I’m quiet while Kenny talks to his dad about soccer practice from the back seat—ignoring my presence the whole time, of course. If there’s no chessboard, he doesn’t say anything to me. It’s just as well. I know I’ll keep quiet about Mercedes. There’s no way I’m telling Bob or Kenny about Mercedes. I might not even tell my mom.

CHAPTER 8 Mercedes

The scrap of notebook paper is crushed at the bottom of my backpack. I pull it out and a corner rips. But I can still read the phone number. I smooth out the paper on my desk. Her sixes are lopsided, the bottom loop too big. Her sevens and ones look almost the same. I have to squint to see the little tail.

“Tristan! Mercedes!” Cristina calls from downstairs. About time. She was late to pick me up from school and then cooking took forever. I hear Tristan stampeding down for dinner like he’s never eaten before, even though I gave him a Pop-Tart fifteen minutes ago when Cristina wasn’t looking.

“Mercedes!” Cristina calls again. “Dinner!”

I try to remember the last time Mom made dinner. Or was home for dinner. Even when she isn’t traveling, she almost always works late. When Mom first hired Cristina, I thought it would be weird to have some stranger living in my house, but having a nanny is better than the coming and going of babysitters.

“I made stir-fry.” At least Cristina knows what I like to eat. The last time Mom was home, she ordered meat-lovers pizza. Gross. I don’t eat animals.

“In a minute!” I yell back. “I’m in the bathroom.”

To make it more true, I take my phone and the scrap of paper into my bathroom. Because you have to walk through my closet to get to my bathroom, Cristina is always telling me to put away my clothes so she doesn’t trip on them when she comes to clean. I carefully step over the sneaker I left in the middle of the floor. See? I want to say to Cristina. It’s not that hard. You just work around whatever is in your way.

I set the phone on the counter and pick up a brush. I watch myself brushing my hair, which just makes it frizzier. Like hers. I grab a hair tie from the pile next to the sink and yank my hair into a ponytail. Like hers. Sisters. Well, half sisters.

I pull out the ponytail, shake my hair loose, and enter the phone number—all those sixes and sevens. I don’t really want to talk to her, but I have to make sure she’ll keep my secret.

“Hello?” she answers on the second ring. Her voice is quiet, like it was when she first introduced herself. I should have texted. I almost hang up. “Hello?” she says again.

“Do you have a bike?”