I crouch next to Mercedes, helping her gather everything that scattered across the floor. When I pick up her binder, I pause to study it. Somehow, she’s taken a plain pink binder and made it look cool. It’s disorganized but artsy. Photos and drawings are tucked underneath the clear plastic cover. There are printed-out selfies of her and other girls I don’t recognize, photos of a fluffy gray cat. She outlined some of the pictures with Sharpie over the plastic, creating little frames. There is just the right amount of gold puffy-paint polka dots and stars. And then something else catches my eye.

Mercedes reaches for the binder. Her fingers grip it, turning white at the knuckles. But even as she tugs on it, I don’t let it go. I just keep staring at it. And not only because it’s so pretty. I stare because there, tucked under the plastic and nearly hidden by the arc of a hand-drawn rainbow, is a familiar face.

My mouth goes dry. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing a trembling finger at the photo. At the man’s face.

“No one you would know.” She yanks the binder out of my hands, leaving a bright-pink scrape across my palm.

Even though the snapshot is behind scuffed plastic and elaborately framed in a geometric design, I recognize it. I recognize it the same way I recognized Mercedes’s nose, the same way I recognized Mercedes’s hair. I recognize the face of Francisco Gómez, smiling at me in the exact same way he smiles from the picture I have of him on my dresser at home.

My father.

CHAPTER 6 Mercedes

Sometimes just one choice can make all the difference. If I could go back in time, change a choice I’d made, I wouldn’t have put that photo of Frank Gómez in my binder. I’m not even sure why I did it.