Zack Delacruz Read online

  Sophia Segura was the only girl in sixth grade with an eighth-grade boyfriend. This would’ve been a bigger deal except this was Sophia’s second time in sixth grade. Rumor had it that last year she stole a spoon from the cafeteria and stuck the handle in an outlet, blowing out all the lights in the sixth-grade hall. That’s why we all have to use plastic Sporks now. Like Principal Akins says, actions have consequences. Anyway, let’s just say she was not the kind of girl you want to coat with spit. Sophia oozed popularity, and a few girls would do anything to get some of it on them. But since spit wasn’t popularity, her clique rustled in their bags, scrounging for tissues for Sophia.

  Mrs. Darling’s phone rang on the other side of the library.

  “I bet I know what this is about,” she sang as she walked behind the checkout desk to answer.

  José leaped up to fill the dead air. “We still don’t care!” He was always ready to go whenever an interruption happened. He was like a Comedy Central app that activated whenever an adult wasn’t listening.

  He’s called El Pollo Loco—the crazy chicken. More like El Bully Loco if you asked me. Using his hollowed-out Bic pen as a microphone, El Pollo Loco began his comedy roast of Janie. “This chick brings a whole new meaning to ‘say it, don’t spray it.’”

  The class burst into laughter.

  Still on the phone, Mrs. Darling waved her hand at the class.

  Somehow, somewhere, somebody decided José was cool because he made us laugh. I had to admit sometimes he was funny, but it felt wrong to laugh when José was being plain cruel. He was sixth grade’s most popular entertainment. This was fine—as long as you weren’t the punch line of his jokes.

  José placed both hands on the side of his face, widening his eyes. “Sssseriousssly! What do you think you are? A human sprinkler?” I waited for someone to stand up for Janie—to back her up like a caboose.

  “Bustamante.” Janie stood. “Janie Bustamante.”

  Okay, you also need to know Janie watches classic movies all the time. She quoted them whether it made sense or not.

  “Any James Bond movie. Nineteen sixty-eight to the present.” She bowed for imaginary applause and sat down.

  After every famous movie line, Janie just had to tell you what movie it’s from. She didn’t know anti-bullying tip number one: Don’t ask for it. And she sure didn’t know the word quiet.

  Unlike Janie, I knew quiet. The Discovery Channel would say I had adapted to survive. I didn’t even get up to sharpen my pencil during class. I kept a little yellow sharpener in my front pocket, so I didn’t have to walk in front of everybody.

  “Janie, is it true that you were the reason they invented spit guards on salad bars?” José rocked his head back and forth, air boxing his fists toward her like an MMA fighter.

  “I hate sssalad!” Janie yelled.

  “I can tell!” José laughed. “Could she make this any easier, folks?”

  I looked around the library. Maybe Cliché would back Janie up like a caboose, I thought. But she sat there, arms crossed, rubbing her arms like they were cold. Why wasn’t anyone stopping this?

  José kept the zingers flying. “I bet the only letters of the alphabet you know are KFC.”

  Janie stared forward, her brown eyes glazing over, ears reddening.

  I should’ve stood up for her. But if I’d said something, it wouldn’t be long before I was the one being embarrassed. For instance, since my name is Zack Delacruz, José called me Shrimp Delacruz—like a bad pun on the seafood dish Shrimp Veracruz you order at Mexican restaurants. I get it. I’m small. I’m Mexican. Hi-larious.

  “Janie’s face is like an onion”—José watched all the nodding faces—“because it makes me want to cry.” He twisted his fists in front of his eyes.

  I wondered where Janie’s caboose was. When was it going to arrive? I knew I couldn’t be the caboose. That would have been in direct violation of my plan to fade into the yellow cinder-block walls like scrubbed graffiti.

  Ima Goodfriend had said: “Stand up when someone’s being bullied. Be the caboose.” Thing was, nobody ever did. Not before the anti-bullying assemblies; not after. I supposed everyone was relieved it wasn’t them being teased.

  Ima’s words argued with me in my head: “You stand up. You be the change.”

  Janie looked around, her wet eyes asking, where is my caboose?

  “Hey, I’m an explorer like in social studies!” José walked right up to Janie. “I just found a new continent.”

  This wasn’t my problem.

  “She’s so big I don’t even think Dora could explore her.” José circled her.

  Janie bowed her head.

  “If she did …”

  “Stop it, José!”

  The room went silent.

  Finally someone had the guts to be the caboose.

  Everyone looked to see who had stood up for Janie Bustamante, the human sprinkler, the girl who recites movie lines and doesn’t know the word quiet.

  I was as shocked as anybody.

  It was me.

  CHAPTER 3

  IN CHARGE AND IN TROUBLE

  Everybody froze, eyes wide, mouths hanging open.

  I eyed my friend Marquis for a clue on how to get out of this mess. But Marquis shrugged, playing with the zipper on his jacket, the whites of his eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  Oh, so now he’s shy. I knew that move. I invented it.

  I avoided eye contact with José by staring at Marquis’s zipper, wishing I could get everybody’s eyes off me, one, two, three. Especially José’s. I knew I was next in the roast lineup now.

  Mrs. Darling stomped over and sang, “It’s time to reveal the big secret!”

  “I’ll be back after a short intermission,” José whispered, glaring at me like I owed him money.

  “Is everything all right here?” Mrs. Darling asked, sensing a problem.

  “Oh, it will be,” José said, arms crossed, not taking his eyes off me.

  What was I supposed to do? Tattle? Yeah, that’d work out well.

  “Well, that was Principal Akins on the phone, and it’s official. Sixth grade has a stupendous opportunity, and I’ve finally gotten approval to tell you.” Mrs. Darling cleared her throat. “For the first time in the history of Davy Crockett Middle School, the sixth grade has a chance”—Mrs. Darling paused for dumb-matic effect—“to attend the seventh- and eighth-grade dance!”

  “Oooh, I want to go to that,” Cliché Jones said. “The theme is ‘A Night at the Alamo.’ That’s so romantic.”

  Romantic? Did she remember what happened at the Alamo? It was a massacre. That was just one of the many problems of having a building for a mascot. All I remembered about the Alamo was that it was smaller than you think and it sat right next to River Center Mall downtown. Seriously. And in second grade, I got a coonskin cap at the Alamo gift shop.

  I pictured the dance with a bunch of guys wearing coonskin caps, defending the Alamo with rifles while getting funky. It didn’t seem romantic to me.

  A spitball hit my neck and stuck. I didn’t need to look; I knew where it came from.

  But even José started listening once he heard chance and dance in the same sentence. Sixth graders had never been allowed to attend the fall dance. This was huge news. And better than that, everybody, including José, was mucho more interested in the dance than who stood up for Janie.

  “The sixth graders get to go because of me,” Sophia reported, pointing her chin up, watching us for our reaction.

  Unlike me, Sophia didn’t mind people looking at her. As her hoop earrings sparkled under the fluorescent lights, I wondered what it felt like to not be afraid of attention.

  “My boyfriend, Raymond Montellongo, the president of eighth grade, came up with the idea so I could go with him.” She flipped her hair back.

  Raymond was actually president of the student council, but he might as well have been president of the school.

  Sophia’s clique clapped like trained seals.
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  “Be that as it may, I will be the faculty advisor for the sixth-grade fund-raiser challenge.” Mrs. Darling grabbed the fringe lapels of her Pepto Bismol–pink jacket.

  “And”—Sophia stood for this part—“we get to wear whatever we want.” She looked around the room, nodding.

  Everyone gasped like they’d just won the scratch-off lottery.

  Wearing whatever we wanted was big news. At Davy Crockett Middle School, we are forced to wear a school uniform every day: black or red collared shirt with khaki bottoms.

  “Sixth grade will be able to attend the seventh- and eighth-grade dance,” Mrs. Darling continued, “on the condition that they sell forty-eight hundred dollars worth of Nation’s Best chocolate bars in a week. The chocolate bars have been under lock and key in the storage closet at the back of the library, waiting for this very moment.

  Everyone’s head turned toward the closed closet doors.

  “If every sixth grader sells at least one box of Nation’s Best Chocolate Bars, then all grades will attend the dance for the first time.”

  “You had me at chocolate bars.” Janie stood. “Inspired by Jerry Maguire, nineteen ninety-six, starring the ineffable Renée Zellweger.”

  “Inspired by chocolate, more like it,” José said, “Am I right?” He punched Chewy Johnson in the arm.

  Janie stuck out her tongue.

  José stared at me to see if I’d dare interrupt him again.

  Nope, Ms. Goodfriend, I was never cut out to be caboose material. This was my stop. I was jumping off the runaway train before it sailed off a cliff.

  “I have a peanut allergy, so I can’t sell anything with nuts,” Cliché said, touching her stomach.

  “Did you see on the news about the kid who got killed selling candy door to door?” Marquis asked, zipping his jacket nervously.

  Cliché looked at Marquis and asked, “Who are you going to the dance with?”

  He zipped even faster.

  My stomach ached. I hoped everyone would keep talking. Soon they’d forget all about me standing up for Janie. Then I could slowly fade into the background again, a quiet avoider. Who was I kidding? José wouldn’t stop. That was who he was—El Pollo Loco. His signature move was making people laugh, and mine was a big blank nothing.

  “I bet Zack’s going to the dance with his new girlfriend, Spiterella!” José pointed at me. “Maybe your dad can take you in that big orange Instant Lube van he drives.”

  How could José remember what my dad drove? Dad only dropped me off once in his disgusting bright-orange Instant Lube van. Why did bullies have to have such good memories about the bad stuff?

  “Yeah, the orange van is like a pumpkin already!” Sophia high-fived José.

  I crumpled into my chair like a wadded-up math test, shutting my eyes, trying to become invisible. But I soon learned that once you squeeze the toothpaste out of the tube, it doesn’t go back inside.

  “Aw, look, Zack is being all quiet. Is Janie the cocktail sauce to your shrimp?” José taunted. His mom works at Luby’s Cafeteria, so he knows food. “Is she the liner lettuce for your platter?”

  My stomach twisted. I was chum in the water, and the sharks were circling. The voices swirled around me. Maybe I could say something mean back.

  Nope. I had tried that once at my old school, and it made it even worse. In fifth grade, on the playground at recess, a big lug named Auggie Sarabia shoved me to the ground. I stood up and tightened my fist.

  “Don’t even, runt!”Auggie yelled.

  My tongue got bigger and filled my mouth. “Yeah, it flakes one to flow one.”

  Then everybody laughed harder and my face turned redder.

  “Oh, he don’t even know how to talk good.” Auggie pushed me down in the grass, staining my khakis and my reputation.

  Mrs. Darling knocked me out of memory lane by flashing the library lights on and off to get our attention. But everybody kept talking, so she kept flashing—on and off, on and off. It looked like a club on MTV.

  José lifted his hands above his head, jerked them back, and danced. The class giggled.

  “That’s awesome!” Sophia burst into laughter and began one of her near cheers: “Go, Loco, Go, Loco! Go, go, go, Loco!” Not a real cheer, but almost.

  Even Marquis broke up.

  I had to do something. And fast. If José could be cool by acting like the school fool, maybe I could get laughs too. I mean, my grandma always says I am funny enough to be on TV. Maybe my class just didn’t know cool comic me, like Grandma did. Maybe if I danced even goofier, everybody’d think I was class clown instead of Janie’s hero.

  I went all in, pumping my arms up and dancing around like I was a Disney Channel stud. The class chuckled, so I popped and locked. When José noticed I was getting more laughs, he did the robot.

  It became a dance-off.

  Neither of us noticed that the lights had stopped flashing. Neither of us noticed that Mrs. Darling stood right behind us. When we did, I instantly knew why the class was laughing so hard. My comic dance career ended. Suddenly.

  “Zack and José seem to be very involved today.” Mrs. Darling’s eyes widened, looking back and forth at us, like she was a witch and we were Hansel and Ghetto. Man, that lady had horror-movie eyes down.

  “I guess you could say they’re leaders.”

  Blood rushed to my face.

  “Just what this project needs: people who can command attention.” Mrs. Darling pushed us forward, her hands gripping our necks from behind—a bit too tight, I’d like to add. “Let me introduce you to my new helpers, the two young men in charge of the sixth-grade–dance fund-raiser: Zack and José.”

  CHAPTER 4

  VOLUN-TOLD

  The library fell so silent you could have heard Sophia’s eyelash paper clip drop.

  Well played, Mrs. Darling. Well played.

  “They can’t do it, Miss. José’s funny, but he can’t be in charge!” Sophia said, brushing her hair, which was now even shinier from the Bustamante spit conditioner. “And Zack”—she pointed her brush at me—“I didn’t even know he was in this class till today.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Darling interrupted.

  “Yeah, I’m allergic to shrimp,” José added, looking over at me. “Achoo-ee!”

  “We must respect each other, and I know that these two fine young men will do a stupendous job being in charge.” Mrs. Darling released our necks. “Gentlemen, stay in the library with me. The rest of you please line up to go back to class.”

  I know what’s what. Teachers tell you you’re real smart or a leader, so you can do their jobs for them. What do my mom and dad pay taxes for? “Oh, Zack, your writer’s notebook looks so nice. Help Chewy organize his.”

  Whatever. Aren’t there some child labor laws or something?

  After our class left, Mrs. Darling leaned in. “Thank you two ever so much for volunteering.” Her lipstick was smudged, making her look like The Joker.

  “I didn’t volunteer, I was volun-told,” José reminded her, rubbing his neck.

  “Mr. Soto, you volunteered when you came up to the front of the class, now didn’t you? And what perfect people to lead the dance fund-raiser: two guys who know some moves!” Mrs. Darling closed her eyes, bent both knees, and tapped her foot to the left and then the right, rolling her arms and twisting her shoulders.

  José and I froze in horror as Mrs. Darling did the old librarian version of the Dougie. It was like a car accident—you wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. As Fresh D scooped her hip down lower and lower, a loud pop startled her eyes open.

  “Miss.” José patted her shoulder. “The Dougie is hip hop, not hip pop.”

  See? That was funny.

  Mrs. Darling rubbed her hip. “I have something for the two of you to do, and it needs to be done pronto.”

  She waved for us to follow her to the dark storage closet at the back of the library.

  Throwing the door open, she spun around slowly, her hand on her sore hip
. “Ta-da!” Can I just say the storage room looked like a good place for an axe murderer to hide?

  She clicked on the lights. Stacked from the floor to the ceiling were brown boxes. Boxes and boxes and boxes. On each box, NATION’S BEST CHOCOLATE BARS was written in navy letters. The stacks of boxes, arranged like a brick wall, were taller than me, taller than any of us. And somehow, I’d have to scale that cardboard-and-chocolate wall or be known for the rest of my life as the loser who stood up for Janie Bustamante and also ruined the dance for sixth grade.

  Who was I kidding? I knew how labels stuck. Everyone knew what happened to Poops McGillicutty in second grade. I mean Bruce. See? Everyone was just one burrito lunch and a long gym class away from being Poops McGillicutty.

  My stomach rumbled.

  “This afternoon you will distribute all the boxes to the sixth grade.” Mrs. Darling walked over and pointed at one of the boxes. “Each sixth grader should take at least one case. If they do, then by the end of next week, if all goes well …,” she sang, “you should be dancin’, yeah!” Striking a pose, she pointed her right arm in the air.

  Before I could get the words out to explain why I couldn’t do this job, José beat me to it.

  “Miss,” José interrupted, “I’m feeling boxed in.” Laughing, he slapped his knee.

  Mrs. Darling wasn’t falling for the comedy stylings of one El Pollo Loco.

  And just like that, he became all business. “Look, lady, I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m not put in charge of nothing.”

  José winked at Mrs. Darling like they had an understanding. “I am sure Loser, pardon me, Zack Delacruz can handle this on his own.” He glared at me.

  Mrs. Darling’s crazy eyes rolled around, letting him know that wasn’t happening. “I am perfectly aware you haven’t had the opportunity to demonstrate what good leaders you can be, but I can see from your energy and get-up-and-go, you will be perfect together.”

  She turned. “No more worries. Chop! Chop!” She picked up a can of Rapstar Energy Drink off the table and chugged it down.