Merci Suárez Changes Gears

by Meg Medina

  Even Miss McDaniels, who organized the event, liked him. In fact, she asked me about him this morning, because Grands Day is next week, and it’s the last year we get to have it. Seventh and eighth graders are too old for grandparents, apparently.

  “Will that charming Mr. Suárez be joining us this year?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. Then I hurried off. I didn’t want her to ask me anything about my Sunshine Buddy. I don’t dare tell her that the only new contact I’ve had with Michael is texting him the reading assignment he missed when he went to the orthodontist. Hmpf. I wonder if giving him a good kick in the shins for eating my food would count as an activity?

  I toss up a pitch and load my weight on my back leg the way Lolo taught me. As usual, I get right under the ball with a satisfying smack that sends it far into the outfield. It arcs high and hits near the top of the fence. Another couple of feet and it would have been a homer for sure. Maybe if Lolo stops acting so weird I can try out for a spot on the softball team in the spring.

  “The crowd roars,” a voice says.

  I turn around and find Michael Clark watching me from behind the chain-link fence at home plate. He shakes the hair out of his eyes and grins.

  I give him a cold look since I’m still mad about lunch. Plus, Edna might be around and ready to pounce. When she found out that I texted him the assignment, she got all huffy.

  “You texted him?” Rachel had demanded, wide-eyed. “You have his number?”

  “All Sunshine Buddies have each other’s numbers. Who cares?” Edna had said, but you could tell that she cared for sure. She shot death rays at me from across the table the rest of lunch. I practically needed an Iguanador Nation force shield to protect me.

  I glance around the field. A few boys have come out of the gym doors and are walking our way. Good. Let them talk to him.

  “I don’t speak to food thieves,” I say.

  “It wasn’t me,” he says. “I was just a witness.”

  Michael comes around the fence and scoops up a couple of balls from the bag near my feet. He can hold two in each enormous hand, I notice, just like Lolo. He trots to the mound and faces me. “I have a good arm, you know. Fastball, curve ball — you call it,” he says.

  I stand there, blinking.

  “Scared?” he asks.

  “Oh, please.”

  “Come on then. Five bucks if you can hit it, which you won’t.” He shakes the hair from his eyes again.

  I give him a pitying look. What can a new kid really know about my skills? This will be like taking candy from a baby. Which, now that I think of it, he deserves.

  “But I am going to hit it,” I say. “I’m going to smack it right out of here. And then you’re not allowed to touch my food again — or let anyone else touch it, either. Ever.”

  “Uh-huh. Call it.” He waits for me to answer.

  Five bucks will inch me closer to my new bike, won’t it? Instinctively, I crouch in my best batting position and lift my bat over my right shoulder.

  “Send what you want,” I tell him. “And then prepare to fork over the dough, Michael Clark. No crying about it, either. You can’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “Ha.”

  By now, kids in our class have gathered on the bleachers, including Edna, who has her eyes trained on us like a hawk. She’s sporting her new sneakers that have cheetah-print rubber tips. From the expression on her face, I’d say she might want to claw me to death like a big cat. All week long, she’s been giggling and saying Michael’s name too loud to get his attention. She’s been sending him snaps every chance she gets. I wish he’d just like like her already and get it all over with.

  “You’re not supposed to touch that stuff yet, Merci,” she calls out.

  But just this once, on this field, I don’t want Edna to be in charge.

  “Hurry,” I tell him.

  I hear a whistle blow. Mr. Patchett is jogging toward us. He waves his muscled arms. He is not one for breaking rules, as it violates his army training. I grip my bat and set my feet.

  “Come on. Pitch.”

  Michael pivots slowly, gazes out in the direction of the trees for a few seconds, and then wham, he releases the throw.

  I focus my eyes on the ball’s seam, the way Lolo always says, and I make contact. ¡Ave María! My arms tingle with an electric jolt. Michael wasn’t kidding. His throw is hard enough to make my teeth vibrate.

  Unfortunately, the ball doesn’t arc.

  Instead, it ricochets off my bat like a bullet. ¡Fuácata!— the line drive clips Michael squarely in the face. He drops to the mound like he’s been shot.

  I can’t repeat the word I shout, but I toss my bat and race over to him. He’s a huge, motionless heap on his back. His top lip is split, and blood dribbles down his pale neck.

  Kids shout ooooh as they run at us and close in a circle all around. Mr. Patchett blows his whistle again and again, peeling bodies back as he tries to reach us.

  “Back! Stand back!”

  “Merci hit Michael in the face with a baseball,” Edna says, turning on me the second Mr. Patchett gets there. She looks at me angrily. “Jerk!”

  Mr. Patchett unhooks his walkie-talkie. “Miss McDaniels, we need Nurse Harris ASAP to Field B. Head injury. Over.” Then he starts digging in the first-aid kit he always wears as a fanny pack.

  “Who authorized you to begin without a teacher present?” He pulls out gauze and other supplies.

  “I didn’t begin. We were just . . .”

  “Who?” he demands again.

  “No one, sir.”

  He pulls on rubber gloves and leans over Michael. “Son, can you tell me your name?”

  “It’s Michael,” Edna says.

  “The question is not for you, Miss Santos,” Mr. Patchett snaps. “Stand back, please, and be quiet.” Then he turns to Michael again. “Name?”

  “Uuuuuuggh,” he mumbles.

  All I can think of is Abuela’s warnings about head injuries. Is Michael brain-damaged? Will he ever speak again?

  “Sit up slowly, Michael, and let me check your teeth. Move your jaw like this.” He demonstrates opening and closing his mouth.

  Michael looks dazed as he lumbers to his elbows. How can a lip balloon so fast? It looks like the throat sac on one of those big frogs they show on Animal Planet. He spits a glob of bloody saliva into the orange dirt, making me queasy.

  “I’m so sorry! It was an accident,” I say.

  Mr. Patchett tosses me a stern look as he steadies Michael and checks his pupils with a penlight. He carefully lifts Michael’s lips to see what I’ve done. Thank God, I still see front teeth.

  “Nice going, Merci,” Edna says.

  “Terrific buddy,” Jamie adds.

  “It was an accident,” I say again. “We made a bet. If I hit the ball, he’d leave my lunch alone and —”

  “Everyone, up in the stands right now.” Mr. Patchett growls. “Edna Santos, take attendance.” He hands over his clipboard, and then starts to help Michael to his feet, just as Nurse Harris pulls up in a golf cart. She hops out and grimaces when she sees Michael’s bloody gym shirt.

  “Merci almost killed Michael Clark because he took her stupid fruit snacks,” Edna tells her.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Silence,” Mr. Patchett says. “Bleachers!”

  He helps Nurse Harris load Michael into the golf cart and presses an ice pack to his face. My neck feels hot, and it’s not from the sun that’s baking down on it, either. I walk to the stands and sit alone in the front row, miserable, as everyone stares.

  “He might have a concussion,” Edna says loudly as they pull away. “You can only have a few of those in your whole entire life, you know. Then you stay loopy.”

  After Michael is gone, Mr. Patchett takes a deep breath and launches into a long lecture on following rules. It’s a full-on sermon, and everyone is giving me dirty looks for bringing this upon us.

  Finally, when there are only twen
ty minutes left, he makes us number off one-two and we break up into teams for an abbreviated game, thanks to what he calls “unfortunate events.”

  “Not you, Suárez,” he tells me as I start to head to the outfield. “Report to Miss McDaniels. She needs to interview you for the accident report.” He stands there like an enforcer, his arms crossed and his stance wide. “And she’ll need to call your parents about your detention.”

  “What?” I’m thinking of Mami’s rule about how I’m not supposed to cause any calls home from school. I’m not vomiting. I’m not feverish. Those are her two requirements to make it OK to bother her at work.

  I try pleading. “But I didn’t mean it, Mr. Patchett.”

  “Rules are rules, soldier,” he says. “You broke them and now you pay. Go on.”

  Dear Michael Clark,

  I am sorry I hurt you with my line drive. You should have listened. I did warn you, remember?

  Dear Michael Clark,

  I am glad that you still have teeth. It is a hard life without them, according to my Abuela

  Dear Michael,

  I’m sorry I smacked you down with that drive. I’m willing to let you slide on the five bucks you owe me because you are new and how would you know that I’m great at

  It takes several tries to get Miss McDaniels to approve the sincere letter of apology that is required if I want my detention to be one day instead of two. I gave up trying to explain that it was an accident. It’s almost four thirty p.m. on Friday, her quitting time, and she’s in no mood to stay a second longer. She drums her polished nails on the desk as I sign my name. I finally just caved and wrote down the highlights from her lecture about the Importance of School Safety Rules.

  Dear Michael,

  I am sincerely sorry that my reckless behavior did not reflect the values of Seaward Pines Academy, where we respect rules always. School rules are made with the students’ best interests in mind. As a Sunshine Buddy, I should have known better, especially since betting that includes monetary exchange violates school ethics.

  Sincerely,

  Mercedes Suárez

  “This will do,” Miss McDaniels says as she reviews all the edits. She folds the note and slides it into a fancy Seward Pines Academy envelope before handing it back to me. “You will give this to Michael Clark upon his return to school on Monday. I don’t expect to see you in here for breaking safety rules again. I can excuse a first offense for a new student like Michael. He wouldn’t know the rules. But you should have known better. It is beneath the standards of Sunshine Buddies. If anything like this happens again, I’m afraid you’ll be removed from the organization.”

  My chance to ditch this dumb club is here, but it’s all wrong. Leaving isn’t the same thing as being kicked out.

  “Yes, miss. It won’t happen again.”

  She gathers her things and flips off the light. “Have a pleasant evening, Merci.”

  I walk across campus toward the drop-off circle. Mami will think my detention is another badge of shame, like last year when I said I didn’t want to be in the spelling bee. It was because I’m always a wreck when I do anything onstage in front of people. It makes my eye go crazy, too. She said, “Merci, how will it look to your teachers, that you don’t even want to try?”

  It’s not her car that’s waiting, though. Instead, it’s Papi’s van, looking especially shabby in the loop. When I open the door, it squeaks so loud that Miss McDaniels turns toward the sound from across the parking lot. I’ve never been so grateful for the fact that nobody else is still around.

  “Where’s Mami?” I ask.

  “Staff meeting at the rehab center. She’ll be home late.”

  I don’t ask who’s watching the twins. It’s supposed to be me, of course. Abuela is probably struggling, or else Roli is helping.

  Papi is chewing on a toothpick. His beard is stubbly at this hour, and he’s sweaty. I can tell he’s tired, and he’s wearing his grouchy work face. I think of last year when I asked Papi what he liked about being a painter. It was Career Day at school. Some parents came in to talk, but if yours couldn’t make it, you had to ask your parents about their work and report back. Just my luck, that day somebody had stiffed him $250 for making a dent in a garage door while he was on a job. The guy said Papi had done it when he parked the van, but Papi knew it was already there when he arrived. Papi tries never to argue with his customers, but it’s not always easy. I don’t think he liked very much about being a painter that day.

  He gives me a solemn look as I buckle in, and then he drives extra slow — even worse than Roli. It’s like we’re in the homecoming parade.

  “Why are we going so slow?” I say.

  “Are you in a rush?” He makes a hand signal for the turn, which he takes inch by squeaking inch, Roli-style.

  I shrug, glancing at the few remaining cars in the parking lot, all shiny with tinted windows and decals of smiling stick families on the back windows. A few moms are waiting for tryouts to finish and talking on their phones.

  “It’s embarrassing,” I say. “Not to mention hot.”

  “Oh. Embarrassing. You mean our van?”

  I nod. For a second I think he gets it, but then I see it’s a snare.

  “Terrible stuff, embarrassment. I know just how you feel, though,” he says. “After all, I feel embarrassed getting a phone call from my daughter’s school that she hurt somebody.”

  “I didn’t hurt the kid on purpose. It was an accident.”

  “I believe you. But not everybody will, and you’re calling attention to yourself in a bad way.” The little vein in his temple is throbbing. “You have to think about that, Merci, because Dr. Newman can ask you to leave if he decides you’re too much trouble.”

  I stare at him.

  “Here’s the deal,” he says. “You have to show everyone here every day that they did the right thing accepting you. You have to act like a serious girl.”

  “Other people do dumb stuff here all the time,” I point out. “Why do I have to prove anything?”

  Papi sighs.

  “I know you and Roli are smart enough to be here — more than smart enough. But we don’t pay for tuition like most of the other families. So the value you add to the school has to come from you, because it’s not coming from our wallets.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say.

  “Maybe not. But I still think it’s worth it. Your education will open doors later, Merci, believe me. I just don’t want you to blow it.”

  My eyes fill up, and I don’t answer. Instead, I stare out the window in misery, wishing Roli were driving me home. Sometimes Mami points to houses on the way. The streets are narrow and lined with Spanish-style houses, where purple vines climb up trellises to end at balconies. There are play forts in the yards. “Mira,” she’ll say, under her breath like she’s in church.

  There have been days when I’ve wanted to live here, to ride a fancy bike to a friend’s house and swim in their pool. I picture Edna and Jamie pedaling to each other’s houses. They’re not babysitting. They’re not writing apologies.

  But somehow all these houses seem so ugly to me right now, even worse than Las Casitas and our patchy weeds strewn with the twins’ toys in the yard. I slip off my headband and close my eyes as the Intracoastal comes into view. It’s too bright to look at today. Leaning my head out the window, I let the wind hum in my ears and drown out this day, even though I know it’s tangling my curls into knots.

  “¿QUÉ TE PASA?” TÍA INÉS looks down at me from Abuela’s ottoman. “You’ve been moping all day.”

  “No, I haven’t,” I snap. Thinking about going to school tomorrow is making me cranky. Michael, the note, the whole ugly thing.

  “Moping?” Abuela glances over at me irritably. I can tell she’s still mad about Lolo’s ears. When we got home last Saturday, she made a big fuss and made me clip a leaf off the aloe vera plant in her front window so she could smear the gel on his blisters. All week she’s grumbled, too. Even at Su
nday dinner today, she still acted like everything was bothering her. I hope she gets over it by Grands Day next Wednesday, or it’s going to be miserable having her at school.

  “What this girl needs are some quehaceres around here. Chores might teach her more responsibility.” She looks at me hard, reminding me all over again that I didn’t watch Lolo last week like I promised.

  “Ay, Mamá,” Tía says. “Leave the kid alone already.”

  More chores? Impossible! It took me an hour to organize Abuela’s sewing supplies this morning. (Mami said it was a fair exchange for the trouble I caused at school, which I still think was not my fault.) Plus, I biked alone to get our Sunday bread because Lolo said he was feeling too tired, and then I watched the twins while Tía worked the Sunday madhouse at El Caribe. Now, here I am after dinner stuck holding a box of straight pins while Tía Inés gets a new pair of jeans fitted.

  Abuela walks around her, frowning. I don’t know if it’s because she’s mad at me or because, despite a gap at the waist, the pants pull kind of tight across Tía’s behind.

  “What kind of women do they sew these pants for?” she mutters. “Has no one thought of hips?” She pinches the gap. “And I’m going to replace this zipper, too, Inés. It’s sewn in crooked; didn’t you notice? There are more curves in it than a river.”

  Tía Inés looks down, surprised. “So that’s why they were marked down.”

  Abuela shakes her head. “Have I taught you nothing in all these years? You have to be careful when you buy off a clearance rack.” She looks up at me. “Get me the marking chalk and the good scissors, por favor, Merci.”

  I walk back toward the closet, past Tuerto, who is napping on a shelf, curled inside a basket of fabric scraps. I scratch his cheeks while I check my phone to see if Michael has finally replied. He hasn’t. I sent him a text on Friday night to see if he was OK, but he hasn’t answered all weekend. I don’t know what that means. Is he mad or is he brain-damaged? Either way, it’s bad.

  I take a deep breath and walk to the back of the closet, pushing past La Boba, the headless dress-form mannequin that Abuela keeps in here. She’s creepy. It’s the black fabric that makes up her lady’s torso and the straight pins sticking out of her headless neck. The wheels on her metal base make a strange screeching sound when you move her, too, no matter how many times Lolo oils them. It sounds like she’s screaming. Naturally, the twins love this thing. When Abuela isn’t looking, they like to toss a sheet over La Boba and push her around the room, pretending she’s a spirit that’s haunting us. I stare at her for a minute as I work up the courage to reach for the chalk and scissors that are in the bin behind her. She’s powerless, I tell myself. What can she really do to me? After all, she’s got no head to think her own ideas, no hands to defend herself, and no legs to move where she wants. She’s just stuck there letting people twist her any way they want, letting them dress her the way they like, telling her what to do. Maybe we’re not that different. I give her a squeaky spin and get angry all over again about what happened with Michael.