When I first saw this girl, she looked so quiet and wimpy. Maybe she’s more like me than I thought. Right now, there’s a scary look in her eyes—even if she does have a ridiculous cute kitten on her shirt. I’m not sure what to do.

“Why?” I demand. At least I can slow her down.

“Because I know who that is,” she says.

What does she know? She doesn’t know who I am, so she can’t know much. He’s never coming back to the US, so there’s no point in thinking about him. That’s what Mom said. You’ve got me. She told me that after the first time I tried to run away. She had just returned from a trip to Germany. I was ten and so mad that she was leaving again. I told her I hated her and bolted out the front door. I remember I was wearing flip-flops, so I couldn’t run very fast. When she caught up with me, I yelled, “Why can’t I just go live with Frank Gómez?”

“You’ve got me,” Mom had said. And then she bought me a pair of ultra-light running shoes.

Mattie closes her eyes. “I know that’s Francisco Gómez,” she says in a whisper.

My stomach lurches at the sound of his name spoken out loud. Spoken by someone other than me. Someone other than Mom. His full name. His real name. He’s much too busy. Just forget about him, Mom had said that day I ran away. I hadn’t been able to forget about him. Then I guess I asked one too many times, because a few months ago she said she was sick of answering questions. Just stop asking about him.

“He’s… he’s my father,” Mattie says. Her voice is shaking.

This is the bomb I’ve been waiting for since I first saw her three days ago. It feels like that explosion goes off in my stomach. For this stranger—a stranger who looks like me, but still a stranger—to say those words. My father. I want to scream.

She squints. I can’t tell if she’s angry or about to cry. Maybe both. She doesn’t look so good, like maybe she’s going to faint or something.

“Give it back,” I say, a little louder than I mean to. This is all her fault for seeing the picture. I wish I could hide it, change the choice I made. I wish I could undo this whole moment: Mattie seeing the picture, her realizing. I wish she never came to Poppy View.

“Are you two doing okay?” asks Mrs. Ellingham, peering over her messy desk at us. “Do you need help with anything?”

I plop into my chair. Mattie does too. “We’re fine,” we say.

In unison.

Ugh. I hate that we keep doing that.