I shake my head, but it’s obvious. There’s the slight upward curve of our eyes. There’s her chin—a little pointy like mine. We both have button noses, although mine is definitely cuter.

“Ha,” I say with a short laugh. “I don’t think so.” I try my best to sound offended, like I don’t know what she means. I don’t want her to guess my secret.

Just then the bell rings and she returns to her spot. Gaby is my best friend, but I’m glad she’s at the front of the room and I’m in the back. Mrs. Ellingham shoos people into their seats. Then she makes the new girl introduce herself. Mattie.

She’s got to be who I think she is. Although I usually love being right, this time I wouldn’t mind being wrong. What is she doing here? At Poppy View Middle School? In seventh grade? With me?

All around the classroom, kids whisper and stare at me and the girl, pointing out the obvious: that we look alike. As the girl speaks, her face turns as red as the notebook on her desk. I almost feel sorry for her. There’s a sad quiver in her voice as she tells the class her name.

“Gómez,” the girl says.

Gómez. I’m certain now. Just my luck.

And my luck gets worse when Mrs. Ellingham assigns partners for our next project. Me and the new girl. As I write Mattie’s name on my worksheet, she tells me her father named her after some poet’s wife. A zing goes through me when she says the word “father.”

I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help blurting out, “I’m named after a wife, too.” I don’t recite my whole story about not knowing my dad. Instead, I repeat, “The wife of a famous writer.” I don’t mention that the writer is this Colombian dude, Gabriel García Márquez, or that his wife’s name was Mercedes Barcha. “I’m not named after a car,” I add, even though she didn’t ask if I was.

“Mercedes is a cool name,” Mattie says.

A cool name. I almost smile. But then I look at her sloppy shirt and frizzy ponytail and think about her saying the word “father.” How uncomfortable it made me feel. I don’t need this girl being friendly or telling me what’s cool.

She rips a piece of paper out of her notebook. “I guess we need to exchange numbers,” she says, writing her name and phone number on the top half. She tears off the bottom and hands me the scrap of paper. “So we can work on our project.” Her voice is low. It sounds like mine when I’m tired or trying to get Mom to buy me something expensive. In other words, it’s annoying.