Merci Suárez Changes Gears

by Meg Medina

  So I pedal backward and practice riding no-hands, and I make big figure eights like a circus clown to keep slow pace with him as we go.

  When we finally get to our carport, he leans his bike against the house and puts his big palm on my head.

  “Óyeme. Do not tell Abuela that I fell,” he whispers. “Not a word of this at dinner, you understand? Not to anyone.”

  “Why not?” I’m thinking of our family rule about no secrets.

  “You know how Abuela worries,” he says. “We won’t hear the end of it. And what if she decides that we can’t ride our bikes on Sunday anymore?”

  The thought of not riding with Lolo suddenly makes me sad. And it’s true. Abuela can make us crazy with her fears.

  So I pretend to lock my lips and toss the key.

  “Thank you, Merci. I can always count on you.”

  He pats my cheek and goes inside. I watch him through the window as he opens the pastry boxes on the counter. I wonder for a minute about his fall and not telling Abuela. It doesn’t feel right. But then Lolo looks up and smiles at me, the same as always, and the thought vanishes. He waves and then turns back to arranging the prettiest cookies on top.

  ROLI PIPES UP FIRST, naturally, and I wish I were closer so I could kick him hard under the table.

  “Whoa! That’s some shiner.” The bump near Lolo’s eye has become a purple bruise by dinnertime. It makes him look like a raccoon. “Did you go a few rounds in a boxing ring?”

  “Come close and I’ll show you,” Lolo says from the head of the table. He air-jabs a couple of times, which sets the twins off like crazed luchadores. They shake their fists and growl until Tía Inés hushes them.

  “Boys! We’re at the table!”

  Abuela just clicks her tongue as she sits down next to me. “El viejo opened one of the kitchen cabinets and hit himself in the face this morning,” she says. “I want you to check the hinges later, Enrique.”

  “I’ll take a look after we eat,” Papi says. “The hinge is probably too tight.”

  “No te molestes,” Lolo tells him calmly. “I already fixed it.” He points at the chicken chunks. “Send those this way, por favor, Inés.”

  My eye starts to tug. It’s one thing to keep a secret. But Lolo is telling a lie, and it makes it feel as though mice are running around in my stomach.

  “The cabinet, huh?” Tía Inés hands over the platter and arches her brow the way she does when she’s interrogating the twins. There’s a quiet I don’t like, and a long look between her and Papi, but in the end, she lets it go.

  Mami touches my shoulder, and it makes me jump. “Merci?” She holds out the basket of sliced bread, waiting. “Don’t you want some? It’s your favorite.”

  I stare at the loaves we spilled onto the street, searching for even the tiniest speck of dirt we might have missed. But it all looks fine.

  “Thanks,” I say, and then, my hands a little jittery, I pass it down.

  Papi’s phone rings as Mami and Tía are clearing the table. I’m in Abuela’s sewing room, picking out green and blue buttons for Ms. Tannenbaum’s map.

  “Hombre,¿qué me dices?” he says. I can hear him loud and clear in the next room. Already I know it’s Simón, who paints for him occasionally and who lives in Davie. They always say hello to each other like that. So I walk into the living room to listen. Papi’s face brightens, so I’m hoping it’s good news.

  Sure enough.

  There’s an open field for a fútbol game if we don’t mind the drive. And best of all, they’ll be playing against Papi’s arch nemesis, Manny Cruz.

  “We’ll be there by six,” Papi says, hanging up. He looks at me and wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Yes!” I say.

  I follow him to the kitchen. “I’ve got the new moves down, Papi,” I tell him. “You’ll see.” All summer, he helped me work on how I pivot and stall. Now I can clamp a ball in my instep and turn so fast that no one will be able to keep up.

  Mami isn’t quite as excited about what we have planned.

  “But it’s a school night, Enrique, and it will take an hour to get there,” Mami says as she does the dishes at Abuela’s sink. “Merci should be doing her schoolwork, not out playing with a bunch of grown men.” She turns to me. “Don’t you have a map you’re working on?”

  I hold up the bag of buttons. “I just had to bring supplies. We’re building it in class. And I’m done with all the rest of my homework,” I say.

  “I haven’t checked it,” she says.

  “Mami, I’m in the sixth grade,” I tell her. “You don’t have to check everything anymore.”

  She looks at Papi, who shrugs and smiles at her. “The guys always take it easy when I put her in,” he says — to which I make a face. I happen to be able to dribble past some of his friends with no problem, especially the ones who smoke. If anything, I’m easy on them.

  “Come on, Mami,” I say. “I need the practice for tryouts for the school team this year.”

  Mami gives me a long look and sighs before she goes back to scrubbing the grease off a pot.

  Papi slips behind her and kisses her cheek. “You could pack up the cooler with some drinks and come watch,” he adds. “Your man is about to exact revenge on the enemy, you know.”

  Mami looks up at the sky. “Can’t we let this grudge go?” She turns around and puts her sudsy hands on his shoulders. “Maybe we could watch TV together as a family instead?”

  Alarm bells sound in my head. At dinner, Roli and Mami were talking about a “fascinating” documentary on HeLa cells that help cure cancer. Who wants to watch something so boring?

  “Never,” Papi says. “In some villages, blood has run like rivers for lesser offenses.”

  So, here’s the history.

  Manny Cruz owns Cruz & Company Plumbing over on Federal Highway. He and Papi went to high school together back in the day, but after that, Manny went to a trade school and found his calling in clogged drainage. Now he’s got shops in Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach counties. The bad blood isn’t because Manny is a big shot. In fact, Papi gives him props for that. No. It’s because Manny poached two of Papi’s best employees a few years ago by offering to pay them more. To this day, there’s nothing more satisfying to Papi than stomping Manny’s team in a friendly game of fútbol.

  Tía Inés walks into the kitchen with the last of the drinking glasses.

  “Did I hear you talking to Simón on the phone?” She dumps everything into the soapy water and turns to Papi.

  He gives her a knowing look. Whenever Simón shows up at the house to work as part of Papi’s crew, Tía wanders into the yard, hair combed and smelling nice, to say ¿hola, qué tal? She comes to soccer games when he’s playing, too, even though she’s fuzzy on the rules of the game.

  “What?” she says. “It’s a simple question.”

  “We’ve got our clásico with our arch rivals in Davie tonight,” Papi says.

  “Way down there?” Tía says, disappointed. “I can’t go. The twins need to get to bed early.”

  “Exactly,” Mami says, raising an eyebrow at Papi. “It’s a school night.”

  Tía glances at the platters of leftovers on the counter. “Let me send some food at least. We have plenty here.”

  “We’re playing soccer, Inés, not picnicking with our sweethearts,” Papi says.

  Tía puts her hands on her hips. “I’m being kind, Enrique. Simón has no family here, remember?”

  It’s true. Simón shares an apartment with housemates he met on a job. His parents and younger brothers are all in El Salvador, and he misses them. Maybe that’s why he always likes to say that if he had a little sister, it would be me.

  “Family, no, but maybe he has some admirers?” Papi teases.

  She turns bright red and pulls open the drawer where Abuela keeps the foil and plastic containers. “Don’t start.”

  “Wait two minutes, Papi,” I say. “I just have to get my shin guards.”

  “I’ll have her
home by ten,” Papi tells Mami, following me to the back door.

  “In one piece, please, señor,” she says.

  What I love about driving to soccer games with Papi is that it puts him in a good mood. I can tell because he whistles just like Lolo does when he’s in the garden. He doesn’t look tired or grouse about fussy customers or talk on the phone to remind someone politely to pay him for a job he’s done. His face relaxes and he seems fun. Plus, we both like Davie. It feels like the countryside down here even though we’re still in crowded South Florida. There are horses and cows. People sell produce at roadside stands. Occasionally, you hear a peacock screech for no good reason. Papi says that it reminds him of the few memories he has of when he was little in Cuba.

  Our van creaks as we drive along the small roads. I lean my head out the window as he turns down the last dirt lane. Up ahead, a dozen or so men have gathered. I recognize a lot of them because they work shifts for Papi when he can hire them. Sometimes he gives them work when he can’t afford it. “They needed the cash,” he tells Mami when she’s paying the bills and worries that there’s not enough in the bank to cover them. He’ll say they have kids or rent due or something else. Papi always tries to help them with other problems, too, like where to sign up for an English class if they need it, or how to get a license so they can drive to their jobs. Stuff like that.

  Manny’s guys are also gathering. They’re slipping on cleats and passing along the bug spray. The mosquitoes are ruthless once we start to sweat. They’ll swarm over our heads and buzz in our ears.

  Simón spots Papi and walks over to his window. “Pérez called to say he can’t make it. We’ve got no keeper tonight, hermano.”

  Papi groans. He hates tending the net. He’d rather be a striker, moving fast up and down the field, heart pounding.

  “We’ll rotate, then,” Papi says. “Go see who’s willing.”

  “Hi, Simón,” I say, leaning over Papi.

  “Merci!”

  I hand him the bag that’s loaded with food.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Tía sent you some dinner,” I say, shrugging.

  Simón’s eyes dart to Papi before he peeks inside. He barely hides a smile as he takes a long, deep whiff. “I’ll have to text her to thank her,” he says. Then he gives Papi a shy look. “Let me put this in the car, and then I’ll be back.”

  “Why don’t you let me play keeper?” I say as we watch Simón jog off. “I don’t mind.”

  Papi stops me before I can go on. “Forget it, your mother would kill us both.” He reaches under his seat in search of his banged-up cleats.

  “She wouldn’t have to know.”

  I say it softly, testing the sound of my idea on the air. For a second, I’m not even sure I’ve dared to say it out loud.

  Papi stops what he’s doing and looks over at me, surprised.

  “What did you say?”

  I don’t repeat it.

  But he heard me. “You’d want me to lie to your mother?”

  “Not a lie,” I say. “Just . . .”

  The air is sticky in the van now that we’re not moving. He looks at me for a long time, thinking. It’s weird. Papi, who is strong about everything, suddenly seems unsure.

  “Listen,” he says finally, “that’s not the way we should do things. What would your mother think if she heard you? We shouldn’t hide things, Mercedes. You know that, right? We tell each other the truth in this family. Right?”

  He only uses my whole name when he’s being serious. The mice in my stomach are back. It’s not that easy, I want to say. I think of Lolo trying to keep our Sunday bike rides safe. Sometimes you have no choice but to keep things hidden. Like now.

  “Yes,” I say.

  I slide out of the van and grab my lucky ball from the back and warm up while Papi says hello to his friends, slapping their backs and asking about their families. I toss the ball high in the air and capture it in my feet. Then I start on my pancake skills. Fwack, fwack, fwack, fwack! I juggle from one foot to the other. Then I pop the ball high up, swivel, and end with my ankle flat to the ground. The ball bounces against it and I keep dribbling.

  A few of our guys applaud and whistle as they watch.

  “So, who’s tending the onion bag first?” Papi says. Somebody’s hand goes up.

  In a few minutes, he seems to forget all about our conversation.

  “Suárez, hermano.” Manny steps forward with a hand outstretched. He’s a short man with a pinkie ring, muscled arms, and a big smile. He’s wearing pricey cleats, I notice: the Nike Hypervenom Phantom IIs. His teammates have already pulled on red scrimmage pinnies. Cruz Plumbing is stenciled on the back. “Ready to lose?”

  The guys around us hoot. Papi closes his bear paw on Manny and gives him a firm handshake. “We’ll see what you’re made of,” he says.

  Manny motions with his chin. “Your girl is playing tonight?”

  “Merci will be in later,” Papi says. “I didn’t want to demoralize you too early in the game.”

  Manny throws back his head and laughs.

  I blow a bubble with my chewing gum and give him a cold stare as everyone takes positions.

  It’s a tough game.

  For most of it, I sit on a cooler along the sidelines and snap as many action shots as I can, especially when Papi makes a sweet goal, faking around one of Manny’s centerbacks and launching a bullet into the net.

  “Gooooooooooooooool,” I shout from the sidelines.

  But Manny’s guys know what they’re doing, especially his forwards, and they can cover a lot of ground fast. They score two goals in a row as revenge.

  I’ve been chewing my nails to nubs all night when Papi finally trots over.

  “You ready, Merci?” Papi asks. He’s out of breath and smeared with dirt.

  “Ready.”

  Papi whistles to a guy named José, and I’m in as a fullback.

  There are no fancy feet anymore, just straight-up speed and endurance, which is what I have on these guys. One of Manny’s strikers sprints near me, but he dodges before I can take the ball, and he shoots. For a second, I think it’s the third goal, but luckily Simón stops it at the box and clears the ball.

  I’m ready the next time the guy dribbles my way. This time, I’m quick with the pressure, determined to steal and start a counterattack. I speed toward him, then slow down just in time to confuse him on my approach. Arms wide, I angle myself to keep him from getting past, and it works. I snatch the ball with my heel, pivot, and pop it forward. Then I start up the field.

  I cross-pass to Papi, who’s closer to the goal, but as he moves to the corner, he’s covered quickly. So he sends it back again. I trap the ball with my stomach, then knee. In a flash, I see that I’ve got the perfect shot.

  It all happens in seconds, but somehow time slows down and everything disappears around me, even the yelling. I see it clearly. There’s space to the left of the keeper, calling my name. So I fake to the right, where I see Manny coming to help cover the goal. Papi’s on the move, too, his eyes on me in case he has to assist.

  At the last second, I turn my hips and shoot hard with my left instep.

  The ball sails into the net, but before I can throw my arms up, I see Papi and Manny crash like two Mack trucks. They fall with heavy grunts in the grass.

  We all run over.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” Manny says, but it’s hard to believe him. He looks woozy as he gets to his knees. His lip is split wide open, and it’s dripping blood to his cheek and shirt. Papi is still on the ground holding his cheek. There’s a tiny cut, but a bump is already swelling.

  “You OK, Papi?” I ask.

  “Goooooooooooool,” he says, winking up at me.

  I flash him my biggest smile.

  “I’ll get the first-aid kit,” I say.

  It’s way past ten when we finally climb back into the van and drive back down the dirt path. Papi’s got a huge bump on his chin from where he ran into Mann
y. My legs are wobbly, and the front seat smells of bug spray and our sweat as we bump along the deep rut in the road, but I feel so good and tired here with Papi. I don’t even care that Mami is probably going to be mad that we’re back so late. What could we do? We had to ice Manny’s face and get him patched up before we went home. Manny’s lip gushed so much that I got queasy just looking at it. Papi’s the one who cleaned it out and gave him ice, told him he might need a stitch.

  “You were nice to help him up, even though he’s your enemy,” I tell Papi. The first-aid kit is still open in my lap; I’ve been trying to fit the packets of gauze and rolls of tape back in place before shutting it in the glove compartment again. The bumps and sway in the van are making it tough.

  Papi takes a swig of water. “Anybody would do the same. Anyway, Cruz and I aren’t really enemies, Merci. We’re in business, each of us trying to get by, that’s all.”

  I give him a look. “He stole your guys.”

  He shrugs. “Nobody forced them to go work for him. They wanted jobs where they could earn the most money. Who can blame them?” He drains his water bottle and crushes it in his hand before tossing it to the back. “Cruz has never been my favorite person, I’ll give you that. But an enemy? There’s no sense in having those if we can help it.”

  I finish jamming the supplies in the box and close the metal box back inside. Then I grab my phone off the floorboard.

  “What are you doing?” Papi asks when the flash on my camera goes off a couple of seconds later.

  “Hang on.” I check the shot. Sweat drips along the side of Papi’s face. His beard is stubbly. But his eyes look bright and shiny. With a few taps, I make the colors pop with a filter and adjust the lighting, too.

  “Not bad, right?” I hold it out to show him. “You look sort of fierce, Papi.”

  “Fierce, huh?” he says, chuckling. He reaches over and squeezes my head in his palm, the way he used to when I was little.

  Then we turn onto the highway for home.

  BY THE TIME I PRIED open my eyes, Roli was already pulling into Seaward. Mami had no sympathy as she shook me awake this morning. Papi and I got home after midnight, and boy was she mad, even when we told her about my perfect goal shot, arced just right. “The goal you need to be thinking about is doing well in school, Merci,” she snapped.