“No, but you’re close.” Papi sticks his arm out to make a turn signal and heads over the bridge toward Palm Beach. “It’s about the job.”
I sit up and look outside, realizing he hasn’t told us where we’re working today. “Where’s the site?” I ask.
The whole sky reflects in Papi’s paint-speckled shades as he looks over and smiles. “Guess.”
I look around for a clue. The Intracoastal twinkles beneath us as we cross the bridge into Palm Beach. The houses on this side of the canal are large, and they have bougainvillea vines trailing from their balconies. Royal palms line the street that ends at the ocean. Papi makes one turn after another on the quiet side streets where fancy cars are parked in the driveways and nannies push strollers in the shade.
Maybe we’ll be painting one of the big mansions? I could run into one of the rich tycoons who live here and run a few business ideas past him….
Roli crowds into the front seat to look at where we are, too. “Where are we going?”
“Move back,” I say. He’s breathing in my ear, and he hasn’t brushed his teeth.
“No guess yet?” Papi asks.
Then the stone archway of Seaward Pines School appears up ahead. We drive past the perfectly manicured front lawn, startling a flock of ibises as we go. A team of men in wide-brimmed hats is running weed whackers and mowers.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
Papi maneuvers us around back to the service entrance near the fields and parks in a spot reserved for maintenance crews. When he shuts off the engine, the van shudders to silence.
“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.