“She’s pretty cool,” I say. We’re on Eden Boulevard, close to my house. “Actually, do you want to come over for breakfast? My mom’s at work—she’s a nurse. She won’t be home till later this morning.”

Then we drive into our complex and I see something that makes me feel like barfing immediately. Our parking space is occupied. By my mother’s car.

I turn pale. Marco offers to come in with me, to help me explain. I stare at him because this is the most honorable thing anyone’s ever offered to do for me. I’m still sitting stunned in the parking lot when a face looms in Marco’s window.

“Hi there,” Mom says, looking almost . . . amused? “I got off early. Are you kids hungry?”

Marco looks at me like my mother is a miracle, which I’m pretty sure she is right now. “Sure,” he says. “Thank you.”

In the house, my mom is making French toast and veggie sausages, my favorite. “Why am I not dead right now?” I blurt.

“Ha!” Mom says, shrugging, making me wait for it. She turns the sausages. Gets out some orange juice.

“You’re not going to tell us?” Marco asks, his grin showcasing his dimples. My mom happens to be a sucker for dimples and big brown eyes. She’s also big on being polite to company, so maybe that’s why she answers.

“If I’d been sitting here worrying all night, your ass would be grass,” she says. “But lucky for you, I only realized you weren’t asleep in your bed when the car drove up. I happened to be looking out the window. I know that kid in the passenger seat of that little blue Honda. I made that kid from scratch.”

I blush, but Marco just laughs and offers to set the table.

And so we sit, feasting, and I tell her everything.

“Las Pochas?” she says, looking at the T-shirt with one eyebrow raised.

“What’s that?” Marco asks.

“Maybe it’s you,” I tell him, grinning. “Are you Mexican?” I always hate when people ask me what I am, but it feels natural here, and Marco smiles.

“Mostly Filipino,” he says. “But a quarter Mexican too. Does that count?”

“You speak Spanish?” Mom asks.

“I understand it,” he says. “When my abuela wants me to. And a little Tagalog.”

I take a bite of sausage. “That’s more than I can say—but yeah, you’re probably a pocha too. Or a pocho?”

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m not big on labels.” He twinkles at me as he says this and I wonder . . . but no. The cute leather-jacket boy’s number is still there on his hand.

Marco offers to do the dishes, and when he’s in the kitchen, my mom touches my face in a gentle way that make tears spring to my eyes.