CHAPTER 17

A FEW NEW KIDS SHOW UP ON SATURDAY, AND EVEN THOUGH they pay more attention to Chad, they talk to me too. They ask me things like, Did you get that amazing stunt? and How many hits do you have? and Will you make a video of me? I organize the line and make sure everyone gets a turn.

“What do I have now?” Antonio asks me.

I flip to the page in my notebook where I’ve kept count from Monday to this morning. “‘Riding the Rock’—one thousand, one hundred twenty-four.” I pause. “‘Crash Splash’”—Wednesday’s wipeout caused by a homemade bridge with an unexpectedly missing board—“one thousand, five hundred thirty-six.”

Brian stands in front of me. I move my finger to his line. “‘Perfect Ten Tailwhip’—five-oh-five. Sorry.” He nods and steps back.

“Me! Me! Me!” Chad twirls in front of me.

I’m especially proud of “Gambit Double 360,” with his stunt in slow motion to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” “You have one thousand, three hundred eleven hits. In just two days.”

Chad stops abruptly and blows his breath through pursed lips. “You mean I didn’t beat him.” He points to Antonio.

“His went up a day ahead of yours. You might catch up,” I say.

But Veg calls out from behind Chad, “Nah. People like the wipeouts best.”

• • •

All the way home, Chad begs me to make a new video of him. So even though his father is an evil creep who I never want to see again, I go to the park on Sunday morning to record him and Dad playing bluegrass together. This time Brandon comes outside with his father, and I’m glad because I can pay attention to Brandon and not look at his dad. Or mine.

Except that my dad decides to start up a conversation. “You’re even cuter than your picture,” he tells Brandon.

Brandon grins. Dad musses his hair.

Brandon puts both his hands on his hips. “My daddy says you were in a band.” I think he’s more impressed about the band than Chad ever was.

“Sure was.” Dad starts to tell Brandon about Corazón del Este, but banjo music drowns him out, Mr. Elliott telling Dad without words to quit the chitchat and play. Brandon sits on the platform next to Dad and kicks his little feet in time to the music. I stare at those feet while I hold my microphone in front of the guitar and the banjo.

I use one of the tunes as the sound track of a new video I title “Hanging Chad.” In it Chad hangs weightless in the air for what seems like forever, his bike dangling from one hand.

At three in the afternoon I hit the upload button and wait for the views. I think it’s my best video ever, even better than “Gambit Double 360” because the stunt is so graceful and the music captures Chad’s hyper energy so perfectly. I have a hundred views in the first hour. Maybe this video will give Chad the most attention since he wants it so badly.

Mami calls at seven that night. After Dad talks with her, going upstairs to do it in private, he hands his cell phone to me. He’s smiling, as if he thinks there’s good news on the other end.

Is Mami coming home after all?

The phone is greasy from hands that have been sautéing vegetables for ratatouille, Dad trying for more variety with the dinner menu. I think I maybe had something to do with it. After my meltdown over the takeout pizza, I made a list of cheap and easy dinner ideas, asked Mr. Internet for the recipes, and gave them to Dad. I’m happy that he’s cooking, but he makes a big mess that I have to clean up. I wipe the back of the phone on my jeans and the screen and keypad with my shirttail. Good news can wait until Dad’s phone isn’t disgusting anymore.

“Hola, Mami. Te extraño.”

“I miss you too,” she says in Spanish. Her English isn’t very good because she was already sixteen when she fled to Canada with her mother and her two younger brothers, my tíos Mauricio and Rogelio, after their father was killed back in El Salvador. And in Montreal, they speak mainly French.

Mami said you have to start speaking another language when you’re a baby or you’ll always speak it with an accent. When I stopped talking in kindergarten, my abuela in Montreal said it was because I got confused with parents who taught me two languages at the same time when I was a baby. But I know that’s not the real reason. You don’t become a mutant by learning too many languages at once but by messed-up DNA.

My mouth is dry when I speak again. “I want you to come home.”

Quiero que vuelvas a casa . . . The subjunctive. That’s what I like about Spanish. It has rules to tell you about emotion. I want. I wish. I need. I hope. I dream. I’m sorry. When you know something’s sure to happen, you don’t use the subjunctive. You use the indicative. When something might not happen, or has no chance at all of happening, or you really, really want it to happen, that’s the subjunctive. In Spanish you know the difference. English doesn’t use the subjunctive nearly as much, so a person can lie, and the words don’t tell you he’s lying. They don’t tell you what a person is feeling, and without the right words to tell me, I don’t understand.

“That’s what I called about,” Mami says.

“Yay!” I shout in English, then switch back to Spanish. “When are you coming?”

The phone line crackles. Some cell tower or satellite between northeastern Connecticut and Montreal must have burped. Come on, I mouth.

“We’ve decided you’re spending the summer here.”

“What?”

She repeats the words. Hemos decidido que pasarás el verano aquí . . . The indicative.

“NO!” I yell. Dad slips through the open doorway from the kitchen into the living room. Making his escape rather than helping me. Abandoning dinner preparations too.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” she says.

“Where did you get that idea?”

“You were telling your father.” She pauses. I hear Dad’s footsteps going up the stairs. “How much you missed me.”

Right. In Dad’s truck. The day I met Antonio and found out about the bottles Chad made me carry. Stupid me.

I whack my head with the edge of Dad’s phone.

“I didn’t want to leave here. I wanted you to come back.”

“Kiara, amor . . .”

Amor? Like she really loves me? Or is she just saying that to get me to do what she wants?

Mami continues. “It works out best this way. I can see you. And your father wants to play festivals this summer.”

“So it’s all about him! And his stupid festivals!” I stomp my foot. The house vibrates.

“What’s going on, Kiara?” I hear Dad’s voice from upstairs and stalk toward the stairs.

“Liar! You said you’d bring me to the festivals. And now you’re shipping me away,” I yell up to Dad. Even if I miss some weekends, I’ll still be able to see my friends if I stay with Dad. If I go to Montreal, it’s all over.

Mami’s voice sounds tinny. “Max will be here. They liked his audition and hired him to play keyboards.”

“I don’t care!” I don’t tell her that my new friend Antonio is even nicer than Max. He doesn’t talk about me being different—or hard to handle.

“At the end of the summer, we can all come back together.”

“First you said you’d be home in May. Now you’re saying the end of the summer.” I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. When people lie to me once, I never can believe them again. “How do I know you won’t decide to stay there forever?”

The moment of silence tells me she doesn’t have an answer. “After school’s out—”

“No!” Another stomp. “No. No. No. No. No.”

Does she even know I’m not in school anymore? I don’t plan to tell her because then she won’t do anything I want her to do.

“Your father will drive you up,” she continues as soon as I stop saying my noes to take a breath.

“He wants you to come home too, Mami. He wants you and him to be together.” She hasn’t heard his songs in minor keys. If she did, she’d cry and realize he can’t live without her.

And I can’t leave my friends. I can’t.

I think of Chad, launching himself into the air with his bicycle, twisting and spinning against the laws of gravity. My mind flashes to Brandon with his wrestlers, how we keep each other company in the park in the time between when Ms. Latimer leaves and when the middle-school bus arrives.

I can’t forget the rest of the guys either, my own X-Men—Veg, Kevin, and Brian. Beast, Iceman, and Colossus.

Above me, the floorboards groan. It’s all up to me to bring Mami back.

“I have friends here, Mami. Friends.”

“Yes. Your father mentioned a new boy.”

“You don’t get it. If I go, they’ll forget all about me. They’ll make other friends and I’ll be alone again. Is that what you want?” My voice rises an octave. “Is that what you want? No friends?”

“Kiara, listen.”

“Don’t . . . make . . . me . . . leave . . . my . . . friends. Please!” The phone slides down my face. I push it back up. “Please.”

“I’m sure they’ll be there when you get back.”

“No, they won’t!”

Mami clears her throat. “I haven’t seen you since—”

“And whose decision was that?”

“Don’t interrupt, or there will be consequences.”

Like what? You’ll spank me and put me in time-out, from three hundred miles away? That’s what she used to do when I was younger. She never hit me hard, but what really stung was my brothers watching bad little Kiara get her punishment.

“You won’t be bored. I promise,” Mami says. “You can work on your French. And if your father doesn’t mind you bringing the camcorder, you can record us.”

“I’m doing it here. That new kid? He does cool bike stunts. You should see my videos.” I stop to take a quick breath. “And he’s helping me. He’s my . . . tutor. And way cooler, because he’s my age and you aren’t.”

She sighs. “Are you done?”

I can’t think of anything more to say that’ll change her mind. And maybe I shouldn’t have said Chad was way cooler and she’s old, but it’s the truth. “I guess.” I squeeze the phone, as if I could choke off her words.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“No!” I can’t stop my tears now. “He’ll find some other friend he likes better. Like all the rest of them.”

“Don’t argue. It’s final. As soon as school’s out, get your things ready.” The imperative has the same verb form as the subjunctive when it’s a “no.” And after that, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have a choice. I’m a little girl who can be dragged from one place to another without anyone caring what she wants. Inside my head, I’m screaming, and it drowns out most of what she says about Dad and my abuela and touring with her new band.

“I hate you! I never want to see you again!” Blindly, I slam the flip phone shut and hurl it across the kitchen. It hits the door frame and splits apart, one half skittering behind the refrigerator and the other bouncing toward me.