I meet Mr. Ingman after school every Thursday so he can help me prepare for the ACTs and apply to colleges. He insists, even though he isn’t my teacher anymore now that I’m a senior. I told him that my counselor was already helping me, but he said she didn’t know her ass from her elbow. (His exact words.) He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, so I would be stupid to refuse. And after spending the entire summer cleaning houses with Amá, I’m almost happy to be back in school, working my brain instead of my hands.

My grades last year were okay. I managed to pull them up at the end and mostly got B’s, but I’m still worried about getting into the colleges I want. This semester I’m determined to kick some serious ass, though. I’m back with a vengeance, bitches! I’m applying to three schools in New York, two in Boston, and one in Chicago. Mr. Ingman helped me pick out diverse schools with good English programs. Even though I don’t want to stay here, he says I have to apply to at least one school in the state, just in case. But I know I have to go far away. I love my parents, of course, and I feel guilty for wanting to leave them, but living here would be too hard. I need to grow and explore, and they won’t let me. I feel like I’m being kept under a magnifying glass.

Mr. Ingman is showing me all the ins and outs of college applications, which I appreciate, because I have no idea what I’m doing. Some of the schools charge up to ninety dollars, and since I’m what they like to call “low income,” Mr. Ingman is teaching me how to apply for waivers.

Though I had to fork over most of what I made working with Amá, I was able to save $274, which should at least cover my flight

if I end up choosing a school on the East Coast. I’ve been in desperate need of a new pair of shoes, but I refuse to touch any of that money.

According to Mr. Ingman, I have to emphasize the fact that my parents are still undocumented. “Admission committees love that stuff,” he insists.

“But it’s a secret,” I say. “My parents told us we weren’t supposed to tell anyone. What if I send in my application, and then the school calls immigration and my parents get deported? Then what?”

“No one is going to deport them. That would be impossible.” “But they’re illegal,” I whisper.

“Undocumented,” Mr. Ingman corrects me.

“My family call themselves ilegales or mojados. No one says

undocumented. They don’t know about being politically correct.” “It’s a very stigmatizing word. I don’t like it. Same with illegal

aliens. That’s even more repugnant.” Mr. Ingman shudders as if

the words feel venomous inside his body. “Fine, undocumented.” I finally give in.

I grew up learning to be afraid of la migra and listened to my parents and family members go on and on about papeles. For a long time, I didn’t understand what was so important about these pieces of paper, but I eventually figured it out. My parents could have been sent back to Mexico at any moment, leaving me and Olga here to fend for ourselves. We probably would have ended up with one of our aunts with papers, like some of the kids at school, or we would have gone back to Mexico with our parents. I remember the raids in Apá’s factory when I was little. La migra shipped mojados back by the busload, separating families forever. It must have been some sort of miracle that these sweeps were never during his shift. Although Apá is only physically present most of the time, like some sort of household fixture, I can’t imagine what it would be like to live without him.

Like my parents, I’ve always been suspicious of white people, because they’re the ones who call immigration, who are rude to you at stores and restaurants, who follow you when you’re

shopping, but I think Mr. Ingman is different. No other teacher has ever been this interested in me.

“Okay, how do you know for sure that they won’t get deported?” I insist one last time.

“Please, Julia. Trust me. I’ve helped dozens of students like you get into college. We’re in Chicago, not Arizona. That doesn’t really happen here. Not like that. No one is going to read your essay and track your parents down. Plus, have I ever lied to you?”

“Not that I know of.”

Mr. Ingman nods. “Fair enough. But I wouldn’t lead you astray.

I really want you to go to school.”

“Why, though? I don’t get it. Why do you care so much?”

“You were one of the best students I’ve ever had, and I want to see you do well. You have to get the hell out of this neighborhood. You have to go to school. You can become something great. I see it in you. You’re a fantastic writer.”

No one has ever said anything like this.

“Come on. Get writing. I don’t have all evening,” Mr. Ingman says, looking at his watch. “You need to jot down some ideas, at the very least.”

I stare at the giant world map, not knowing where to begin. What makes me interesting? What makes me who I am? What story does the world need to know?

In 1991, my parents—Amparo Montenegro and Rafael Reyes—got married and left their hometown of Los Ojos, Chihuahua, in search of a better life. My sister, Olga, was born later that year. All they wanted was the American dream, but things didn’t work out that way for them. Amá cleans houses, and Apá works in a candy factory. Life for us was already difficult, and then last year my sister was run over by a truck.

We have a half day, so I take the train to the used bookstore in Wicker Park after school. I’ve saved a total of seventeen dollars from my lunch money in the last few weeks and should be able to

buy two books. My stomach felt like it was eating itself those times I had nothing but a scoop of lumpy mashed potatoes, but it was worth it. If—when—I become rich, I want a library so big that I’ll need a ladder to reach all my books. I want first editions, too. I want ancient tomes that I have to handle with forceps and rubber gloves.

I go to the poetry section first to see if they have any Adrienne Rich books. I read one of her poems in English class last week, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. It just repeats and repeats. Sometimes I’m washing my hands or brushing my teeth, and there it is, just bouncing in my brain: “I came to explore the wreck./The words are purposes./The words are maps.” I’m so excited to find one of her books for only six dollars.

I love the smell of old bookstores—paper, knowledge, and probably mildew. I hate the cliché that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, because covers say so much about what’s inside. Take The Great Gatsby, for instance—the woman’s melancholic face against the city lights in the distance is the perfect representation of the quiet misery of that era. Covers matter. Those who don’t think so are full of crap. I mean, I wear band T-shirts for a reason. Lorena wears leopard-print spandex for a reason.

I fantasize about what the books I’ll write one day will look like. I want colorful artwork on the covers, like a Jackson Pollock or Jean-Michel Basquiat painting. Or maybe I can use a haunting photograph by Francesca Woodman. There’s one of her crawling on the floor in front of a mirror that would be perfect.

I see an older edition of Leaves of Grass and hold it up to my face. It smells amazing, and it’s only six dollars.

I walk up to the third floor and find a table near the critical theory section. It’s crammed, but there’s one free chair left. After a few minutes, the woman next to me leaves, and a guy approaches and asks if he could sit down. He is tall, with shaggy brown hair, and is wearing a flannel shirt and tight, dark jeans. He’s cute.

“Sure,” I say, and bury my head in my book. “That’s one of my favorites,” he says.

Something between a croak and a squeak comes out of my mouth. I’m horrified. “What?” I finally manage to say. “Are you

talking to me?”

“Uh-huh. Leaves of Grass. But that’s probably not worth saying.

Whoever doesn’t like Walt Whitman is probably dead inside.”

I can’t believe this. Is this guy really talking to me about poetry right now? “I would have to agree. He is, indeed, a master.”

He nods. “So, what’s your favorite book?”

“I don’t know. I mean, how do you decide? I love so many….The Awakening? One Hundred Years of Solitude? The Great Gatsby? Catcher in the Rye? The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter? The Bluest Eye? Poetry or prose? If poetry, then maybe Emily Dickinson…or wait, maybe…Fuck, I don’t know.” I’m not sure why the question fills me with panic.

“I love The Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby. Haven’t read One Hundred Years yet. Don’t you think it’s ironic that after the Gatsby movie, people started throwing 1920s parties? It’s so stupid, romanticizing that time.”

I laugh. “People really threw parties? Like, flappers and shit?” “Yeah, some of my mom’s friends did it. I was, like, wow, you

totally missed the point of the book.”

“I doubt a person like me would’ve been allowed into those kinds of parties in the 1920s. Maybe I’d be in the kitchen or cleaning the bathrooms,” I joke.

He laughs. “Exactly. Like it was such a magical time. It probably was for, what, ten people?”

“What about you? What’s your favorite book?”

“A Clockwork Orange.”

“I tried reading it once, but it made no damn sense. And the movie was so violent.” I shudder.

“Could be you’re not giving it a chance. It’s a critique, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe I should read it again.” The truth is I’ll never read it again because the book got on my nerves, but I want to keep the conversation going.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Um. Julia?” I don’t know why my answer comes out sounding like a question, as if I don’t know my own name.

“I’m Connor,” he says, and shakes my hand. His eyes are brown and intense, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I’m so nervous, I can hardly look at him. This is new and hazy territory for me. Guys never talk to me, unless you count the creeps on the street who whistle and say gross things about my body.

The two of us sit there in awkward silence for several seconds. I look at a stack of books on the table and try to think of something witty, but my mind is blank.

“Do you ever smell books?” I finally say. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, literally. Don’t you like the way they smell? They’re all so different. I once found one that smelled like cinnamon. I wonder if they kept it in a pantry. I always wonder about those kinds of things. Sometimes you can tell that they were kept in a basement because they have that dampness, you know?” Crap, I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. He’s going to think I’m a complete weirdo.

“So, you’re a book sniffer, is that what you’re telling me?” Connor pretends to be serious, as if I just told him I was a meth addict. He exhales loudly. “Wow.”

I let out a yelp and cover my mouth. The other people at the table glare at us. I can’t stop laughing.

“Maybe you should go. Looks like you’re having trouble controlling yourself.” He turns to the others at the table and shakes his head. “Sorry, guys. I think she’s having an episode.”

That makes me laugh even harder. I gather my things, and Connor follows me downstairs.

After I buy my books, we both walk outside. The sun is bright and makes me squint.

“Are you okay now?” Connor puts his hand on my shoulder. “It was your fault! You started it.” I pretend to be mad.

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.” He shrugs. “How about some coffee? Or some warm milk to calm you down?”

“I don’t know….” I hesitate, even though I already know I’m going to say yes.

“Come on. It’s the least I can do after all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

“Fine,” I say. “I guess you do owe me.”

—

Connor takes me to a coffee shop bustling with hipsters and their expensive computers and gadgets. I imagine a giant spotlight on me as I enter, emphasizing my ancient jeans, torn sneakers, and greasy hair. I wish I could go back in time and take a shower and put on better clothes. But how would I have known this was going to happen? I was planning on being invisible today.

We settle into a small table in the corner, near a man with a stupidly big mustache. How can a person walk around like that and expect to be taken seriously? The hideous thing almost reaches his ears.

I keep wondering if this is a date because, technically, I’ve never been on one before. The closest I ever came was that time at the lake with Ramiro, Carlos’s cousin, who treated me like I was some sort of cheap prize. If Connor tries to kiss me, then, definitely, it’s a date. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask Lorena. She knows about these kinds of things.

“So, tell me about yourself, Julia.” “What do you want to know?”

“Where you’re from, what you like, what your favorite color is.

You know, boring stuff like that.”

“I’m from Chicago. I like books, pizza, and David Bowie. My favorite color is red. Your turn.”

“But where are you from from?”

“I’m from from Chicago. I just told you.”

“No, what I mean is…Forget it.” Connor looks embarrassed. “You mean you want to know my ethnicity. What kind of brown

I am.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Connor smiles apologetically.

“I’m Mexican. You could’ve just asked, you know?” I can’t help but smirk. “I prefer it when people are straightforward.”

“Yeah, I see your point. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s cool. What about you, though? Where are you from? What are you into?”

“Umm…Evanston, burgers, and drums.” “But where are you from from?”

Connor laughs. “I’m a typical American mutt—German, Irish, Italian, and—”

“Wait, wait! Let me guess. Your great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess.”

“No, I was going to say Spanish.”

“Ah yes, our conquerors. And your favorite color?” “Yellow.”

“Yellow? Gross, man.”

“Whoa. Tell me how you really feel.” He laughs. “Yellow like the sun. You can’t tell me you hate the sun.”

“Of course not, I’m not a monster.” A man with a neck beard sits down next to the mustache guy. What a perfect pair.

“If you are, you’re the cutest monster I’ve ever seen.”

I don’t know what to say, so I take a big gulp of coffee that burns my mouth and throat. Smooth. “Have you ever read ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’? Ever hear of yellow fever? Jaundice? Yellow can be bad news, is all I’m saying.”

Connor’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, which I think is kind of charming. “Tell me more. Any other strong opinions on colors? Shapes? Patterns? I have a feeling you’re a very interesting person.”

“Me?”

“No, that mustachioed dude over there,” he says, pointing.

The man looks over at us, outraged, which makes me laugh so hard, I nearly spit out my coffee. “I think paisley is detestable and should be banned until the end of time. Same goes for pastel- colored clothing. Oh, and khakis are repugnant.” I close my eyes and stick out my tongue to show my disgust.

The moment seems almost surreal. I picture myself watching us from another table. I’ve never been in a coffee shop like this, and

no one ever wants to get to know me. The only other person besides Lorena who cares about what I think is Mr. Ingman, and he’s paid to be interested in my opinions. Sometimes I’m convinced the world wants me to shut up, that I’m better off folding myself into a million pieces.

“You’re funny,” Connor says, but doesn’t laugh.

“My sister died last year.” I don’t mean to say that. It just comes out.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” He takes my hand, and I almost recoil. It feels warm and moist. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been touched like this. “Were you two close?”

“Well…no. Not really. I don’t know. I don’t think I really knew her. We were really different, and now that she’s dead, it’s like I want to get to know her. It’s weird. A little late for that, I guess.”

“It’s never too late. Don’t say that.”

I’m not sure why I’m telling him all of this. He probably doesn’t even care, but I can’t stop myself. Maybe I shouldn’t drink so much coffee because it always makes me nervous and talkative.

“I went through her room once and found a few things. Then my mother locked the door, and I haven’t been able to get in since. I don’t know what else to do. I need to keep looking, but it seems pointless sometimes. She has this laptop, but I don’t have her password. First, I have to find a way to get back into her room, though.”

“I actually know a lot about computers. Don’t tell anyone, but my friends and I have hacked into a few things. Okay, a lot of things. If you’re able to get it, I can probably unlock it for you.”

“Are you serious?”

Connor smiles and squeezes my hand. “Totally, absolutely, completely serious.”

—

Connor and I walk around for hours and hours. We go into neighborhoods I didn’t even know existed, looping and zigzagging with no real destination. We end up in some of the same places without realizing how we got there. I’m smiling so much my

cheeks hurt. When we get tired, Connor buys us donuts, and we sit on the swings of a giant park even though it’s chilly. It smells like wood chips and wet leaves. We talk about our plans for college, books, and our favorite bands. Finally, someone who likes David Bowie. Someone who reads!

At the train station, he kisses me on the cheek and tells me he wants to see me again soon. This is definitely a date. It’s such a beautiful day, I bet all the birds are doing it.

—

Today I meet Connor on Devon Avenue after successfully lying to Amá about a homework assignment that supposedly requires me to go to the Cultural Center downtown. As always, she’s suspicious, but I’m able to convince her after some coaxing and whining. It takes me two buses and one train to get there, which is a pain in the ass, especially because it’s cold and on the verge of snowing, but I’m glad to see another part of the city. I’m in awe of all the beautiful and bright saris glittering in the store windows. I wonder how much they cost because they look cool as hell. The day is gloomy, and I’m glad to see sparkles and loud colors.

My legs feel rubbery as I walk toward the restaurant and see Connor standing outside with his hands in his pockets. Is that what love feels like? I don’t know.

“Why, hello there, Madame Reyes,” he says, and gives a little wave.

When I get nervous, sometimes I clown around because I’m not sure what else to do. I curtsy and give him my hand like some pretentious aristocrat, which makes him laugh.

“It’s nice to see you,” he says.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” I suddenly feel so shy that I can’t even look at him.

“This is the best Indian restaurant in the city, in my opinion,” Connor says as we sit down. “Super-cheap, too.”

I hope he’s paying, because when I look at the menu, even though it’s “super-cheap,” I still can’t afford it.

“You know, I’ve never had Indian food,” I say as I scan the lunch specials.

Connor puts his hands on the table and looks straight at me. “Never? Are you serious? How is that possible?”

“I didn’t even know this neighborhood existed, to be honest.” “Well, that is a very sad story,” Connor says, and pretends to

look devastated.

The air is heavy with spices I can’t identify. A musical is playing on the TV near the register. A tall man sings mournfully as he chases a beautiful woman down a mountain. I think it’s meant to be romantic, but it seems pretty rapey to me.

The food is so good I can’t believe it. “Where have you been all my life?” I say to my plate, and scoop another generous helping. There is so much going on—cheese, spices, peas, and God knows what else—and it tastes like a foreign paradise.

“It seems you like the food more than you like me,” Connor teases. “I’m starting to get jealous. Maybe I should leave you two alone.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just smile and continue to stuff my face until I’m too full to move.

Connor wants to go back to the used bookstore where we met because he’s looking for a novel by a Japanese author I’ve never heard of, so we take the train south together. After finding his book, we sit on a bench at the park down the street. I zone out, staring at the trees for a while, and when I turn back toward him, his face is right next to mine. He leans in for a kiss.

My heart is beating so hard I wonder if Connor can feel it. He puts his hands through my hair and holds my neck as if kissing me were some sort of emergency. This is nothing like the time with Ramiro. Connor is gentle with his tongue, and something about the way he touches me makes me feel so wanted.

After a while, we finally stop kissing and sit there in awkward silence until we see a woman walking a hairless cat in a puffy jacket. We just look at each other and lose it. I laugh so hard I think I might bust a gut.