Merci Suárez Can’t Dance: Chapters 7–19

If you want extra dessert, forget Mami; all you’ll get is a boring lecture on the effects of too much sugar on your metabolism.

So, you see, it’s complicated, which is why I knew better than to wait to ask Abuela about bike riding this afternoon. I asked Mami last night and got the green light the way I knew I would. She’s keen on “cardiovascular exercise.”

Even though it’s chilly, he’s watching Vicente power-wash the stucco as if it’s a riveting TV show.

The frog thermometer outside her window reads fifty-five degrees, which is what she calls pneumonia weather.

What I don’t say is that Lena is also planning to teach me how to make sparks come off the back of her scooter when you ride it, just like Jake Rodrigo’s aeris zoom. If I do, Abuela will lecture about falls, about clothes igniting, maybe even about spontaneous human combustion like we saw on that TV show Supernatural Science.

“Plus, you’re the oldest kid at home. It’s time to get those guys on two wheels.”
At first the twins balked. Lolo helped cheer them on, but it was me who ran alongside them instead of Lolo.

Then she hobbles out to the living room to kiss them good night.

It took six moving boxes to pack all the science junk he didn’t want when he went to college. Cracked petri dishes, owl pellets and rusted scalpels, skeletons with moving mandibles, a chipped plaster bust of Marie Curie—you name it.

We hauled all of it to Goodwill in Papi’s truck. If mad scientists happen to shop there, they’re going to be in luck.
Roli’s bed, where the twins are sleeping now, is one of two things that survived the purge.

His chin is bruised but not as swollen as yesterday, I notice. His nose is scabbed, too. Somebody is bound to make fun of him.

But Edna, whose father is a podiatrist, told us you can get foot fungi from public showers, even fancy ones like Seaward’s.

I think Wilson smells good because he doesn’t get too sweaty, especially if we get split into teams for a basketball scrimmage, like we did this morning.

Maybe I heard wrong, but for a second, I thought Edna gave me a compliment. That hasn’t happened in the three years that I’ve known her. I waver inside.

“It’s the IMA Paparazzi 10 Selfie Station. Remember it?”
I feel my knees wobble. How could I forget it? That primo photography kit was part of last year’s spring auction.

It has a professional background screen and a big iPad stand with an LED light so people can take all the selfies they want. Best of all, if you know what you’re doing, you can make GIFs and Boomerang photos. You can add custom edits to each shot, too.

“She took a break today, that’s all. A person can feel sick in spirit, too, like when you feel lonely or overwhelmed. Does that ever happen to you?”

Every day, I want to tell her, but I shrug instead because she’s prying and I don’t like that.

She goes whenever she has a problem she can't solve without divine intervention, like last November when she was saving for the twins’ Christmas presents and her house needed a new air conditioner.

She insists that everyone can believe what they want, but she still shakes her head about the products Señora Magdalena sells. Mami says things should have proof of efficacy. That’s the no-fun scientist in her talking.

The Red Umbrella is her favorite consignment shop.

My mouth drops open as I rub my flank. Kidney damage, here I come.

“The Heart Ball?” Just saying it aloud makes me squeamish. “It’s in the gym. What’s the big deal about dressing up for that?”

It ought to come with a warning label. Inappropriate love spells possible. Discontinue use if the following symptoms arise: sappy glances, giggling, quickened heartbeats, lack of focus.

There’s not a pin left on the floor, so she walks over to see what has snagged my attention.

Neither one of us says anything for a long time, but inside me, thoughts are churning, and they have to come out.

Lena wanted to make sure people would recycle their cans and bottles instead of tossing them in a trash can in the cafeteria. The signs reminding us that an aluminum can takes 200 years to decompose in a landfill weren’t enough, apparently.

“Bye, Hannah-Hannah-Bo-Bana,” she croons.

They listed the characteristics of minerals, instead of how you identify them. But not me. The right answer is color, luster, streak, hardness, and cleavage, although I kept my hand down when he asked who knew.

“Can I crush the powder this time?” I’m a mortar-and-pestle pro thanks to Abuela, who asks me to mash down garlic and spices all the time when her arthritis is acting up.

He looks up at me through his goggles and furrows his eyebrows.

There’s gypsum for drywall and plasters, not to mention lawn fertilizer. All the stones for foundations, roadwork, and decorative finishes.

Lena asks us to try a dark blue color for our paste. Her idea is to add blueberry extract and call it Berry Spacey Plaque Blaster.

“Runner up is...Periodontal Peppermint,” he says. “The judges’ notes say: ‘Good consistency, pleasant appearance, familiar flavoring.’”

The whole house is quiet except for Tuerto, who’s skulking around after the lizard he’s trapped inside.

His burly arms are folded over his chest as he looks out bravely into the galaxy somewhere.

She wants me to rein in Tomás and Axel “in case they get out of hand.”

Those girls carry monogrammed duffel bags with satin pointe shoes inside.

Two girls are digging like badgers through the bin to borrow a pair of dance shoes, the ones Ballet Palm Beach sends over if they’re still in good shape.

And then there’s Tía’s domain: a sagging stage on one side of the gym.

I take a seat on a dented folding chair at the far end and watch as she corrals everyone into a circle for stretches.