Flying Lessons & Other Stories(12)

“I did a trade for your tuition,” he says, turning to us. “We paint the gym and a few classrooms, and it won’t cost me un centavo to have Merci attend this semester! ?Qué te parece? Your old man is always thinking!” He taps his temple and grins.

Roli glances at me uneasily and then shrinks into his seat again. “You should have told us,” he mumbles. Something in his voice sounds tight, faraway.

But Papi doesn’t hear him over the squuuuueeeaaak of the van door.

“Let’s go, Team Suarez,” he says.

I hop out and start gathering the drop cloths and extenders from the back. I already know where the gym is; we came here for Orientation Night last spring. If I remember, the place is humongous. We could be here for days. Maybe I’ll ask for a raise.

“Are you going to help or what?” I ask Roli. “These paint cans are heavy, you know.”

He doesn’t answer.

Finally, Papi looks up. He stares at Roli for a second before climbing in to help me with the cans. Papi can carry several cans in each hand. He’s the strongest dad I know. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he points across the grass. “Follow those signs to the main office,” he says. “Tell them we’re here.”

I start down the path, dodging the sprinklers and hopping over the bricks with people’s names chiseled into them.

“Vamos, Roli,” I hear Papi say.

—

Mrs. McDaniels, head secretary, wears high heels and clear nail polish. Everything on her desk is dangerously neat, so I can see she’s the prickly type. She might even be an enforcer, so I’ll have to keep my eye on her this year. Uniform length, the shine in your shoes, standard-issue headbands. You name it, she’ll regulate it. I can feel her eyes on my head, so I pull off my cap. (No hats in school, according to the sign.) Naturally, my thick hair goes boing.

“Sol Painting at your service,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m Merci.” I put one of Papi’s business cards on the counter.

She smiles cautiously and studies the card. “Aren’t you a little young to be working?”

“The rest of the crew is outside, ma’am.” It pays to be professional, even with annoying customers. “We’re ready to start on the gym.”

The phone rings.

I glance around uncomfortably as she explains that the head of school is at a meeting. The leather furniture makes it feel like a doctor’s office in here. There are oil pastel portraits behind acrylic cases, and photographs of a group of students at the Great Wall of China.

Mrs. McDaniels hangs up and closes one of the enormous files sitting on her desk. I try to catch the name on the tab as she looks for the master keys, but it’s too far away. My folder could be in this stack, but I don’t say so. You never know what’s in your permanent record. Height: four eleven. Prone to daydreaming and lost assignments.

She comes to the counter and looks down at me carefully. Finally, she slides a binder at me.

“Sign in,” she says. “The time is exactly seven-forty-three.”

Roli and Papi are waiting in the shade outside the gym when we arrive a few minutes later. The paint supplies are piled at their feet.

“Good morning,” Mrs. McDaniels says to Papi as she walks past him. Maybe she’s not so observant after all. Roli is standing right there. You’d think she’d say hello to one of their A students, but maybe she doesn’t recognize him in overalls.

She throws open the door for us and switches on the overhead lights. “Be sure to mark the work area. We don’t want any of the students tripping on a drop cloth and having an accident.” I can practically see the thought bubble over her head. Paperwork.

She turns on her heels and clicks away up the path.

“Who’s here?” I ask after she’s gone. It’s not like Seaward Pines has summer school. There’s no such thing as failing here. Roli told me you’re just “disappeared” back to your home school. I picture kids vaporizing, leaving behind their red blazers in heaps.

Roli shifts on his feet and points across the fields. Beefy football players are doing drills. Nearby, the girls’ soccer team is practicing their passes. If you listen hard, you can hear the coaches’ whistles, the grunts as the teams knuckle down.

I inch up the path a bit. I love soccer—and I’m good. Papi taught me most of my moves. He plays on a Sunday fútbol league at the park when his knees aren’t bad—and thanks to the dads on the team, I know how to dribble and stall the ball on my ankles like a pro. Every once in a while, if they’re short, they let me play keeper. I’m almost never stuck on the sidelines blowing a stupid vuvuzela.

Maybe we can sit in the shade and watch for a while to see if they’re any good? All employees are entitled to breaks, aren’t they? But when I turn to ask Roli, he’s gone.

“Get to work,” Papi says. He’s already inside, spreading the drop cloths.

—

Seaward’s school colors are red and gray, so all the doors and baseboards are the searing color of a fire engine. Every time I shift my eyes to the floor, I see globs of blue and green floating in front of me, like levitating beach balls.

“Hey! I’m having those afterimages,” I say to Roli. He’s the one who explained to me how the cone cells in your eyes work. It’s kind of cool to be blind for a few minutes.