I ruffled my brother’s sandy hair. “That’s okay; you keep your dad to yourself. I’m fine.” But my heart felt like an arrow had just gone through it. What if I got to spend weekends and holidays with my own dad, I wondered. What was he like? Was he fun and disorganized like Tristan’s dad or energetic and a workaholic like Mom? Sometimes I imagine that Mom has the story wrong, that he does like children, that someday he would come to California just to meet me. Sometimes I put his picture next to one of Mom and try to imagine them together. It’s impossible.

Once, I searched the web for him, but there were so many people with the same name, it was impossible to tell if any of these Frank Gómezes was my father. I knew he wasn’t a lawyer in New Jersey or a soccer player in Mexico. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a high school student in Toronto or a retired soldier in Washington, DC.

Later, when I was decorating my seventh-grade binder, I slipped the photo under the plastic cover, partly hiding it behind a rainbow sticker. I didn’t think anyone would notice the man with the messy hair, brown skin, and half-open mouth. I don’t know why, but I liked knowing it was there. No one had ever asked about the photo.

Until Mattie.

“Who’s that?” she asks. She’s sort of greenish, like she might throw up. I do not need her throwing up. Gross.

I quickly yank the binder away, leaving a bright red mark across her hand. Oops. “No one you would know,” I lie.

“Let me see that,” she insists.

Why can’t she mind her own business? If I explode, it’ll be all her fault.

The color is coming back into her cheeks. Her face is now as pink as the stupid binder. “I want to see that picture.”

We stare at each other. I don’t want her to see Frank Gómez. I don’t want her to recognize him. I don’t want her to realize what connects us, me and her.

Her brown eyes flash. I know what she’s going to do even before she does it, but that doesn’t make me move any quicker. Fast as a lizard darting under a bush, she snatches the binder out of my hands before I can stop her. A few math papers flutter to the floor.

“Give it back,” I hiss.

She hugs it to her chest and shakes her head. Then we both freeze as Mrs. Ellingham clears her throat. She doesn’t look up.

“Who is this?” Mattie asks, her voice low. Her finger taps the plastic over Frank Gómez’s face. “Tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Yes. You. Do.”