We’re technically not allowed to use cell phones in class, which makes it hard to keep an eye on it at all times. I set my phone carefully on my lap, so I can just look down and check the screen without anyone noticing, but even after the full forty-five minutes of class, there are still no voicemails, no missed calls, no sign that either of my parents has tried to reach out. They couldn’t have been put on a plane to Mexico yet, so why haven’t they been allowed to make a call? Where are they?

By lunchtime, I start to get desperate. I go to my locker and stare inside for the longest time, not taking books out of my bag, not even moving, not doing anything at all. My mind starts to fill with images of my parents in dark cells, when all of a sudden, I hear someone behind me.

“Heya.”

Something lights up inside of me. “Kimmie,” I say, closing my locker door.

“Are you okay?” she asks the second I look into her eyes.

My parents might get deported. Those words burn my tongue. They threaten to escape from my lips, but there’s something that’s stopping me from telling Kimmie the truth. It’s an alarm—the same one that always goes off in my head whenever someone asks where Ma and Pa are from, or where my extended family lives. I can hear it, repeating the same things as always: Don’t say anything. No one can know. Remember the “be careful” rule.

The thing is, my family’s secret is out. The worst has already happened, so the “be careful” rule doesn’t apply anymore. If I’m being honest with myself, a part of me is relieved. I’m free to let Kimmie in on this secret, to tell her about what’s happened to Ma and Pa, but I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud.

Maybe I just need a little more time. Thinking that I’ll tell her as soon as we walk out of the building, I force myself to nod and say, “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

We start walking in silence. For a couple of minutes, I’m too lost in my own thoughts, but then, inevitably, I notice that Kimmie is practically glowing, and not just because of the electric-yellow top she’s wearing.

I turn toward her and see it in her eyes—she’s dying to tell me something, but for some reason, she’s also choosing to wait. We walk out of school and stop right next to the doors, where we usually wait for Adam to come out and join us. This is it, I think to myself. This is the perfect time to tell her. It’s just the two of us, and there’s no one close enough to hear what I’m about to say.