3

After we stop to ask Tata if I can go over to Krysta’s, we head up the street to the Perezes’ house.

Even though it’s on the same road as mine, Krysta’s house might as well be in a different universe. The rest of the homes are small ranches with two bedrooms, built more than fifty years ago. Krysta’s was built right before she was born, a giant white dragon plopped on top of the hill. Sometimes I imagine it’s going to open its mouth and gobble up all of the little huts below.

I’m out of breath by the time we hike up Krysta’s impossibly long driveway. Of course, she’s not the least bit winded.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get a snack and practice our routine in the backyard. Then we can go work on our writing journals.”

Our journals are the only homework Krysta and I do together. Miss Patel doesn’t grade them, but Krysta still wants hers to be perfect. I help her find the exact right words so that her ideas sound better. In exchange, Krysta reads my poems and tells me which ones are the best. If Krysta says she likes something, then I know it’s good.

But as we walk up Krysta’s walkway, Mrs. Perez comes out the front door. She’s wearing bright pink sneakers that perfectly match the headband in her blond hair. Her arms are high above her head in a graceful stretch.

The instant I spot her, my hands start sweating. As Krysta waves hello, I try to step behind one of the neatly trimmed rhododendron bushes that surround the house, hoping Mrs. Perez will speed past without noticing me. But her metal-gray eyes lock on to mine, and she stops.

“Hi there! Now, let me see if I can finally get your name right. Vow—” She shakes her head. “No, don’t tell me how to pronounce it! Vwoo… Voodoomeera? Is that right?”

She’s not even close.

“Włodzimira,” I say, trying not to cough at her overpowering perfume.

Mrs. Perez smacks her thigh as if she’s punishing herself for getting my name wrong again. “Next time, I’ll have it!” she says.

“Call her ‘Mira,’ Mom,” Krysta breaks in. “Everyone else does.”

I’ve told Mrs. Perez this for years now, but she never seems to hear me. I think she only wants to prove to the world that she can get it perfect.

“You should take pride in your name,” Mrs. Perez says, as though I should be embarrassed to use a nickname. Even though it’s one that her daughter gave me. “Although, I bet in your country, Voodoomeera is pretty common, isn’t it?”

It’s not, actually. Mama always teases Tata for insisting on my old-fashioned name when I was born. Before I can explain that, Mrs. Perez clears her throat and adds, “By the way, could you let your parents know that some people have been complaining about their… landscaping? The neighborhood association has certain standards, you know.”

Even though Mrs. Perez looks nothing like her daughter, sometimes she sounds exactly like her.

“I’d tell them myself,” Mrs. Perez goes on, “but I’m never sure if they can understand me. Your father especially.”

My face grows hot. She’s right. Tata won’t bother trying to learn the language past the minimum he had to know for the exam to enter the country. Mama complains that he’s being stubborn, but I think he’s embarrassed about his accent.

“Mom!” Krysta says. “Who cares? They’re just flowers.”

But it’s obvious that to Mrs. Perez they’re much more than that.

“I’ll tell them,” I say.

“Good girl.” She turns back to Krysta. “What are you two up to?”

“Nothing,” Krysta says quickly. Nobody—especially not Mrs. Perez—knows that I help Krysta with her writing journal. Being perfect means she’s not supposed to need help with anything.

“Well, I’m off for a walk. Keep out of the yard.”

“What?” Krysta cries. “But we were going to—”

“Your father has some election business to attend to,” Mrs. Perez says. “You need to stay upstairs until he’s done, all right?”

I can’t imagine what “election business” Mayor Perez might be conducting in the backyard, and I’m surprised that for once Krysta doesn’t argue. Instead she says, “Fine. Come on, Mira. Let’s go inside.”

We park our bikes and head up the front steps, as Mrs. Perez hurries down the driveway, her arms swinging at her sides like useless wings.