Cover

“A tender tale of long-lost sisters.”

—Donna Barba Higuera, Newbery Award winner and Pura Belpré Honor author

Meet Me Halfway

A startling resemblance isn’t the only thing they have in common.

Anika Fajardo

Title Page

Dedication

To my mom

CHAPTER 1 Mattie

Brown eyes flecked with amber peer back at me. Above them are my eyebrows, a little bushier than usual. There’s my smallish nose, the one my mom says I inherited from my father. I turn my head, tilt my chin. But the face I’m studying doesn’t move.

“What are you looking at?” the girl demands.

“Nothing,” I mumble, embarrassed for getting caught staring at her. But I can’t stop. Back home, at the Minnesota State Fair, there’s a funhouse with a hall of mirrors, each one distorted to make you taller or fatter, shorter or skinnier. In those mirrors, you can see yourself, only different. Looking at the face across from me, I feel like I’m in that funhouse instead of a seventh-grade classroom.

The girl is wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt that says Throw like a girl. Her hair is the same brown as mine, although hers is smooth and loose around her shoulders, while I always wear my curls in a tight ponytail. She’s looking everywhere but at me.

“Boys and girls,” announces the social studies teacher. The chaos of the first-period classroom quiets. “We have a new student today.”

It’s not the first day of school for Poppy View Middle School, but it’s my first day. I slouch in my seat, wishing I could disappear.

“Would you please introduce yourself,” the teacher says, gesturing for me to join her at the front of the room.

My stomach tightens. I slink out of my chair and avoid making eye contact. I hate being in the spotlight, so I’m relieved that only a few students seem to care who I am. Most are doodling in their notebooks or checking their phones in their laps.

“Um, hi.” I shift from one foot to the other.

And that’s when, one by one, all the kids in my new class—except the girl in the seat across from mine—turn to stare. They switch off their phones. They put down their pencils. They lean toward each other, whispering. They nod and point. At me. My palms get sweaty. My toes curl in embarrassment.

“I’m Mattie,” I croak. What did I do wrong? Did they want my whole story? Was I supposed to give my full name? “Gómez,” I add a little uncertainly. I’m the only Gómez in my family now. When my mom got remarried over Labor Day weekend, she took Bob’s last name—Jasper—dropping Gómez like it didn’t mean anything, like there wasn’t a whole story behind it.

“Welcome, Mattie. Now, I want everyone to—”