Pickle (5 page)

She told me that someone would be getting in contact with me about the club, and that she would make a note that I was the pickle president.

I can think of a million things I'd rather be known as than the pickle president. And I don't think Oliver, Frank, or Bean would call me president even if I held them down and moved their lips. But maybe the rest of the school would. I have more than two years left at Fountain Point. President Pickle is something that could stick with you all the way to high school. Maybe I should have started a weight lifting team.

I recognized this as the first test of my new, double identity. Did Clark Kent rip off his glasses and tell the world he was Superman? Did Bruce Wayne take the Batmobile to pick up groceries? No, they did not.

“The other kids won't have to call you President Diaz or anything. It's just for the form,” Pat said.

“‘President Diaz.' I like the sound of that,” I said. “All right, just on the form, though. I think all of the pickle makers should be … equal.” It sounded kind of corny, but Pat looked proud. I left the office while the getting was good.

 

12

Service with a Smile

There were a lot of reservations that night at the restaurant, so my mom and dad both had to work. I asked if I could stay home and watch TV, but they said no. We all headed to Lupe's together.

“We'd just rather have you here with us at night,
m'ijo
,” my mom said, and handed me a clean apron.

“It's a lot of responsibility to be home alone at night,” my dad said. He left the kitchen, and I rolled my eyes at Diego. He stopped stirring the
posole
to raise his hands in surrender. He'll listen when I gripe about my parents, but he won't commiserate with me. Diego's not the kind of guy to complain about his bosses. I went back out into the dining room to find my mom. She was talking to some customers in the front booth and waved me over when she saw me. I didn't see who it was until I was there. Principal Lebonsky and two other principal-looking ladies.

“Good evening, Ben,” Principal Lebonsky said. “I was just asking your mother if it would be possible to have an order of more … traditional enchiladas.” My mom laughed like she does when the health inspector makes a bad knock-knock joke.

“You know, Betty, we've always made our enchiladas that way. It's a custom I learned from my grandmother and
tías
. An old family recipe,” my mom said. She is a little sensitive about the food at the restaurant, and a lot sensitive about family. Our enchiladas come with green chile and a fried egg on top. It's the way our family has always made them. And, by the way, they are perfection.

“I've just never seen them prepared in such a manner,” Principal Lebonsky said. She wasn't saying it like it was cool that my mom did it like that, more like that Mom was wrong to do it differently from what the principal was used to. It was the same way she talked to the kids at school. I wanted to tell them to go eat somewhere else for dinner. Or I wanted my mom to refuse to serve her. Sure, it would be a little extreme, but it would also be totally aces. But, my mom just got her pad and pen out and smiled at them. I stood behind Principal Lebonsky and made a face, but my mom wouldn't look at me.

Principal Lebonsky decided to go with a taco plate instead, and the other ladies ordered fajitas. My mom asked me to take their food out when it was ready. I started to say no, but she stopped me with a look and I nodded. It worked out better for me if they weren't buddies. She said I could keep the tip, which made it better.

“Ben is one of my students at Fountain Point. He has promise, but disciplinary issues,” Principal Lebonsky told the other ladies when I cleared their plates. Like I wasn't even there. And I don't have “disciplinary issues.” The only time I've had detention is for The Graffiti Incident—and that doesn't count because a) it wasn't me, and b) it didn't happen at school. I noticed my mom watching from the kitchen door, so I just put the bill down and walked away from the table.

“Don't stay here too late, Ben. Remember, it's a school night,” Principal Lebonsky said when she came up to the register to pay the bill.

“Oh, I'm going home soon,” I said. Then I thought she might offer to walk me back to the apartment. “I mean, after I help take out the trash and stuff. And I already did my homework for tomorrow.” I thought that would earn me some points. It didn't. She only left me ten percent.

 

13

A Twist in the Plot that Could Not Have Been Foreseen

“Did you think I wouldn't find out, Ben?”

The next day, Ms. Ruiz asked me to come back after school for a quick chat. “
You
have been up to something,” she said in a singsong voice.

I'd been a little jumpy ever since gym class. Rick gave Coach Capell the balls from the Pit of Stink to recycle in P.E. He told us to play dodgeball with them because it would be “mellower” with the little balls. It wasn't so bad until he went to make a phone call. A couple of guys got tennis racquets out of the equipment room to lob the balls harder. There wasn't anything mellow about the whizzing rainbow of pain. And I didn't think the gym could smell any worse, but smacking those balls around really released the aroma. When Coach Capell came back he said we had creativity. I think he meant we had welts.

“So, Ben. I hear you want to create a special team,” Ms. Ruiz wiped off the whiteboard. Were we busted already? “I have to say, it's not what I'd expect from you, but I'm intrigued. What a creative idea. Think of the possibilities.” Her eyes were sparkly and she looked a little breathless. Oh, man. She knew. She totally knew.

“Um, yeah, possibilities,” I said.

“What made you think of doing something like this? Have you been practicing at the restaurant?”

“No! I wouldn't do anything like that in the restaurant.”

“I bet you'd have a lot to work with there. Your parents might be able to give you some ideas, too,” she said. I highly doubted it. I didn't know how much she knew, or where she heard it from. Obviously, somebody talked. I took a shaky step backward and sat down in a chair.

“Who told?”

“The office told me what you were up to this morning,” she said.

“The office knows?” It felt like there was a blender in my chest. I ran my hands through my hair and tried to come up with an explanation.

“If you don't mind, I have a request. I would like to be your faculty advisor.” She waited for me to respond. “For the
League of Pickle Makers
!”

“Oh! Oh! Great,” I said. They didn't know anything! But, I might have underestimated pickle popularity.

“Don't worry. I won't interfere,” she said. “Too many cooks spoil the stew, right? Or should I say too many cloves ruin the brine!” She laughed. She laughed alone. “Do you have a preference for a day to meet?”

“Thursday, please. Sometimes I help in the restaurant other days, but Thursdays I always have off,” I said. She wrote something down on a sticky note.

“I tried to have you meet here in the classroom where I could help a bit when I finished lesson planning, but Principal Lebonsky is worried that it might be messy and there could be more lingering smells. She's asked that you meet in the second floor laboratory.” Ms. Ruiz pressed her lips together until they disappeared. “So, just be responsible and clean up after yourself in the lab, and you and I can meet once in a while to talk about your pickling plans.” We sat there, and I could tell she wanted me to say something. I tried to come up with something nice to say about pickles, but she couldn't wait that long.

She smiled at me like she had just inherited a candy factory. A big one. Or something else that teachers are into, like a dry-erase marker warehouse. “I know what you're planning.”

I studied her face again. She was definitely excited about something. I couldn't remember the last time I saw Ms. Ruiz get excited about anything. My mouth felt dry, and it made my lips stick to my teeth, which probably wasn't so bad if it kept me from talking.

She reached into her top right drawer and pulled out a sheet of butter-colored paper. She slid it across the desk facedown.

“Well, Mr. Diaz. Why don't you tell me what you know about
this
?”

I took the paper. Maybe I could shove it in my mouth to stop myself from confessing everything. I turned the paper over. It said:

P
IONEER
F
AIR

Settler Reenactments, Real Livestock, Demonstrations & Historic Snacks

Competitions! Fun! Games!

Saturday, April 21

11–3

Fountain Point Middle School

Come one, come all!

I looked at Ms. Ruiz.

“Don't play coy, Ben. The teachers have been planning it for a year. I called the planning committee last night. They confirmed that there would be a pickling and preserving competition, and I just knew that's why you started the group.” I stared at her. “You can tell me, Ben. I'm your advisor. You and the League of Pickle Makers are planning on entering the contest, aren't you? You must have your eye on the cash prize.”

I nodded.

Ms. Ruiz whooped and slapped her desk. I'd never seen her move so fast and it made me grab the arms of my chair. “I
knew
it. What are you planning? Traditional sour dills—or something more avant-garde—gherkins, maybe? Fountain Point is hosting the event, so many of our own groups and clubs will participate, but students and faculty from all over the district will be attending as well.” She made a note to herself on a sticky pad and scratched her temple. “Oh, I almost forgot. You'll need this.” She opened another drawer in her desk. “I brought you a cookbook from my
personal
collection and a little club funding to get you started.” She handed me a huge, old book and an envelope.

“Okay, thanks, Ms. Ruiz. We're … really excited,” I said.

“Of course you are.” She clapped her hands together and we both looked down at the book in my hands.

The Joy of Pickling.

The cover had a couple of brown stains, and it smelled like dust and garlic. She waited for me to open it, so I did. The pages were yellow around the edges with notes written in the margins. And lots of sticky notes. One recipe for pickle slaw had a note with three frowny faces, but most had stars and hearts. Ms. Ruiz made a lot of pickles. I wish I'd known that before I made us a pickle club. “I'm sure you'll find the perfect recipe to wow the judges,” she said.

“Thanks, I'll, uh, take good care of this.”

“I know you will, Ben. I know you will. Have fun. We'll have our first check-in soon.”

I thanked her again and left. I stopped in the hall to inspect the envelope. It said:

Ben Diaz, President, League of Pickle Makers

Inside were two twenties and a ten.

Fifty bucks! We were rich!

 

14

The First (or Second) Prank

I got nervous that Ms. Ruiz would pop in on our first Thursday meeting to talk pickles, so I spent about half the money on three pounds of cucumbers and four jars of pickling spices for each of us to bust out if anyone started asking questions.

I thought they'd be mad that I'd already spent some of our club funds, but Frank said, “Good thinking.” Oliver and Bean nodded.

We decided that we'd take turns bringing something pickleable to the meetings in case Ms. Ruiz or Principal Lebonsky came by to see how we were doing. Nobody knew what else went into pickles, so we looked through
The Joy of Pickling
. The only other thing was vinegar, unless they were some sort of special pickle. That book had recipes for watermelon rinds, ginger, fish, and all kinds of stuff. There was even a recipe for pickled pigs feet. For real. I am not even making that up.