When I was eight, Mom took me to her great-aunt’s funeral in Arizona. We stayed with Mom’s only sister, Denise. One night I overheard Denise say to Mom, “She’s going to start asking questions about her father, Jennifer. You can’t just pretend she’ll never want to know.” But Mom just kept pretending.

I glare at the star winking at me. I want to know the story. The whole story. I need to know. And so does Mattie.

The next morning I head straight toward Mattie. I step between her and her locker. She’s stuffing in an orange jacket that crinkles noisily. “Meet me back here at lunch,” I hiss.

“What?” She turns around and I get a glimpse of yet another Minnesota fashion masterpiece. Her T-shirt is bright green and has a smiling snowman on it. It’s seventy degrees in Santa Cruz today. Her socks are the same ridiculous bright green.

“If anyone asks,” I say, “we’re working on our mythology project.”

When the bell rings for lunch, I tell Gaby and Rebecca to go ahead without me. “Ugh,” I say. “I have to meet that weird new girl.”

“Your twin?” Gaby teases. At least, I hope she’s teasing and that she hasn’t figured out my secret.

“Why?” Rebecca asks.

“Oh,” I say as casually as I can, “something about our stupid mythology project.”

This seems to satisfy my friends—they know how important good grades are to me.

I wait for them to turn the corner toward the lunchroom. Mattie is waiting for me by her locker, just like I told her to. She has her lunch bag in one hand and our social studies packet in the other. After the breezeway clears of other seventh graders, I join her.

“We have to find out more,” I say.

“I agree. I think we should pick a different god.”

“Mattie,” I whisper. “Will you please just listen?”

“Aren’t you talking about our social studies project?”

“No. We need to know more. About him.”

At last I spot a flash of understanding on her face. “You mean what happened to our—to Francisco Gómez? But I told you everything I know.”

“There must be more.”

“You know more than me. I didn’t even know he was an anthro-whatever.”

“Haven’t you ever tried to google him?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “It never felt right. I mean, it’s always been just me and my mom. The two of us.” She pauses. “Well, it used to be.”

“I have, and there are about a million Frank Gómezes in the world. Let me show you.” I sit on the floor and pull out my phone. I type in Frank Gómez. She sits cross-legged beside me and looks at the screen. Wrestlers, school principals, accountants, high school students. The familiar list. None of them is my dad.