Help Wanted: Stories by Gary Soto
	List Price:   $6.95 Unit Price:   $5.56 You Save:   $1.39 (20%) ISBN-10:   0152056637 ISBN-13:   9780152056636 Publisher:   Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; Sandpiper Edition:   illustrated Category:   Young Adults Pub. Date:   April 2007 Pages:   228 Format:   Paperback
Subjects
CHILDREN'S FICTION
Description/Notes
In ten funny, heartbreaking tales, Gary Soto reveals the hopes and hearts of today's teens. With real wit and heart, Gary Soto takes readers into the lives of young people in ten funny, heartbreaking tales. nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp; Meet Carolina, who writes to Miss Manners for help not just with etiquette but with bigger messes in her life; Javier, who knows the stories his friend Veronica tells him are lies, but can't find a way to prove it--and many other kids, each caught up in the difficulties of figuring out what it means to be alive. Paintball in the Wild Michael Ortiz wiped the steam from his eyeglasses and turned off the iron. He held up the top of his military uniform. The creases in front were sharp. He felt pleased with himself, a cadet in seventh grade and with the rank of corporal. He had been in cadets only since the beginning of school and by October he already had two stripes, plus three ribbons for drill, hall patrol, and conduct. The conduct one was special because he used to be moody before he joined cadets. In sixth grade he sat through all his classes with his chin in his hand, his eyes half closed, and a yawn from boredom building up at the back of his throat. His grades were Cs and Ds. Sometimes he got into fights, but he usually thought they were just too much trouble. Now he was a year older. His body said so. He was two inches taller. 'Sharp,' he said to himself. The hot iron answered back with a sigh and a burst of steam. He hung the shirt over his pants, already ironed, and pinned his ribbons back onto his uniform. He undid them when he noticed they were a little crooked over his shirt pocket. He petted the ribbons. He fogged the bars with his breath and polished them with a Kleenex, careful not to undo the creases on the front of his shirt. When he heard his mother holler from the kitchen, he turned away from his uniform. '?Miguel! ?Miguel, teleacute;-f-onooooo! ?Apuacute;rate! ?Ya! Tenemos que comer.' Michael, born Luis Miguel, wished that his mom could speak English, but she was in her own world, a world that remained rooted in Mexico. He loved her deeply and would never tell his mother to please learn English like his father had. His father was so proud that he would stop at telephone poles just to read posters aloud in an accented mutter. 'Voy, Mami,' Michael answered back. He hurried out of his bedroom and took the phone from his mother. His nose twitched when he smelled breakfast-papas and huevos con weenies. The little weenies were marching in the fry pan. Breakfast was almost ready. 'Hey,' Miguel said. It was Trung, his classmate from Jackson Junior High and a corporal like himself but with one more ribbon than him-a bivouac ribbon because his platoon got to go camping and learn how to use a compass. Miguel made no bones that he was jealous of that extra ribbon on Trung's shirt. He had repeatedly told his friend that he would have gone on the weekend bivouac except his mother didn't like him staying at anyone else's house. When he'd tried to explain that they were camping outdoors, she still remained firm. That evening he pouted in his room with the lights out. Not even the sight of his uniform could perk him up. 'You gonna be ready?' Trung asked. They were going to a paintball war in the foothills outside Fresno. He was going to tell their teacher, Mr. Mitchell, the cadet commander at school. Maybe this outing would count as a bivouac. 'Nine-thirty,' Michael said. His eyes looked up at the clock over the refrigerator. 'You gonna lend me the stuff?' The stuff was a gun and goggles. 'Yeah, like I said.' Trung reminded Michael that it cost twenty-five dollars, plus there were paintballs you had to buy. At least a thousand rounds were needed for the day. He also reminded him to bring drinking water. 'I got water,' Miguel answered. Earlier in the week he had biked across town to an army surplus store and bought an authentic canteen. He liked that it was dented and imagined that bullets had ricocheted off its side. 'And I got the money.' A rich uncle from Los Angeles had sent him fifty dollars for his birthday. Michael hung up the telephone. He stared at the frying pan, then at his mother, who asked, '?Dos huevos?' He held up two fingers, then saluted his mom-he just couldn't help himself. He was a military boy. Michael sat in the back of Trung's father