Yaz is lying on her bed, hands under her chin. Her nails throw purple shadows onto her cheeks, though they’re painted a royal, shimmering blue. The color reminds me of an ad I saw on the side of a bus once. For some show called Supergirl. Coño. As if I’d ever watch some skinny, blond puta running around pretending to be Superman. Abuela’s telenovelas be more realistic than that.

Yaz’s room smells of paint remover. Little bottles of nail polish line the top of her dresser. On one side, cotton squares stained yellow and blue clump together like they’re cold. Yaz rolls over. She stretches out a hand and examines her nails. She knows I been staring at them. There are tiny red hearts painted on each one. Don’t know how Yaz does that. I seen her do it, with a brush as thin as an eyelash. How she keeps her hand so steady is what I don’t get. If it were me, my nails would have red splotches all over them. Like they’d gotten into a fight and got all bloody.

“I’ll do them for you if you promise to stop biting them.”

I loosen my thumbnail from my teeth, slide my hand under my butt. Yaz has offered before. When we both started eighth grade, she and her abuela got me some polish that tasted like fo. Just taught me to peel it off before I put it near my mouth.

I rest my head against the wall and look up at the stickers covering the ceiling. Chewed nails seems like a really good problem right about now.

Yaz scooches forward on the bed ’til her head is hanging off it. She makes a pout, turning her face into a puppy dog’s. “You told your papi yet?” she asks.

She’s talking about the letters. The ones I write to him in prison. Abuela says my papi don’t like visitors. A prison’s not a place for a girl anyway. But every month, we send him something. Sometimes, I slip in extras. A ripped ad from a magazine showing a sunset over a beach. Ticket stubs from Yankee Stadium—not mine, just ones I found on the ground. A strip of blue flannel from the bottom of a Salvation Army bin that I got for free and that I imagine him wearing around his wrist or woven through his fingers. Abuela says blue is Papi’s favorite color. But always, ever since I been stayin’ with Abuela, even if we fighting, I write that letter, put it in the envelope Abuela leaves on the kitchen counter. I don’t say much. Just enough so Papi knows I don’t forget him.

I shake my head to Yaz’s question. “Don’t want to bother him,” I say. He don’t need to know about my problems. He got enough to be depressed about without me bringing him down.

I’m staring up at the words You’re a star! written in bubbly letters. It was one of the last stickers we put up so it’s not covered by any others. Underneath, dous! peaks from one side, while ific! peeks from the other. The feet of either Pluto or Goofy come out the top. They look like ears, or antennae, rising from the star. When we was younger, Yaz and I collected what we got from school, the doctor, dentist, social worker, case worker—anyone who gave a kid a sticker to keep them quiet—and put it up on Yaz’s ceiling. We’d move her bed around the room, jump up and down on the mattress, peeled stickers balancing on our fingers, thumbs out to press them in. Her abuela never cared. She thought it was cute. Yaz loved the idea we were decorating. How she sleeps with all those My Little Ponies looking down at her is beyond me. I used to try to stick Shrek or Snow White over those freaky horse faces. But Yaz said she liked the ponies. When we switched to inspirational quotes, she made me promise to leave the ponies above her bed alone. We used to tape up a piece of construction paper to hide the ponies on nights I slept over. ’Til the summer Yaz swiped one of those eye patches from first class on her return flight from DR. Now when I’m at Yaz’s, I put on the eye patch like a manso pirate, stretch out on her bed, and pretend I’m in first class. Compared to Yaz’s, sleeping at Abuela’s is like the last row of economy. You feel every bump of turbulence. And you’re right up against the bathrooms, so you smell you-know-what the whole ride.

Yaz is watching me look at all the stickers. I wonder if she knows which one I’m searching for. Jasmine, from Aladdin. Yaz wore that costume three years in a row. When was the last time we played that guessing game? Beginning of the summer, maybe.

“So Carmen’s cool, huh?”

Carmen’s my abuela. I told Yaz what she said. After I told her what went down with me and Bertie.

“As long as she gets herself a nieto, she be good,” I answer.

“But you told her everything, right? About the heart?”

I give Yaz a rotten-lemon look. “I told her there’s a problem with his heart. She didn’t want to know more. You know her, she makes her decision and that’s it. No going back. She’s got her faith.”

Yaz snorts. “Faith in her rightness.”

“More like faith in Dr. Oz. I was half expecting her to demand Dr. Oz do the surgery.”

“He is a heart surgeon.” Yaz blows on a nail, touches it, then runs her hand through her hair. “Wonder if Carmen knows that.”

“If it’s written in People magazine, she’s gotta.” Besides her telenovelas, ain’t nothing Abuela loves more than her celebrity magazines. “Poor Padre Andrés.” I tsk. He’s the priest at Encarnación. “Don’t think he knows Carmen’s got more faith in Dr. Oz than him.” Yup. She’s got faith in everyone except me.

Yaz’s laughter dies away. She rubs the back of her hand across her mouth. She’s not wearing lip gloss today. Guess she forgot. She’s watching me again.

“Carmen knows about the surgery then.”

Why would Yaz think I would keep that to myself? “’Course she knows,” I snap.

Yaz lifts her hands, as if I’m holding a gun and she don’t want me to shoot. I slide my eyes away from her and scowl out the window. It’s seven and it’s already dark. Every fall, that’s what I hate most. Not the cold. Not the bare trees. I hate that the sun pulls away. As if I’ve done something wrong.

My stomach growls. Yaz hears it. Wonder if she’s going to suggest going to the park. I don’t feel like dancing tonight. Don’t feel like seeing Bertie. But I don’t smell nothing cooking. Don’t know if Yaz’s abuela’s even here.

Something hits me on the side of my head. I think it’s a sock, but it’s the black eye patch. It’s Yaz’s way of asking if I’ll stay the night.

“We’ve got leftovers. Arroz con pollo,” she says, lifting one eyebrow. Used to drive me crazy that she could do that and I couldn’t. We spent hours in front of the mirror with her coaching me. But my eyebrows are a pair. Stuck together.

My stomach grumbles again.

I stretch out my arms and hiss in a breath. “Didn’t bring no clean underwear.” There’s school tomorrow.

Yaz reaches into one of the drawers. The room’s so small, she doesn’t need to get off the bed. A pair of panties smacks me in the face. They’re cotton. With coño ponies on them.

“You know you always welcome to my undies. Long as you still fit in them!” Yaz rolls back on the bed cackling. Her feet scissor the air. She blows a bubble with her mint gum. Another something only she can do.

I ball the underwear in my fist. I think of hurling them back at her. But I don’t want to get up from my spot on the rug. I’m glad Yaz knows me so well. I’m glad she hasn’t asked me more about Bertie. More than what I told her. Which is that we had a fight. And I threw him out. I’m glad she knows I want to spend the night so I don’t have to ask.

There’s a pop as Yaz’s bubble bursts. She clears her throat. She’s looking down at her nails again, wiping them off one by one as if lint’s got on them.

“Ever think of finding YKW?” she says.

YKW. You Know Who. It’s our code. For my mama. I don’t like to say her name.

“If you told her what’s going on, maybe she’d come back? Maybe she could help?”

I take my time bringing my eyes down from the ceiling. I wait until I find Jasmine. She’s in the corner near the old water leak, next to half of a yellow bird I think is called Tweety.

My mama’s not like Yaz’s. Yaz’s mami is in the DR, working in one of those all-inclusive resorts. She’s the concierge or something fancy like that. Yaz sees her every year. Sometimes more than once. Her mami actually comes to New York to visit. And she buys her things. And sends them money. How do you think they can afford the after-school with the nuns? If Yaz were ever in trouble, her mami’d be on the first plane back.

But my mama? She ain’t coming back. I don’t want her to. Not for this. She can rot in whatever little piece of hell she’s hidden herself in. And she’s hid herself good. ’Cause not even Abuela could find her. And Abuela wanted to. Real bad. She told me so. Remember?

I don’t have to say nothing. Yaz nods. Turns onto her back. She spits out her gum. Reaches for a new piece. She lifts her chin ’til she sees me upside down.

“I know you gotta eat. But first,” she points to the ceiling, “guess who I’m looking for?”