Pickle (16 page)

“Because you're a coward.”

“Because they are secret!”

“Oh, I already know your mom uses salsa from jars at the restaurant,” he said.

“She does not. Take it back.” Hector just glared at me. “Take it back now, Hector.”

“Forget it. Why don't you have her sell the stupid pickles you're always making with your precious club? Huh?” He pushed my shoulder. I felt the top of my head getting hot and my fingers tingled. “Your pickles are probably so gross, your own mom wouldn't eat them.”

“You know why you can't be in the pickle club, Hector? Because you can't keep a secret. If you knew what happened in pickle club, you'd go tell your grandma.”

“I would not.”

“Well, they all think you would,” I said. Hector flinched.

“What do
you
think?” He glared at me.

“I think you tattled to your grandma about something somebody
else
drew on the building. Something I got in trouble for!”

“I said I was sorry,” Hector said.

“That wasn't the only time! Don't you remember when Bean stuck gum under the desk? You told on her and she got in trouble. She had to scrape gum out from under all the tables, and a lot of that wasn't even hers.”

“That happened almost a year ago! I haven't told on anybody since,” he yelled.

“They don't trust you!” It felt too warm in the hall. “You've got to grow up and stop worrying if you're doing things your mean old grandma's way. I'm doing things
my
way. With kids who don't care what the principal will say about it. It's not like we're hurting anybody.”

Hector shook his head and turned toward the stairs.

“Have a nice life,” he said.

It only took me seven steps to crack. If I ever want to join the C.I.A. or something, all they have to do is ask Hector about this particular incident. They'll see that I take pressure like a wet noodle. I felt like I was going to explode before he got to the first landing.

“We don't make pickles. Not really. We only made the pickled eggs for the fair,” I said. Hector stopped, but he didn't turn around. “We pull pranks. Like the balls, and the party, and the foam in the fountains. That was all us. And it's SECRET. It's a SECRET CLUB. If your grandma found out we would all be in serious trouble. Just for having a little fun. And if you were there, you would
tell
her about us. You'd get punished. I'd get punished. And the rest of them, too. You probably wouldn't think what we do was fun anyway. Don't you understand?” I couldn't get enough air. My hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

“Why do you do it then?” Hector turned around. “If so many people could get in so much trouble, why do you keep doing it?”

“Because sometimes life should just be fun, Hector,” I said. “We shouldn't have to worry about what teachers and parents and
principals
tell us to do every second of every day! When do we get to choose? I'm choosing now.”

“You don't have to do stuff like that just to impress your new friends. Just be yourself.”

“I'm not trying to impress anybody! I'm making my
own
choices. To have fun. My way. People don't even know it's us,” I said, but he was already shaking his head.

“I already guessed you were the one doing that stuff. Jerk.” His words fell down the stairs and landed on my chest.

“Come on, Hector. Don't go away mad. Can I at least get our eggs?” I don't think he heard me over the door slamming.

 

37

Just a Second

I know what you are thinking.

You think I should have kept my big yap shut and not told Hector about the club. Right? I'm in trouble, and the pickle makers are right there with me. This is going to be so much worse than The Graffiti Incident. I can't really think of any instances since then, when I know for sure that Hector spilled the beans, but let's just say there have been suspicious circumstances. Principal Lebonsky is not psychic, but she knows things. Unless she's got an army of eavesdroppers, my guess is she's getting her information from Hector. I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Loyalty is everything. I'm loyal. At the restaurant, the guys in the kitchen do all kinds of crazy stuff, and I never tell. Besides, if I did, they'd probably stop teaching me how to insult people in Spanish. And then they'd start telling on me when I hid out in the kitchen telling jokes or eating
tres leches
cake in the walk-in, instead of busing tables or whatever gross thing they have me doing. My life would be ruined.

What am I saying? If Hector tells his grandma about the P.T.A., then we will all be in a big world of Lebonsky hurt. My life
will
be ruined. I will have no friends. Sure, people will admire me from afar, but if I don't have Hector
or
the pickle makers, I'll have to hang out with Finn Romo, and he talks about what his pet lizards are doing way too much. All of my real friends will be gone, and who can blame them.

So, let's recap. A week until the Pioneer Fair, and we have no pickles. Or pickled things. Or time to make pickled things. We would have had the principal's pickled eggs, but Hector stole them.

My oldest friend, Hector Lebonsky, hates me. I can feel it coming up through the squeaky floorboards with his grandma's cooking smells. Cabbage soup and loathing. Marinara with a side of rage. Oatmeal and animosity.

We are not getting our eggs back.

We are doomed. Hector is going to tell Principal Lebonsky everything.

Are we all caught up now? Great. Moving on.

 

38

Extreme Volleyball

“CAN YOU HEAR ME? IS THIS LOUD ENOUGH? THERE'S A NOTE HERE FROM THE P.T.A. THAT THERE'S A PROBLEM WITH THE MICROPHONE AND WE NEED TO SPEAK AS LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE.” Pat, the secretary, shrieked from the P.A. speakers through the gym. Most kids covered their ears. Except Bean. She was smiling as she unzipped her hoodie. She held it open and smirked at me.

“I'M OFFICIAL NOW, CHUMPS!” was written across the front of her T-shirt in red, iron-on block letters. She'd drawn what looked like a pickle sticking its tongue out underneath to drive home the message. Probably with the same marker that she had used for the note on the intercom. She marched over to Oliver and Frank and showed them, too. No points for subtlety. Frank gave her a thumbs-up.

“THERE WILL BE AN ASSEMBLY ON THE RAINBOW OF PROPER NUTRITION ON MONDAY. OH, AND DON'T FORGET TO BRING DONATIONS FOR THE BAKE SALE MONDAY. BAKE! SALE! MONDAY! AND THE PIONEER FAIR IS THIS SATURDAY MORNING. COME ONE, COME ALL FOR A TRIP THROUGH HISTORY! PARTICIPATING CLUBS ARRIVE AT TEN TO SET UP. DOORS OPEN FOR STUDENTS AND THE GENERAL PUBLIC AT ELEVEN. ELEVEN!”

The speaker clicked off. Coach Capell blew the whistle for extreme volleyball. It was sort of like regular volleyball, but with no net. And tackling. Standing still wasn't advised. It's not really the place to be thinking about the Pioneer Fair, either. I got knocked down six times.

 

39

Emergency Meeting

“We don't have any pickles for the Pioneer Fair,” I said. The P.T.A. sat in the back booth at Lupe's. I was technically supposed to be helping out in the kitchen, but I was taking a break for a “school project.”

“What if we did something else at the fair?” Bean said.

“Like what?” Oliver said.

“You know…” Bean whispered. “A prank.”

The idea of a prank at the fair had occurred to me, but I hadn't thought of anything really fantastic that we could do yet.

“No,” Sienna said.

“No?!” Bean put her eyebrows up, like she dared Sienna to say it again.

“I mean,
please
no. Could we skip it? I think my dad is coming to visit, and I don't want anything to mess it up,” Sienna said. Bean went back to rearranging the salt and pepper shakers with the flowers my dad puts on the tables.

“That's all right with me,” I said. “We'll skip the fair as the P.T.A. But, what are we going to do as the League of Pickle Makers?”

“We
totally
need to make something great,” Sienna said. “Something my dad would like!” I really wanted to think of something great that Sienna's dad would like. Diego brought some
pan dulce
and
horchata
out of the kitchen. He used the big glasses, because my mom and dad weren't around.

“Well, I'm not sure what kind of pickles we can make in four days,” I said.

Oliver sat up and faced Diego. “Can you make
escabeche
?”

“Of course I can.” Diego looked offended.

“Can you show us? Like, teach us how to do it?” Oliver asked.

“Sure, if you guys wanna learn.”

“What's
escabeche
?” Frank said.

“It's spicy carrots and onions and stuff that my mom gives out with chips and salsa after people order,” I said. “That stuff.” I pointed to the jar on the table.

“It's
pickled
vegetables. They're pickles!” Oliver practically shouted. “Can we have them ready in three days?”

“It's better if they cure longer, but sure, they'd still be good. I bet they'd win your contest. You guys eat some
pan dulce
while I get the stuff ready. Just give me a minute,” Diego said.

“Nice one, Clevoliver. But wait, they didn't have Mexican restaurants in pioneer days,” Bean said. “The judges aren't going to accept it.” I thought about it.

“What if there were Mexican pioneers?” I said. “I bet there were.”

“I've never seen any in the pictures. It's always just a bunch of white guys,” Oliver said.

“It doesn't mean that they weren't there,” I said. “Hang on, I'll be right back.” I went into the back office where my mom writes the checks and stuff. I sat down at her computer and started searching. I couldn't find any Mexicans anywhere, and I got nervous, until I got a hit on the third page of results. I tapped the print button and ran back to the table.

“Some of the first city settlers were migrants from Mexico,” I said. I felt kind of proud. I knew that my mom's family came from Los Angeles and my dad's parents were in Durango, Mexico, so the settlers didn't really have anything to do with me. But, it still made me feel good that they were there. I thought about Mrs. Wentworth, my old kindergarten teacher. She made me do my Thanksgiving pilgrim puppet over because I had used the brown construction paper she'd set out for the Native American puppets. Turns out, there were brown pilgrims after all. For a minute I got worried that the others might not want to make a Mexican version of pickles. But, everyone was on board. I actually felt excited about pickling.

“Won't Principal Lebonsky get mad that we're not making eggs?” Oliver said. “And what about Ms. Ruiz? She said to pick a recipe out of her book.”