.”

  “How is the chicken cleanup going?”

  “¿Bueno?” he began, stretching the word out to three seconds. Usually, “bueno” means “good,” but the way he said it then meant “welp.” And that’s all he said.

  “Mr. Milagros, are you still there?”

  “Para servirle.”

  Principal Torres massaged her forehead. “Me puede servir by telling me about the mess you had to clean up.”

  “¿Bueno?”

  She waited five Mississippis, tapping each second out on the desk with her finger. Then, carefully controlling her voice, she asked, “What does ‘bueno’ mean?”

  He sighed. “It’s like this. I went back to the locker to clean it up. Made up a whole new bucket of cleaner for it, bien fuerte. Like, I could mop up a dead body with it, because basically that’s what it was, a dead chicken body. If a student accidentally tripped and fell in my mop bucket, ooh, sería un desastre! It’d turn that kid into Kool-Aid.”

  “The chicken, Mr. Milagros. Did you clean it up?”

  The walkie-talkie crackled as Mr. Milagros put his thoughts in order. “¿Bueno? I was going to. I was all ready to. But when I got to the lockers, no chicken.”

  The other three people in the office looked at me, a little stunned, a little scared, and yeah, I think, a little impressed.

  “Do you mean someone took it?” asked Principal Torres. “Or maybe another custodian cleaned it up before you?”

  “No one cleaned it before me!” he replied defensively. “As soon as I dropped off Yasmany and the new boy in your office, I headed straight back to make up the bucket of cleaner, then straight for the lockers. I’m ten times faster than anyone here. I’m like a greased pig!”

  Gabi gigg
led. Which was unexpected; I wouldn’t have taken her for a giggler. But American Stepmom is always telling me, “People are complex.” This lawyer/shark/politician/journalist was also a giggler. Okay. Cool.

  Principal Torres was the exact opposite of a giggler. “I appreciate the analogy, Mr. Milagros, but we’re not talking about pigs. We’re talking about chickens. If you didn’t clean up the chicken, and no one else cleaned up the chicken, then what happened to the chicken?”

  “¡Qué se yo!” he answered. “Puede ser que un diablo glotón vino y se lo voló. Este mundo está lleno de demonios que se pasan el día entero haciendo trampas y trucos.”

  “What’d he say? What’d he say?” Gabi asked Yasmany, sounding both worried and excited.

  Since Yasmany was too busy staring at me like I’d just turned his mom into a rabbit, I translated for Gabi. “Mr. Milagros has no idea where the chicken could have gone. He thinks maybe a demon ate it off the school floor.”

  “Really?” she said, laughing nervously. “That’s crazy-pants. He wasn’t serious, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Thank you, Mr. Milagros,” said Principal Torres. “We will talk more later.” She ended the call and then folded her hands on her desk. She stared at us so fiercely—each of us, one at a time—that if we were oranges, we would have juiced ourselves on the spot.

  “Well,” Principal Torres said finally, removing her glasses and wiping them with a hankie, “barring some supernatural explanation, I am going to have to conclude that there never really was a chicken, and that Sal is one heck of an illusionist.”

  “No!” said Yasmany, standing up and leaning on the desk. “It was there! Everybody saw it. I saw it. I heard it hit the ground. I got blood splashed on me.”

  Principal Torres stood up and leaned toward Yasmany. “There is no blood on you. Mr. Milagros says that there was no carcass to clean up. And if there’s no chicken, I must acquit ’im. Sal, you are free to return to—”

  But Gabi just couldn’t keep her shark mouth shut.