CHAPTER 22

THE BIG BAD TRUCK

A black Chevy pickup truck crept into the Instant Lube parking lot, the loud muffler growling.

Chewy walked up beside me, blowing his nose. “Uh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“This is gonna be trouble.” Chewy dropped the tissue.

“Why?”

“That guy always drives around with his big high school punk friends picking on kids. One time they chased my brother and me, hurling eggs at us till we hid behind some big bushes.” Chewy shook his head. “They like torturing middle school kids.”

The dark tinted window of the pickup truck lowered: three huge high school guys were lined up across the front seat. Heavy metal music blared from the open window.

“I gotta go.” Chewy backed away.

On his crutch, Marquis leaned his head down by the truck window. The driver turned down the music and said something. Marquis shrugged his shoulders and backed away. Nobody yelled. That was a good sign, right? But I couldn’t hear anything over the muffler.

Then the driver motioned to the bed of the truck and laughed. Marquis walked over to it, and his face twisted up.

“Bam!” one of the boys yelled.

Marquis walked back to me with his head down.

“This guy told me we have to wash his truck for free—or else,” Marquis said.

“Or else what?”

“He said if we don’t do what he says,” Marquis swallowed, “they’ll throw water balloons of pee they’ve been filling all week. They have enough to get everybody here. I saw them in the back of the truck. And it really smells.”

“Water balloons full of what?” My forehead wrinkled.

“Pee,” Marquis whispered. “And he asked me if I wanted something to happen to my good leg.”

I was confused. Who threatens kids like that? Who tries to steal a free car wash from a fund-raiser?

“I told him he had to talk to you because you’re in charge. I didn’t know what else to do.”

The truck revved.

“We’ll show you who’s in charge!” yelled a bearded guy, sticking his head out of the truck. The guys doubled over laughing, and the driver mashed down on the horn.

Slowly, I stepped over to the honking truck. I can do this, I repeated each time my foot hit the wet asphalt. I can do this.

“Hey, kid.” The driver took a toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at me, a string of slobber dangling from it. “You gonna wash my truck? I’ve been nice so far, but it seems like you’re forcing me to come back and make a big mess. Is that what you want?” The whole time this creep talked, he looked around like he was deciding which one of us he’d take out first.

I didn’t know what to say.

“How fast do you think your little friends can run?” He jutted his chin at the car-wash crew. “Oh, no! My foot’s starting to slip off the brake,” he taunted.

I sucked in a breath. I knew I had to tell him no, to stand up to him, to tell him to leave, but my voice stuck in my throat like I’d swallowed a jar of fake peanut butter—the plastic jar, the lid, all of it.

I turned to Marquis.

He shrugged from his chair.

Sophia and José walked back from the curb to see what was going on.

The truck engine revved again.

Somebody had to end this. I took a step back. My heart thumped loudly in my ear. You be the change. You be the caboose.

Pounding.

Pounding.

I pictured the balloons exploding all around us.

Oh, man, stranger danger, stop drop and roll, give a hoot don’t pollute, take a bite out of crime, the more you know—every little save-the-day advice I’d ever heard flooded my brain till I drowned in worthless words.

“We’re out of water,” I blurted, taking a step away from the truck.

“What?” The driver sucked air in through his nose, revved his engine, and licked his chops like the big bad wolf or something.

“And towels. We’re out of towels.” It might have been convincing, except my voice broke.

“Just so you know, little man, you’re forcing us to get the pee balloons out of the back of the truck and nail all you losers.” The driver grinned. It seemed like this was the answer he was hoping for.

This was my last chance. This was go time. I had to pull out every last thing I had in me—all the way down to my Nikes. I swallowed hard and planted my feet on the pavement. And then the words came.

“Before you do, just so you know, that guy over there”—I pointed at Marquis—“he just memorized your license plate number.”

“It’s true.” Marquis nodded. “I know my numbers.”

“And see that girl over there?” I pointed at Janie. “She memorizes movie lines for fun.” Janie tapped the side of her head, nodding. “She’ll be able to quote, word for word, every threat you and your pals have made … to the police.”

The guys in the truck glared at me, then Marquis, then at all the kids standing around watching.

“And Sophia. She’s a cheerleader, and she knows how to get loud. She’ll make so much noise, help will arrive before the first balloon hits the ground.”

“Ready, okay?” Sophia struck an aggressive cheer pose, glaring.

I looked around for any other “threat,” and my eyes landed on José. “Oh, yeah.” I leaned in and with a loud whisper said, “See that guy over there?”

José stopped, with a who-me? face.

“They call him El Pollo Loco, because one time he got so mad at his abuelo that he strangled all his backyard chickens with his bare hands. All. Of. Them.”

“Cockle DOODLE DO DO!” José cackled like a psycho, walking in circles.

Then all the kids—José, Cliché, Sophia, Janie, and even Raymond, who had just gotten back—stood behind me.

“We’re closed,” I announced. And I felt strong.

The driver glanced at his pals.

“Yeah, what Shrimps said!” Sophia took a step toward the truck, a pom-pom on each hip.

The truck’s window rolled up.

“Yeah, you heard ’em. Bwak! BWWAAK!” El Pollo Loco squawked, like the crazy chicken he was.

The pickup truck’s back wheels spun, spitting out loose gravel, peeling out of the parking lot. The metal scraped as the truck hit San Pedro, and a few balloons flew out and exploded on the street.

Dad ran over just in time to see the truck speeding away.

My legs melted, and I collapsed into Marquis’s chair.

“Are you all okay?” Dad asked, out of breath, confused. “I heard all the noise, but it took me a second to get out of the bay.”

“Zack saved the day,” Cliché said.

“He went all Mighty Mouse or something,” Raymond said, slapping his enormous hand on my shoulder.

“He told those creeps off,” Sophia agreed.

“Yeah,” Cliché said, looking at me, “you should have seen him, Mr. Delacruz.”

“He really told ’em!” Janie said.

Dad took off his gray Instant Lube shirt, leaving his white T-shirt. “Here, son,” he said, handing it to me. “Put this on. You’re soaked.” At that moment, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure if my shirt was wet from José spraying me or from threatening the thugs.

“Is everybody okay?” Dad asked.

“Yes, because of Zack,” José said.

Surprised, I looked at him. José had just backed me up. More than that, really.

“I’m staying until you earn the money you need,” Dad said. “My guys can handle the shop for a while.”

In the chair, I breathed in the sweet smell of oil from Dad’s shirt.

Everybody sat down and started talking.

After a few minutes, I remembered we had a car wash to finish. I stood. “Okay, listen up, Fighting Alamos, we can do this.” I looked at everybody. “We will do this. All we need is to wash twelve more cars, and we can make this dance happen. We’ll make history at Davy Crockett Middle School.” I was getting into it. “We will be the first sixth grade to attend the fall dance!”

The girls clapped and cheered, the boys patted me on the back, and Janie whistled through her fingers like only Janie could.

Sophia picked up her pom-poms, “Ready, okay?”

“Remember the Alamos!” Janie raised her fist.

“REMEMBER THE ALAMOS!” everybody cheered.