“You want me to keep this secret, is that it?” Mattie says, turning to look at me. Her eyes are wet and I’m afraid she’s going to cry. “Because if that’s it, fine. I’m going now.” She spits out the words. I realize I’m not the only one who can get angry. “Is that all you wanted?”

I don’t know what I want until I say it: “Tell me what you know.”

“About what?” Like she doesn’t know.

“Tell me what you know,” I repeat. “You know, tell me the story you tell everyone.”

She sighs. I can’t help myself; I sigh, too.

“About Francisco Gómez?” She says his name so formally, I almost can’t believe she’s talking about the same person. Mom always called him Frank. Frank lives in Colombia. Frank was too busy for one daughter, so I’m sure he’s too busy for another one. Frank has his life; we have ours.

Mattie jumps off the table and walks to the swing set. She sits in a swing but doesn’t pump her legs. “Well, I know he’s my father.”

“Ugh! I know that. We know that. We’ve established that.” It’s like she’s trying to make me mad. I’m so annoyed, I consider getting back on my bike and spending my money at Starbucks. Instead, I reluctantly plop into the swing next to hers. Why did she have to show up at Poppy View Middle School? Why did she have to see that photo? Why did I think having her meet me here was a good idea? “That’s seriously all you know?”

“Well, um, I know my parents met when he came to Minnesota for college. He and my mom got married. And then he kept going back to Colombia to do research or something. I think he had a sister who was sick a lot. Anyway.” Mattie pauses. “He was never home and my mom didn’t want to live in Colombia. When she got pregnant with me, she decided she didn’t want to be married to someone who was never home.” Mattie says all this like it’s a script for a school play. She knows all the lines. She’s probably said them a million times. I know what that’s like. “They got divorced before I was born.”

I take a deep breath and hold it.

“He went back to Colombia.”

I exhale.

“And I’ve never met him,” she says flatly.

“Me neither.”

We don’t look at each other, but we each kick off the dirt, letting our swings propel us back and forth.

CHAPTER 9 Mattie