Canned and Crushed Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Belford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Belford, Bibi.

  Canned and crushed / Bibi Belford.

  pages cm

  Summary: When his father, who is in the United States illegally, becomes injured and unemployed, eleven-year-old Sandro is determined to help his parents raise money for his little sister’s heart surgery by collecting scrap metal to recycle for cash.

  ISBN 978-1-63220-435-6 (hc : alk. paper)

  [1. Illegal aliens—Fiction. 2. Unemployed—Ficiton. 3. Recycling (Waste)—Fiction. 4. Moneymaking projects—Fiction. 5. Racism—Fiction. 6. Mexican Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.B45Can 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014039060

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-833-0

  Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

  Cover photograph credit Thinkstock

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to the students of District 131 who have enriched my life and taught me more than I ever taught them; and to my colleagues who work hard to ignite a passion for reading every day.

  CHAPTER 1

  Explain Yourself

  So, you notice I’m standing in the hall. Yes, I’m in trouble. You probably want to know why. Thirty seconds ago I told Miss Hamilton, my teacher with six toes on her right foot, that my dad’s job was helping dead animals. She told me to go to the hall and be ready to explain myself. But how should I start to explain myself—I mean, in your opinion? How would you explain yourself?

  I’m four feet, two-and-a-half inches tall. Shorter than most of the boys in my class but taller than at least five girls, so at least there’s that. I’m eleven years and two weeks old. I had my birthday on the first day of school, which stinks. Anybody with an early September birthday really gets a raw deal.

  I mean, Cheese Whiz, the birthday policy isn’t even up and running by the first day of school. And how do you know which kids might be cool enough to invite to your birthday party? I only started at Lincoln Elementary last year in the spring when we moved across town, so it’s tough to judge who’s cool and who isn’t.

  Of course, by the second week of school, things are sorted out. Then those lucky birthday buzzards get to wear a crown and the whole class sings to them. Maybe they even get a birthday pencil. And if I did get to have a party, which I never do, by then I’d know exactly who to leave off the invite list. For starters, someone whose initials are A. K.

  Not that my birthday is a big deal. I’m not Abiola Kahn for crying out loud. In third grade, Abiola’s parents brought pizza and goodie bags to school to celebrate their “princess.” There were little flower erasers for the girls and soccer ball erasers for the boys. Overboard, I say. Of course, if you want to make friends and win enemies, pizza and goodie bags are a start. But I’m off track here—let’s get back to explaining about myself.

  I’m supposed to be in fifth grade. I know what you’re thinking. And no, I didn’t flunk. When I was five I lived in Mexico, and the school in my town didn’t have a kindergarten. So when I registered here, instead of putting me in first grade where I belonged, they stuck me in kindergarten. And look how well it worked. I’m smart and bilingual and the oldest of all the fourth graders in my class.

  My hair is jet black. I got that color name from a label on one of my little sister’s crayons. Jet Black. It sounds cool. Of course, I’ve never seen a black jet, have you? I remember the jet we took here from Mexico—purple with an orange sun on the side. Maybe fighter jets are jet black.

  So here I am standing in the hallway. I’m not sure why I need to explain myself to Miss Hamilton. She can plainly see I’m four feet, two-and-a-half inches tall and good-looking with my jet black hair that is past my jet black eyebrows because I need a haircut.

  Maybe I should start by explaining the things she can’t see. Like how someday I want to be a professional soccer player. And also an inventor. I’m always thinking of better ways to make stuff.

  Take, for example, a can of soda. Wouldn’t it be great to have a fizz meter on it? At a party, when no parents are watching, you could turn it up and shoot soda spray up into the air or drink it so fast that your burps are louder than drag racers. And in the lunchroom at school, you could calibrate it to shoot discreetly at certain annoying girls sitting across from you at the lunch table.

  Uh-oh. Here comes Miss Hamilton now. Watch and learn, compadres.

  “Sandro?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you ready to explain yourself?”

  Now here’s something that really bugs me about teachers and grown-ups in general. They ask you a question, but before you can answer the first question, they become a pitching machine and start firing questions at you—or worse, they answer for you.

  “Sandro, do you make these stories up for attention? To get a laugh? Do you think you’re funny?”

  Of course, I’m not going to correct a teacher when she’s on a roll, but that last comment was erroneous. Now that’s an impressive word, isn’t it? As you can see, I’m working on my vocabulary. I could just say false, but erroneous made you sit up and take notice, didn’t it? Yah. I thought so.

  Anyway, the whole class thought my answer was hysterical even though I wasn’t trying to be funny. Abiola practically fell out of her perfect little desk, laughing uproariously, her long braid waving frantically. I think that’s what got to Miss Hamilton. Maybe Miss Hamilton doesn’t have a sense of humor. It’s a little early in the school year to tell.

  Here’s what I’ve learned in my four years of elementary school experience so far. Squeeze your eyebrows together. Keep your lips tightly closed, and nod your head like you suddenly see things from the teacher’s perspective. Miss Hamilton’s shoulders shifted down when I did my little trick, and she moved her arms from her hips to crisscrossing her stomach. That’s another good sign, by the way.

  “Okay, Sandro. Tell me the truth. In Charlotte’s Web, Fern’s father makes a living by farming. How does your father make a living?”

  I can see through the window in the door that the class is starting to lose it while we’re out in the hall. My friend Miguel shot a three pointer with his crumpled paper wad, Jazzy made a fish face at me in the window of the door, and Rafe is catapulting pencils off his desk. I wonder what Lorenzo is doing over by the sink. I’m thinking fast. How should I answer this?

  For one thing, why is a person’s job described as “a living”? Living is breathing with your heart pumping. Is a person without a job dying?

  Are these questions violations of some privacy law? Do I need a lawyer? Is this a courtroom? Raise your hand and tell the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God.

  Okay, I might be overreacting. I mean, this is only mildly annoying, except I do want to stick up for my dad. It’s the principle of the thing. And speaking of principles,
I really don’t want to be sent to the principal for a second time in two weeks. Miss Hamilton didn’t actually say the “whole truth,” did she? Maybe a partial truth will do. Or maybe you would call it a little white lie. This truth thing can get pretty complicated.

  Promise you won’t go blabbing? Then I will tell you the “whole truth.” My dad is officially laid off from his official job. He fell off a scaffold while he was putting shingles on a roof. He doesn’t have a legal permit to work in the US so he can’t get workmen’s compensation or unemployment. He was working for a guy who knew my Uncle Pablo. You know how that goes.

  I see your mind turning. Undocumented worker, you’re thinking. Illegal. Well, nothing is as it appears on the surface. Remember that. Always go deeper. The tiny little iceberg triangle you see above the surface is a small portion of the giant mountain of ice underneath, big enough to sink the Titanic.

  My dad has an engineering degree from the best technical institute in Mexico City. He has the same brilliant inventor ideas as me. But here’s the thing—my dad comes from the ancient Zapotec people. The noblest Mexican Indians. Do you know anything about family heritage? Well, if you do, you know that people can get very proud about their family heritage. Being the best provider for his family is in my dad’s blood. It’s in my blood, too.

  Since an engineer in Mexico gets paid two-thirds less than one in the US, my dad found an American company to sponsor him after he got his degree, but at the last minute, the job fell through. Did he give up? Nope. He was packed and ready to go, so he just risked everything and came here hoping the company would change its mind after meeting him in person. Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?

  Wrong-o. He should have waited and applied for a worker’s permit. Now that he’s “undocumented,” everything is complicated. I try to ask questions to understand it better, but I don’t. It’s been five years, and now Dad says he can’t compete with the brand new engineers and their technical knowledge. He says he needs to go back to school. But since me and Girasol and my mom came here to live with him four years ago, all he does is work. And guess what? He makes more money pounding nails in the US than engineers make in Mexico.

  Now my dad is hurt, so my mom, who is still working on her English, got a cleaning job to pay the bills. Parents still need to feed their kids and take them to the doctor when they’re sick. My dad can’t lift heavy stuff, and he rubs his back and grunts when he stands up. But does he lie around and feel sorry for himself? Nope. Remember, his ancestors are the Zapotecs—the smartest, proudest Mexicans that ever lived. I want to be just like my dad.

  He works two jobs now, but they’re not real jobs. For one job, he picks up roadkill for the Department of Streets and Sanitation and gets paid by the carcass. Gross, huh? For the second job, he collects scrap metal to recycle for cash—things like rusty old bikes and pipes—with yours truly doing a lot of the lifting. Now what would you tell your nosy teacher about how your dad “makes a living”? Here’s what I decide to do.

  “My dad is unemployed.”

  “Thank you, Sandro. There’s no shame in being unemployed. He’ll find a job soon, I’m sure. Aren’t you sorry you caused such a scene? Now let’s turn over a new leaf, shall we?”

  No, actually, I’m not sorry. I’m never sorry. Would the Avengers be sorry? Would my Zapotec dad be sorry? No way, José.

  The “shall we” request reminds me of my visit to the principal on the first day of school. And if you’re not too bored, I should probably tell you about it now, while I’m divulging all this information. On our first day, we took a tour of the grand old school, most likely to kill time while Miss Hamilton was memorizing our names. I mean, seriously, what do most of us care about at school? Making sure we know how to get to the playground, gym, and bathroom, not always in that order.

  Anyway, our class climbed the flight of stairs from our second floor domain to the third floor where the fifth graders rule. They even have their own computer lab up there, so they don’t have to associate with the rest of us. Last year we never went up to the third floor. I guess we were too young to be aware of the dangers. I mean, there is just that one railing, and it’s a long way down. I think by the time we got up there we heard one thousand “shall we’s.”

  “Let’s be quiet in the hallway, shall we? Let’s take a peek in the library, shall we? Let’s show the first graders our best manners, shall we?”

  So at the top of the stairs, of course, we knew a “shall we” was coming.

  “Let’s keep our hands on this side of the railing, shall we?”

  And I snapped. Just like that. I mean, what was the good of being higher up in the sky than I had ever been except for that one airplane ride? So I leaned over that railing and let fly the biggest wad of spit I could muster on short notice. And from way down on the first floor, you could actually hear a splat, which was exactly what I was hoping for.

  But then a face looked up from the first floor, and the next thing I knew I wasn’t on the tour anymore. Instead, I’m in Principal Smalley’s office, and his face looks even madder than it did from way down on the first floor. And while I’m supposed to be thinking about my actions, I’m really thinking about Principal Smalley and wondering if he was ever a kid who let fly a wad of spit. So anyway, that’s how fourth grade is going for me. Day One—office visit. Week Two—hall visit.

  I follow Miss Hamilton back into the classroom. She doesn’t notice the kids scurrying into place or the pencils poking down from the ceiling. I sit, and my backside feels wet. I immediately know what Lorenzo was doing at the sink. ARGH! He better not linger around after school. I stare at my open copy of Charlotte’s Web, but all I see is my dad. The crinkles around his eyes. The rock-like muscles of his arms. The tree smell on his cheeks after he shaves. And how he laughs when Girasol and I tackle him and tickle.

  Fern’s dad kills animals for a living because he’s a farmer, and no one thinks that’s gross? My dad just picks them up off the street and puts them in a landfill where they can decay gracefully. Now I’m asking you, what do you think? Which one is more humane?

  CHAPTER 2

  Nothing Is As It Appears

  Miguel and I are sucking on giant jawbreakers that Abiola passed out while we toss an old tennis ball against the school’s brick wall. We’re waiting for our sisters, who come out the same door even though Girasol is in kindergarten and Marta is in first grade. Miguel, Marta, and Girasol still speak Spanish better than English, so after school I speak Spanish, too. But since I’m not sure about your home language, I’m just going to translate everything for you as we go along.

  “Are you going to make a picture for the contest?” Miguel’s jawbreaker makes it hard to understand him.

  “I think so. You?” I take out my jawbreaker to see if Abiola lied about it changing colors. She always brings stuff to give away to the class as if that will make people like her. I want to tell her you can’t buy friends, but why ruin my supply of free stuff?

  Miguel misses catching the ball and chases it down. “For two hundred dollars? For sure.”

  “Cheese Whiz! That’s what I was thinking.”

  In art class today, Mrs. Abernathy advertised a contest. The school district is going to put the twelve best students’ drawings into a calendar. Every page will have coupons for local businesses, like Dynamo Donuts and Kleen Cleaners. Even after the school pays the twelve winners two hundred dollars each, they hope to make a lot of money selling the calendars to the community.

  I am thinking about which month I want to draw. It seems to me most kids might go for October and December, seeing as how pumpkins and Christmas trees are easy to draw, so I bet those months will get a lot of competition.

  I already know what I’m going to buy with the two hundred dollars once I win. Oh yah. The most amazing, awesome, super-fantastic bike. Shock absorbers on the T-bone. Flames on the frame. Shimano 21-Speed Twist Shifters. I’m not going to be getting that kind of present from my parents anytime soon. But wi
th two hundred dollars? No problem. “You can wrap it up,” I’ll tell the store man.

  “What month are you going to draw?” I ask Miguel.

  “What month are you going to draw?” he asks me back.

  “I dunno.”

  “Me too.”

  But the way he says it makes me think he does know, but he’s not going to tell me, which is fine by me. I have to help Miguel with lots of stuff, but Miguel is pretty good at drawing. Not as good as me, though, so if we pick the same month and I win the money—well, he might feel pretty low.

  “Today we practice soccer before the game, yes?”

  “I can’t. I have to help my dad. It’s Wednesday.”

  Miguel scowls. “You work always. This game is big.”

  “I’ll hurry.” Miguel just wants to be sure I’m there to score the goals for our team. But that will depend on my dad’s luck with the recycling and if he finds any treasures—tesoros, he calls them. You would call them trash. Not my dad. Every scrap of metal equals money for us.

  We see our sisters coming out of the doors. Marta and Girasol love each other. Little kids are weird that way. They hug and hold hands and sing and chant stuff. Miguel and I follow them down the sidewalk. It’s like being with two parrots that don’t stop yapping.

  Miguel and Marta just arrived from Mexico last year. Have you ever been to Mexico? Let me tell you about it. The border towns are for tourists. By border towns, I mean the towns that border California and Texas. They have lots of junk shops with lots of paraphernalia. Now don’t freak out because I used a big word. You’re smart, aren’t you? Remember, I’m trying to work on my vocabulary to sound smart. That big word means stuff. Stuff that tourists buy. T-shirts, key chains, hats, and stuffed iguanas. Now that’s some interesting roadkill, huh?

  But when you go farther into Mexico, you see green mountains and blue oceans sometimes running right into each other. Sure, there are a lot of people there who don’t have as much as we do, but a kid has a lot to do in Mexico, especially where we lived in the Central Valley, near the city of Oaxaca. Just so you know, it’s pronounced Wa-Ha-Ka. It’s hot and humid and the skies turn foggy to sunny, with muddy streets in the rainy summer season. Like I said, there’s lots to do. Forests to wander, waterfalls to jump, rivers to swim, horses to ride, stones to throw, soccer balls to kick, and rattlesnakes to shoot.