Mercedes scrolls back to the first photo and clicks the link beside it. There’s a short article, just a paragraph below the photo. We both read.

Dr. Francisco Gómez, the esteemed cultural anthropologist and ethnographer from Bogotá, Colombia, will be joining the faculty as this year’s Dupree Visiting Professor at Northern Madrone College for a semester of teaching and scholarship. We are fortunate to have Dr. Gómez, who is taking a break from his years-long immersion in Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, to teach two upper-level courses that will provide students in Northern Madrone’s esteemed anthropology department with a fresh perspective on cultural anthropology fieldwork in South America.

Mercedes turns into a statue. Her phone slips from her fingers.

“What is it?”

She doesn’t move.

“What’s the matter?”

“Northern Madrone College.” She doesn’t look at me, just says the words slowly, carefully, one at a time.

“Weird, isn’t it? That doesn’t sound like Colombia.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. The bell rings to mark the end of lunch. “It’s not in Colombia,” she says. “It’s here. In California. I’ve been there.”

Now it’s my turn to freeze like the Minnesota snowman on my shirt. It can’t be true. He’s supposed to be in Colombia. I imagine him in the button-down shirt and neat haircut he wears in the photo I have of him. I feel dizzy, like gravity isn’t quite holding me down.

Francisco Gómez—my father—is here in California?

CHAPTER 12 Mercedes

In less time than it takes for the breezeway to fill with students, I’ve already decided. I’m going to Northern Madrone College to find Frank Gómez.

And Mattie is coming with me.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she says, as lockers bang and kids shout.

I’m on my feet and I pull Mattie up.

“Mattie,” I say, squeezing her arm.

“Ow!” she cries.

“It’s a sign.” Last summer I had a regional cross-country meet at Northern Madrone College. It was supposed to be in June, but it got rescheduled to July and Mom was off to Tokyo by then. Instead, Cristina drove me. I was probably the only runner in the history of middle school sports who didn’t have a parent cheering from the bleachers. Cristina cheered, but she’s paid to do stuff like that. I try to remember if I noticed anyone who looked like he could have been my father. Was Frank Gómez there that day? What if I actually did have a parent there, but I didn’t know it?

“But—” Mattie rubs her arm, even though I barely touched her. Wow, you can really tell she’s not used to having siblings. She would never survive the grabbing and pinching me and Tristan do when we’re mad at each other.