Up a half flight of stairs and into a basement hallway were eight little rooms for Sunday school.

“Actually it’s for after-school care,” explained Venita. “The church opens its doors to elementary-school kids from three o’clock till their mamas come for them.” She pointed to the bathroom. “That’s the most important room. Half the school toilets don’t have seats and the doors are torn off and they’re always out of toilet paper or soap or something, so the kids just hang till they get here.”

“The toilets don’t have seats?” said Macey, shuddering. “Why don’t the janitors just replace them?”

“The school got no money for that,” said Venita.

The hallway was damp with its first coat of white primer. The basement smelled so heavily of paint that Macey could hardly breathe.

“See you, Mace,” said Austin, his hand passing over her shoulder. He went on down the hall with Isaiah.

Venita waved Macey into the third of the eight little rooms. Dark, sick hospital green covered the walls. “Our room is two colors of yellow,” said Venita with pleasure. “Deep yellow up to here, and pale yellow above it. They said it might take four coats to cover. So if it doesn’t look right, just keep painting. Isaiah, his room is bright red up to about your waist, and then really wide stripes of purple and indigo. Don’t you love that word indigo? Doesn’t it sound bluer than blue? Wait till you see their paint. I’m not jealous, though, I like our paint best. Our kids are the six-year-olds, and I think they’re right for yellow gold. Their kids are ten- to twelve-year-olds, so they can use bigger colors. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Macey. She could hardly wait to start transforming the room. She loved to think of six-year-olds here amid the gold.

Venita carefully poured an inch of paint out of a large can and into a flat slanted pan. “Easier to dip into,” she explained. “First we paint the whole room the pale yellow, okay?”

“Okay.” Macey started. Her brush was a wide foam square with a handle, and the paint slid off and gleamed wetly. Macey did one wall, floor to ceiling, while Venita worked more slowly on molding and trim. “Do you live near here?” Macey asked.

“Three blocks. My grandma teaches Sunday school here. I got three little brothers come after school. I work here every afternoon.”

“I’ve never had a job,” Macey confessed. “What do you get paid?”

“Paid! Girl, we’re not talking money. This is church.”

They painted. The slopping sound of the brushes and the slickery sound of paint as it went on were satisfying. Macey loved how the paint stuck. What an amazing thing paint was—liquid that didn’t run, but stuck to your walls and made them beautiful.

Venita said, “You got a crush on that boy? That one named for Texas?”