Sal and Gabi Break the Universe Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Carlos Hernandez

  Introduction copyright © 2019 by Rick Riordan

  Art by Andrea Galecio

  Lettering by Saskia Bueno

  Designed by Mary Claire Cruz

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Andrea Galecio

  Cover lettering copyright © 2019 by Saskia Bueno

  Cover design by Mary Claire Cruz

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04578-0

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  To Cynthia Hawkins.

  In another universe, my dear, dear friend, you are reading this book.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  YOU KNOW HOW I can tell when a book is great?

  When I can’t even describe it to you without ruining the marvelous surprises. I mean…I could try to explain why Gabi’s father is called Lightning Dad, or why Sal’s teacher Dr. Doctorpants dresses like a gumball machine, or even why Sal’s physicist father and his not-quite-human assistant, Bonita, are building a remembranation machine in the living room. But you’d never believe me. You’d accuse me of making up cacaseca. You definitely wouldn’t believe me if I told you how that dead chicken got in Yasmany’s locker.

  Was it sleight of hand? Was it actual magic? Was it, oh, I don’t know…something scarier? Something that might rip apart the universe and cause a cosmic mess so big even a super custodian like Mr. Milagros can’t clean it up?

  You’ll just have to dive into the story and find out for yourself.

  You’re about to meet Sal Vidón. He’s recently moved from Connecticut to Miami with his dad and American Stepmom because…well, let’s just say things got complicated when Sal’s mom, his real mom, changed from Mami Viva to Mami Muerta.

  It’s never easy to switch schools, even if Culeco Academy of the Arts seems much cooler than his old school. Sal gets to study for his dream job: becoming the world’s greatest magician, while his classmates are dancers, musicians, actors, costume designers, and even a film director creating a cinematic masterpiece on the history of wedgies. Unfortunately, Sal’s problems did not stop when he moved from Connecticut. He still has to monitor his diabetes with his own med kit and his emergency pack of Skittles. He’s been to the principal’s office every day for things that totally were not his fault. His classmates look at him strangely, like they’re afraid he might be a brujo.

  Then there’s Gabi Reál—student council president and editor of the school paper—whom Sal either finds fascinating or wants to run away from at light speed. He’s not sure yet. All he does know: Gabi is suspicious of Sal’s deepest, darkest secrets. She is determined to find out more about this strange new kid who is able to pull impossible tricks. Can Sal and Gabi trust each other? They’ll have to figure that out if they want to survive the year without, you know, ruining their reputations at school and wrecking the space-time continuum.

  Welcome to Culeco Academy—a world only Carlos Hernandez could dream up! I can’t reveal all its secrets, not without ruining the fun. But one thing I can promise you: After reading about Sal and Gabi’s marvelous universe, you’re going to want to move there!

  THERE’S ALL SORTS of bad advice out there about how to deal with bullies. Ignore them. Stand up to them. Tell a teacher, tell a parent, tell your dentist while he’s jamming your teeth back into your face.

  The real way to deal with a bully is to stick a raw chicken in their locker.

  I had my showdown with Yasmany Robles just three days after I had started my new life at Culeco Academy of the Arts, a magnet school in the middle of Miami. To get in, you had to have good grades, pass an interview, and either submit a portfolio (for painting or writing) or audition (for theater or music). You’d think all the effort someone has to go through to get into Culeco would’ve kept out bullies, but I guess not.

  I guess there are just too many of them in the world. If your school only allowed in kids who’d never pick on anyone, you’d have an empty school.

  Whatever. It’s not like I hadn’t learned how to handle bullies back in Connecticut.

  On Wednesday, between fourth and fifth periods, I went to the lockers, along with half a million other kids. I stowed my history book and grabbed math so I could do my homework during lunch, then opened my bag of magic tricks and put on my GOTCHA! stamp ring. We would be doing introductions in my eighth-period theater class, and I thought I could use it to demonstrate some sleight of hand. Magic is kind of my thing.

  I had a minute before I needed to go, so I took out my diabetes bag and fished out my glucose meter. I thought I’d be all right until lunch, but I’d started to feel spacey and dreamy at the end of my last class. Blood sugar levels might be falling. Best to check now.

  As I rummaged, I noticed the tall kid next to me struggling to get his locker open. He was as Cuban as they come: brown, built like a track-and-field champ, with a haircut so short you could see the bumpy skin of his scalp beneath what was left of his tiny curls. He’d wrestled with his combination lock yesterday, too, and never figured it out, so he’d had to carry a full backpack of books to his next class. I’d had trouble with my lock on the first day, until I’d figured out you have to squeeze it as you turn the dial.

  And I’m a nice guy. So I said to him, “Hey, man. My lock sucks, too. The trick is to squeeze the top while—”

  That’s all I got out before he punched his locker. The whole hallway grew a little quieter.

  Yasmany—I learned his name later, but why keep you in suspense?—slowly turned to look at me. He scanned me up and down, doing some tough-guy calculations to figure out if he could take me.

  Apparently he thought he could, because he stepped up to me fast, ferocious, chest out, arms wide. He’d been in a lot of fights, judging from his flat-as-a-shamrock nose.

  “Just come back from safari, white boy?” he asked. “I mean, if you even are a boy.”

  Let’s take a second to break down this insult.

  The “safari” crack was because I had on canvas cargo pants and a cargo vest, each with four
pockets brimming with gadgets and tricks of the trade. Pretty much all the clothes I own have tons of pockets. I’m ready to perform at any time. You never know when the world is going to need a little magic.

  The “white boy” crack was because—I guess?—to him I looked white. Back when I lived in Connecticut, kids were telling me to “go back to brown town” all the time. But I was in Miami now: new place, new rules about skin color.

  And the “if you are a boy”? I kept my hair pretty long. It gave me a place to hide stuff in the middle of a trick. And to this caveman’s mind, calling someone a girl was an insult.

  Whatever. I tried the My Little Pony approach to handling bullies. “Sorry. Just trying to help.” And I started to walk away.

  He body-blocked me. “You? Wanted to help me? Why would a sandwich like you think I’d need your help?”

  Now I looked him in the eye. “Your locker’s still locked, isn’t it?”

  I probably shouldn’t have said anything. But he called me a sandwich. Some insults you can’t let slide.

  In response, he did what bullies do. He slapped my diabetes bag out of my hands.

  It hit the ground with a glassy crunch. My stomach crunched right along with it.

  That pack contained my insulin, my syringes, my blood-glucose meter, my sharps disposal container (for used needles), my Band-Aids, and a fun-size bag of Skittles. If he broke something important in that pack, I could be in real trouble.

  I knelt down to pick it up, my hands shaking as they reached for the bag. I tried to relax. I closed my eyes, breathed slowly, and remembered what Papi had said to me after Mami died: Fear is your body trying to tell your brain what to do. But the brain is the king of the body. It calls the shots.

  I opened my eyes slowly, the way the good guys in movies do when they’ve just figured out how to beat the villain. I noticed that the bright young scholars of Culeco Academy of the Arts had formed a ring around Yasmany and me. This crowd didn’t seem as bloodthirsty as the ones in my last school had been. In Connecticut, kids hooted like in Planet of the Apes whenever a fight was about to start, jumping up and down and beating on each other in anticipation of someone getting wedgied back to the Stone Age. But these kids looked kind of grim and quiet, like this was some boring school assembly they had to attend.

  Well, from my perspective, it didn’t really matter whether they were enjoying themselves or not. They had me surrounded just the same. I was trapped.

  Wait. No. That’s an excuse, and I don’t lie to myself. I could have pushed my way out of there if I’d wanted to. But now all eyes were on me. I had an audience. And I am a showman.

  Yasmany stretched his fingers wide before he made two fists. “Time to die, little man. Stand up.”

  I stood all right. Got right in his face. “Time to die?” I asked.

  “Time. To. Die,” he repeated.

  “Like the dead chicken in your locker?” I asked.

  “What?”

  See, that’s the real secret of dealing with bullies: Change the game. You thought we were going to fistfight, Mr. Tough Guy, but—surprise!—suddenly we’re talking about murdered poultry.

  “The dead chicken in your locker,” I said, explaining it to the crowd. “That’s the real reason you didn’t want to open it. You didn’t want anybody to see your dead chicken so they wouldn’t know you keep dead chickens in your locker. Because,” I said, turning to face Yasmany again, “what kind of weirdo keeps dead chickens in his locker?”

  “Stop saying ‘dead chicken’!”

  Everybody laughed. That probably would have sent Yasmany into a berserker rage if some girl hadn’t shrieked, “Blood!” She was pointing at Yasmany’s locker.

  “What?” Yasmany asked again. He and everybody else looked at his locker, and yeah, there was watery pink blood leaking from it, the kind you find at the bottom of Styrofoam meat packages. Not a lot, but enough to drip from the bottom of the locker door and pool on the floor. And it only takes a tiny bit of blood to freak people all the way out.

  Not me, though. I mean, I didn’t know SANGRE DE POLLO was going to come dripping out of his locker, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise, either. I could work with it.

  “Open it,” I said to Yasmany. “Unless you’re too…chicken.”

  If he hadn’t been completely bewildered by what was happening, he would have gorilla-rushed me for sure. Instead, he walked over to his locker and tried to undo the lock. Two, four, seven yanks on it, each angrier than the last. Then he punched his locker door again and said, “I can’t open the stupid thing! I keep trying, but I can’t.”

  “Here. Let me.”

  He took a step back to let me through. But not without asking, “What? How you know my combo?”

  His “combo” was still taped to the back of the lock. About as sharp as a bowling ball, this Yasmany.

  I looked at him over my shoulder with spooky eyes and replied, “Fool! I am a magician. I can read your mind.” Then I spun the dial with fast fingers, clock-, then counter-, then clockwise again. I tugged the lock open dramatically and, with a flourish, removed it.

  “You want the honors?” I asked him, stepping aside with a gracious magician’s bow.

  Yasmany—bro had gone full autopilot by now—stepped forward and opened the locker door, every kid behind him on tiptoe, watching, waiting.

  A whole raw chicken, like you get at the grocery store, with bumpy yellow skin and no head, flipped out of his locker, landed on its chicken butt, and went splat.

  Kids scattered, screaming. Adults would be here any second. Yasmany did a 180 and looked around wildly. He didn’t have eyes anymore: just fear. “I didn’t put no dead chicken in my locker!” he yelled. “You gotta believe me!”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  Of course I did. It was I who had put it in there, after all.

  Abracadabra, chicken plucker.

  “SALVADOR VIDÓN, HOW long have you been attending my school?” asked Principal Torres. I’d only been at Culeco for a few days, but I already knew three things about her: (1) she was a big woman, (2) she was a smart woman, and (3) most importantly, she was a principal. That meant she had zero tolerance for cacaseca.

  “Cacaseca” is the word Miami talk-show hosts use instead of BS. It literally means “dry poop,” but really it means “Dude, your poop is so played out. Don’t try to play me with your played-out poop.”

  “Three days,” I replied to Principal Torres, with exactly zero cacaseca in my voice.

  “Three days,” she repeated, letting her gaze drift around the room. Yasmany and I were sitting in tiny little plastic chairs in front of her desk, both of us doing our best not to move. Maybe then Principal Torres wouldn’t see us. You know, like cavemen hiding from T. rexes.

  No dice. Principal Torres’s glasses suddenly caught the light and locked on me like prison searchlights. “And how many times have I seen you in my office, Mr. Vidón?”

  I paused before answering. The first time was on day one, because my doctor had told me to inform my principal about my diabetes and the special equipment I needed to manage it, like needles, because if you bring needles to school, everyone assumes you’re a drug addict.

  The second time (yesterday), Mr. Lynott, my PE teacher, had sent me to her office for eating candy. But what was I supposed to do—let myself pass out in the middle of the obstacle course? Principal Torres had said she would let Coach Lynott know I had special permission to pop the occasional Skittle.

  And this time it was because of Yasmany. None of this was my fault.

  But I didn’t say any of that. Principal Torres, I already knew, didn’t like excuses. So I kept my face neutral and said, “You have seen me three times.”

  “Do you think I see every child who attends this school once a day, every day of the school year?”

  “No.”

  “That is exactly correct!” she said. Her smile could wilt flowers. “So why do you think I’ve had the great pleasure of enjoying your plea
sant company in my office every day of the school year so far?”

  I thought for a moment. Actually, I just made a face like I was thinking, for the sake of the performance. Then: “Because the students and faculty of Culeco have a lot to learn about how to make school safe for diabetics.”

  She blinked and kept blinking for a few seconds. “Huh,” she said, sitting forward in her chair. “You know, I was all ready to tear into both of you. But honestly, Sal, you may be right. Culeco’s still pretty new. We only opened five years ago, and we’ve been growing and changing the whole time.” She shook her head to help her get back to her point. “We’ve never had a student with type-one diabetes before. I am going to have to instruct my whole staff on how to meet your needs. The students, too. I’ll tell my science teachers to include a lesson or two on diabetes. We will do better for you, Mr. Vidón. I promise. And I apologize.”

  One of the quickest ways you can tell if an adult is quality people is if they’ll apologize to a kid when they’re wrong. Principal Torres was someone I could work with. “Thank you,” I said.

  She nodded before she turned her searchlights on Yasmany. (Not a hair moved, by the way. It was like her hairdo was made of Legos.) “I see I am going to have to make examples of a few people who don’t know how to create a welcoming learning environment. Maybe then the school will get it through its thick collective head that bullying will not be tolerated under any circumstances.”

  Man. Principal Torres wasn’t even talking to me, but she made my guts flutter just the same.

  “What did I tell you at the end of last year?” she said to him, parting her lips but not her teeth.

  This was usually the point in the conversation when the bully starts denying everything, blaming the victim, changing the subject, etc. I was ready for this. I’d made two bullies cry in front of principals at my last school just by calmly sticking to the facts and being polite. Adults really like polite kids.

  But Yasmany didn’t behave like other bullies I’d known. He looked at his shoes. “I’m having a bad day,” he told his ratty high-tops. A spattering of chicken blood decorated his right shoe’s toe.