by Meg Medina
Sweat beads up on my forehead. I hadn’t counted on how many cars would be double-parked outside the shops. And when did this block get so damn narrow? In a boat as wide as the Impala, it’s hard to squeeze through. I crawl up the street, maneuvering as best I can.
“There he is!” Kathleen points at Pablo. He’s changing the price signs on the bins. “Slow down!”
I jam on the brake, but Pablo’s back is turned and he doesn’t see us. Kathleen taps the horn and he turns around. My mouth goes dry as I give him a little wave.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he smiles wide. “Wow!” he calls out.
“Perfect,” Kathleen whispers. “Get to the corner and turn around so you can park.”
To get back to the loading spot, I’ll have to make a three-point turn near the corner of Station Road and come back from the other direction.
But as I drive farther up the street, something else comes into view, too. Sergio’s Monte Carlo is parked outside the Satin Lady, as usual. Hector, of all people, is talking to him outside.
At first, I’m not sure it’s my brother. He looks weird. He’s wearing a leather jacket I don’t recognize, and it makes him look older from a distance. But, sure enough, as we drive closer and he shakes the hair from his eyes, I know it’s him. Just this morning, Mima nagged Hector about showering and getting a haircut so he wouldn’t look like “un hippie.”
Unfortunately, the Impala — or really, me driving it — snags Hector’s attention immediately. When he spots me behind the wheel, he breaks into a big smile and steps right into the road to block my way.
“What’s he doing?” Kathleen asks.
I roll down the window and lean out. “Move, Hector.”
“I’ll have to ask for your license and registration, miss,” he says.
I’m thinking of the times we played Billy Goats Gruff as a kid. I was the bigger one then, so I played the troll. “I’ll gobble you up!” I’d yell, and Hector would squeal as I ran after him.
“Move,” I say again, but Hector just whistles to Sergio, who turns to us, too.
“Noooora!” Sergio eyeballs Kathleen, too. She’s actually reflected in his mirrored shades. “Hey, foxy.”
She looks at me and rolls her eyes.
Hector walks over to my window. He doesn’t care that traffic is backing up behind me. “Since when do you drive?” he asks me.
“Since right now, see? Get out of the way.” I look in the rearview mirror nervously. Cars are edging around us, and the passing drivers beep and point frantically to tell me what I already know. We’re clogging up the street. One driver even gives me the finger.
Sergio doesn’t seem to notice the fuss either as he surveys the Impala, clearly impressed. “That baby can haul ass,” he calls to me. “You better be careful driving, Nora. It’s a lot of power you got there.” He presses on the gas of his Monte Carlo to make the muffler roar.
“Shouldn’t you be fixing something in our building, Sergio?” I snap.
Hector leans half his body inside my window to get a look at the interior. The smell of his oily hair is overpowering.
“Get out of here,” I say. I mean the car, but also the Satin Lady, this whole place that features Sergio.
Just then, a truck driver behind me sits on his horn and won’t let up. He blares it for so long that Sal finally comes out to see what’s the matter.
“All right!” I yell, glaring at the trucker through the rearview mirror. I shove Hector out of the way and hit the gas so I can make a three-point turn. It actually turns into an eight-point turn in this enormous car. By the time I’ve finished, I’ve stopped all the traffic both ways. The shopkeepers are all at their doors to see about the fuss. I’m horrified at what Pablo must be thinking of my driving skills.
I finally start down the block toward Sal’s loading zone, but from somewhere behind us, I hear the screech of tires. Sergio has cut everyone off to make a U-turn. He peels out and barrels down the street in our direction.
“He’s going to rear-end us!” Kathleen screams.
Flustered, I hit the gas and swerve, just as the Monte Carlo misses us by inches. Hector hangs out of the passenger-side window to his waist, waving and laughing as the car careens down the block.
That’s the last thing I really see. The Impala fishtails, and in a flash, we sail over the curb toward the deli. Sal and Pablo dive out of the way as we crash into the produce bins with an enormous crunch. Apples and onions roll everywhere. The wooden legs beneath the containers crumple to the pavement.
For a second, silence.
I cut the ignition and sit in a stunned cloud of shame as Sal and Pablo run to the car.
“You okay, girls?” Sal yells as he climbs over the splintered bins to reach us. “Anybody hurt?”
Annemarie stands at the front door, horrified. The phone cord is stretched as far as it can go. “Oh, my God! Do we need an ambulance?”
I look at Kathleen, who is staring straight ahead in shock. No blood.
“No,” I call out. “We’re fine.”
Pablo reaches the driver’s side and opens my door. “Are you all right, Nora?” He offers me his hand, but I can’t even meet his eye.
Sal yanks open the door on Kathleen’s side.
“They tried to run us down,” she tells him as he helps her out.
He looks down the road, but Sergio and Hector are already gone. “Punks,” he mutters. “I’ll deal with them later.”
Hobbling on his bad knee, Sal walks around to the front of the car to inspect the damage. After a few minutes, he bangs his open palm against the metal fender. “You’re lucky this baby is a tank, sweetheart. Just a couple scratches.” He turns to Pablo. “I’ll bet your car couldn’t stand up to this, Paulie!”
“Scratches?” Kathleen says. “Scratches?”
We bolt for the front of the car to see the horror for ourselves. The fender has two long scrapes. Nothing is dented, but we both know Mr. Mac notices every detail on this car. Instantly Kathleen’s eyes fill with tears.
Sal might have been brave in war, but he’s a coward about crying. He clears his throat and tosses aside some of the broken bins near the tires.
“Gimme a hand here, Paulie. Let’s move her off the sidewalk.”
Pablo steps out into the middle of the street to stop traffic while Sal backs the Impala into the loading zone.
“When my dad sees this, we’re screwed,” Kathleen groans.
“Let’s park it back in front of your house,” I whisper. “Somebody could have hit it on the street. He won’t know.”
“What if the spot is taken?”
That shuts me up. Kathleen sits on the curb and puts her head in her hands.
Sal comes back and surveys his ruined merchandise. “I’ll need an accident report from the police for my insurance guy.”
The police?
“Oh, please don’t do that,” I beg. “We’ll pay you for the damage.”
“I’ve got insurance,” he says. “That’s what it’s for.”
“But I’ll pay you back every last dime. You can dock me a little every week if you want.”
He gives me a doubtful look. “Something tells me I don’t wanna know why you don’t want a report. And something tells me it’s not good.”
“Please, Sal. Kathleen’s dad will have a fit.”
“Nora . . .” he begins.
“I’ll replace the bins, too. In fact, I’ll build them tomorrow. We can use all that wood that’s cluttering the vault. They’ll be beautiful. Better than new!”
Sal heaves a sigh.
“Come on, Sal. I need you to give me a break this one time.”
He throws his meaty hands up, his face turning red as he heads inside.
“Thanks, Sal!” I call after him.
But he doesn’t reply.
Pablo kicks away an apple. He’s looking around at all the work I’ve just made for him. Cleaning this up will take hours.
“I’m really sorry a
bout this,” I say.
He takes a deep breath and heads inside behind Sal. “I’ll get the trash bags.”
One does not get a ninety-nine average in wood-shop class for nothing.
I’ve taken Mr. Stanley Melvin’s shop class every semester since tenth grade, mostly because it fits nicely into my schedule, but also because I dig how it feels to smash a hammer down hard. It comes with the added bonus of building yourself a lamp or jewelry box in sixteen short weeks if you are so inclined. Kathleen thinks the guys in shop are hunky, too, but she doesn’t know what it’s really like on the inside. For starters, I met Angel in here. And good-looking or not, guys in a pack can become goons. Every conversation with them turns to sex when Mr. Melvin isn’t around. Clamp on this, Nora. Tongue and groove sounds nice, right, Nora? Crap like that, thanks to Angel’s rumors about me. Why wouldn’t a girl want their attention to her legs, butt, and boobs? Square peg, round hole. The answer just doesn’t fit for them.
Anyway, Mr. Melvin claims that I’m his best student. It was his idea that I apply to New York City Community College in Brooklyn, where they offer a program in construction and carpentry. What would college look like with a bunch of shop guys? More of the same, probably, so no, thanks. And forget asking Mima about it. First of all, the school is in Brooklyn, which she has determined is the center of hell. Besides, on the rare occasions when Mima has talked about my future, she’s always said she wants me to have “una carrera linda” — a pretty job, which I am very sure does not involve Flexcut carving knives or a lathe.
I show up before the first hour and tap on the door. Mr. Melvin is drinking coffee from his thermos and reading the sports page. He looks up and smiles.
“Nora López.” That’s how he greets all his students, first and last name, like a walking attendance sheet.
“Mr. Stanley Melvin.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need your help.”
“Intriguing.” He folds his paper and waits.
“I’m building some bins for a friend who owns a fruit stand. I’d like to make them kind of special.”
I leave out the particulars, of course. Poor Mr. Melvin. He looks so happy to know that I’m using skills outside the classroom. It’s like shop class has a real purpose other than filler. He draws me a little plan on a napkin.
“It’s a simple project, but large or small, the basics of woodwork are always the same, Nora López.” He gathers a few tools, a sign of his trust in me. “Mind the details and remember everything I taught you.”
I reach for the bucket, but he holds it away from me.
“And one more thing.” He peers at me over his crooked glasses. “I saw Ms. Friedmor in the lounge. She mentioned that you haven’t turned in your college application.”
The dreaded teacher gossip network strikes again. What is it with these people? Don’t they have their own lives? Besides, not everyone is like nutty Adriana Francesca, who has her whole life — as well as her past ones — all squared away. She told our English class that she’s been accepted to “THE Cooper Union,” where she’ll study art and literature, for free, with all the other child prodigies in New York.
I smile at Mr. Melvin as I fish for my bus pass. “I haven’t gotten to it, but I will.”
“We have an agreement that you will apply, Nora López? New York City Community College has a fine technical program.”
“A hard bargain, but fine, yes.”
He smiles. “Well, remember that my offer still stands.” Mr. Melvin wants me to work with him on the Saturday Morning Job Review program after I graduate. It’s held on Saturday mornings for kids who need “an alternative to academics” so they can try out jobs in plumbing, auto repair, and carpentry. Does he seriously think I might actually want to be trapped in high school forever with these guys? Please.
“I could use a talented carpenter’s apprentice like you to whip my charges into shape. Think about it. You can work part-time and study, too. If you want it, the position is yours.”
After school, I throw on my Levi’s carpenter jeans — for once something more than a fashion item — and lug Mr. Melvin’s tool bucket the four blocks to Sal’s. The bruised fruits have been moved inside. They’re in big peach baskets marked SALE.
I unlock the sidewalk vault so I can bring up the wood that Sal keeps there. I have to take a deep breath to work up my nerve.
It’s dark. The first few steps you take are always blind until you find the cord that’s attached to the lightbulb. Who knows what’s with you down here? Rats? Roaches? Hector’s fire-breathing dragon? A decapitated body?
I click on the light. Thanks to Pablo, the shelves are lined neatly with canned food, cases of beer, and cheeses. Only the wood is still in a messy heap near the old furnace. It takes all my might to pick through it, but I finally find an old door, a few sheets of plywood, and some two-by-fours from the stash. “Use your legs to lift,” I tell myself, channeling Mr. Melvin, but those five steep steps back to the sidewalk are still a killer.
I’m setting up when Mr. Farina comes up the block. He’s got a head of white hair and mischievous brown eyes.
“I’ve always admired a girl who can take care of things,” he says. “My wife was the same way. She flew planes in the war.”
Sal comes out, carrying their coffees. He takes one look at my electric circular saw and frowns.
“Wait a minute, dollface! Maybe I should do the cutting,” he says. “A pretty girl like you will need all her fingers to operate a cash register.”
I give him a withering look. “‘Dollface’? Go inside and enjoy your coffees. I know how to use the saw,” I say. “I’ve taken shop for three years. I just have to put this door across the cinder blocks so I can make a worktable.” I look around. “Where’s the closest outlet, anyway?”
“Over here,” a voice says.
I turn around and find Pablo pointing with his feather duster.
I’m still feeling bad about the mess I made for him, so I duck my head and toss him the end of the cord. “Thanks.”
I follow all the protocols: Set up the orange safety cones. Cover the cords with electrical tape to prevent falls. Earplugs. Then I find my goggles inside the bucket and put them on. I know these babies are ugly, but Mr. Melvin brainwashed us all a long time ago with his horror stories of his glass-eyed carpenter friends.
“Fetching,” Pablo says as he helps Sal set up the tabletop.
Sal stands back, but he still doesn’t look too confident. “Maybe Paulie should help you,” he says.
Safety rule number ten, I think. Avoid distractions. Perhaps I can break that one.
Mr. Farina comes to my rescue. “Salerno, have faith in the young lady,” he says.
I tape my plan onto the glass door for reference. I don’t need Pablo’s help, of course. I turn to Sal.
“If you don’t like the bins when I’m done, you can file the police report,” I tell him. “But for now, you’re going to have to trust me.”
Sal crosses his arms and sighs. “Let him hand you tools, at least.”
“Fine.”
Sal heads back inside with Mr. Farina in tow, but not before he leans over and whispers to Pablo. “I’ll have the number to the emergency room just in case.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence!” I call.
I turn to Pablo. “Do you even know how to build stuff?”
“It’s not my thing, to be honest,” he says.
I dig in my bucket for the spare pair of safety glasses. “Well, then, you’ll need these. And whatever you do, don’t reach over the blade.”
We work until almost closing, sawdust flying everywhere. I hardly notice the hours go by, but that’s always how it is when I’m working on a wood project. I get lost in the grain of the wood, the squeak of boards against the saw, the smell of hot pine. In no time, I start to think of new things I’d want to do: style better legs, curve the edges into something nice.
I haven’t said anything to Pa
blo about this. He’s done a decent job holding the pieces steady while I’ve cut and nailed. He obviously knows nothing about carpentry, but I haven’t mentioned it. He may not think of me as Sexy Nora, but at least now he can see I’m not a total idiot. Not a bad trade-off.
When I’m all done, I pull up my goggles and take in my finished product. Twelve square bins, or at least I hope so. I’m soaked in sweat, even though the air out here is brisk. My hair is coated in sawdust, and my hands are blistered. But I feel really good, having accomplished something I can see and touch.
Sal peeks out. It’s nearly closing time. “You sure they’re sturdy?”
“Bring me the tape measure, please,” I tell Pablo. Then I hand him and Sal a couple of pencils.
“Go to each corner of the bins, measure three inches, and make a mark.” I demonstrate. “At the opposite side of each corner, like so, measure four inches and make another one.” I draw another line. “If the distance between the two points is five, they’re square. Go check.”
They exchange glances and get to work on all twelve bins as I gather Mr. Melvin’s tools. Ta-da! Every single one is five inches on the nose. Rock solid.
“How does that even work?” Pablo asks, clearly impressed.
“It’s that badass Pythagorean theorem,” I say. “A squared plus B squared equals C squared in a right triangle. Two right triangles make one perfect square.”
“Genius!” Sal says, grinning.
I unplug the saw and turn to Pablo. “Can you help me drag down the scraps?”
Every muscle in my back and arms is aching, but at least I’ve got my fingers attached and no police report to explain to Mr. Mac. What I most want now is a shower and my bed.
“Those were some pretty impressive skills,” Pablo tells me as we stack the last of the two-by-fours.
It feels awkward to hear that compliment. “Thanks. You were a big help.”
“Really?” he says.
“Well, no, but it was nice company.”
He laughs as I start up the stairs. Suddenly he catches my hand. I turn around slowly and stare.
“I was thinking . . . maybe you might want to go out sometime. I checked the new schedule Annemarie put up. I’m off tomorrow night, and so are you.”