Tracy Badua - Freddie vs. The Family Curse

T HERES NOTHING MORE HEART-STOPPING THAN THE wheeze of an empty glue bottle the night before a big school project is due.

Come on come on come on. I shake the bottle and squeeze again. Not one white glob of grade-saving adhesive. Not even a drop.

I chuck the bottle toward my trash can. It sails clear over the heap of school uniforms on my bed, past an ankle-high stack of old notebooks and worksheets.

I miss.

I thump my forehead down on my desk and sigh. My eyebrow lands in a wet smudge of green paint.

The curse. Got to be the curse. Like straight black hair and those little chicken-skin bumps on my upper arms, bad luck is in my genes.

I guess I should be thankful that at least my whole family tree board hasnt spontaneously combusted. I transfer my precious deck of Robo-Warrior cards over to my bookcase, just in case. My cards will stay nice and safe next to my geography bee participation trophy and the palm-size Virgin Mary figurine from Grandpa Carlo.

Bad-luck curse or not, I need to finish this board to have any hope of keeping those Robo-Warrior cards. Mom threatened to take away the deck if my social studies grade slips any further. After a worksheet fluttered down a storm drain and a report jammed our printer so badly we had to scrap the whole machine, I cant afford another missed assignment. That Robo-Warrior deck is the only thing standing between me and total lunchtime isolation: the only thing that makes the other seventh-graders forget years worth of my clumsiness and mishaps. I lean back and peer over at my cousins open, lit-up window.

We live in an older and more crowded part of the suburbs, and the distance between my window and Sharkeys is exactly ten feet. If anyone would have glue, itd be my perfect-at-everything cousin.

I slide open my window. Music blares from the top-of-the-line tablet Sharkey gets to use when shes done with homework, a reward for her straight A pluses last year. Meanwhile, my parents strict restrictions on screens, phones, tablets, and any digital connection to the outside world basically push me back into the Stone Age. The only reason I even have a cell phone is so they can tell me when theyll be late to pick me up after school. And that cell phone is now locked and docked in the kitchen, off-limits the second we get home.

I yell to my cousin across this small divide.

Hey, Sharkey, you there?

I dont see her, but her voice sails between our houses. Leave me alone, Freddie. Americas Dance Champs is streaming live.

Its an emergency!

Theres a frustrated groan and the squeak of a chair before Sharkey appears at her window. Shes holding Auntie Sisis Pomeranian, Biscuit. They both glare at me for the interruption. Sharkeys already in her pajamas: a faded Yellowstone National Park T-shirt from our family vacation two years ago (during which I stepped in bison dung) and purple bike shorts. You have ten seconds.

You got any glue?

She shakes her head, and her shiny, black, chin-length hair swishes around her round, light-brown face. There was a brief time, as preschoolers, that she and I had the same bowl-shaped haircut. I dont know if that old haircut is better or worse than the one I sport these days.

Sorry. Fresh out. Used the last of it on my board yesterday. She tosses in a satisfied smirk, rubbing a handful of verbal salt into my wounds. Shes the one who suggested I start my project earlier, but I spent the last few afternoons lost in a paperback Robo-Warrior strategy guide.

I groan and loll my head back.

Maybe your dad has some in the garage. He has everything in there, she adds. Shes trying to be helpful, but the thought of digging around my familys overstuffed, cobwebby cavern of a garage grosses me out. She begins to shut the window. Good luck with your project.

Her voice and the tinny pop music behind her fade away.

The whole house trembles with the rumble of thunder. San Diego isnt known for its April showers, but now sheets of rain start to smack against the roof.

I barely close my own window in time to keep the carpet from getting soaked. My shirt looks like I tried to drink a glass of water and missed my mouth completely.

I trudge toward the kitchen. My eyes rove the cluttered house for anything I could use to paste together this thick poster-size board, the handwritten name and date plates, and all those leaves I had to cut out for the tree visual. But dusty wineglasses, fake orchids, and a faded reprint of da Vincis The Last Supper arent going to help me demonstrate my A-plus-worthy (okay, B plus, if were being honest) knowledge of my family tree.

Mom sets down her tea when my bare feet slap onto the cold kitchen linoleum. Her long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and shes got her purple-rimmed reading glasses on as she sorts the pile of mail in front of her.

Theres even more mail stacked on the speckled gray countertop. A few weeks worth of ads and bills are wedged between the coffee maker and the microwave thats been unplugged for months. Whats that saying? Mail, mail, everywhere, but not a drop of glue?

Mom frowns at the speck of paint on my brow. Hows the project, Freddie? Almost done?

I shift from side to side. No point in fudging the truth about my procrastination. Shell find out anyway if I get a bad grade back on my progress report.

Almost. Ninety-nine percent of the way there. But Im out of glue.

I wince at the Ive-told-you-time-and-time-again look that flares in her dark brown eyes. My eyes are like hers, though mine probably look a lot more nervous.

Can you use a stapler? Her annoyance drips out with every word. Her mouth is a leaky faucet of disappointment.

I shake my head. All out of staples. I used the last ones on my book report last week. Id spent an hour fishing misshapen staples out of the faulty hunk of metal. The Ruiz family curse isnt the darkest, most dangerous one ever cast, but it sure makes my life a lot trickier.

As if seventh grade isnt tricky enough.

How about rice? Mom asks.

I shudder at the memories of projects cobbled together with last-minute rice substitution. I shouldve learned my lesson about keeping a full bottle of glue on hand after that lumpy White Fang collage last year. But Id rather take smeared sticky rice over the current alternative: a stick-figure tree and a handful of loose paper leaves.

If I dont find some adhesive soon, I might as well hand over my Robo-Warrior deck to Mom now and plan on eating lunch alone this week.

Do we have any rice left?

Mom lifts her teacup and takes a sip. Look with your eyes, not with your mouth, Freddie.

I peer into the rice cooker, in its permanent place of honor next to the free calendar we got from the Asian supermarket. The metallic gray pot is missing.

Whats with the cereal on the floor? I ask, edging past the crunchy mound of sugary Os to cross the kitchen.

Mom shrugs. Your dad wanted something sweet after dinner and spilled. But we cant clean it up until morning. You know what Apong Rosing would say if she caught us sweeping at night.

Sweeping out the fortune, I say, repeating the warning drilled into us by Dads superstitious grandmother. I leap over some already crushed Os to reach the sink.