November isn’t the only one excited about going on a field trip. Around me, kids are shouting about which classes they’ll miss and who they’ll sit with on the bus. November calls to Ted, “Hey, partners, right?” Ted grins and gives November a thumbs-up.

Who will I sit with? Who will be my partner? I glance around the classroom. I feel very small. Almost invisible. It feels like my first day at Poppy View all over again. Even when I had Mai and Sonja to sit with on the bus, I’ve always hated field trips. Most people think field trips mean getting out of school for a day, but I like how school is predictable and safe. I don’t like not knowing when we’ll get a bathroom break or where to get a drink of water. Being somewhere new makes my stomach feel achy.

In first grade, our class went to an apple orchard. It was supposed to be a fun trip with apple picking, a tractor ride, and a hay maze. While we were in the maze, I got separated from my group and the parent chaperone. At first I loved the feeling of being inside the maze surrounded by tall hay bales. I stopped and stared up at the cloudless blue sky. I spotted the faint white disc of the moon. And then my group was gone. I remember panicking, gulping for air. I could hear their voices—their laughter and shouts—but I couldn’t see them anywhere. At each corner, I thought I would find someone I knew, see something familiar. But every corner was the same, the same scratchy hay around me and the same sky above me. By the time my teacher found me, I was crying.

“Oooh, look,” November says to me in a loud whisper as he passes me a pink permission slip. “Planetarium.”

“This presentation will supplement our study of the gravitational pull,” Ms. Garcia is saying. She stands with a very straight back at the front of the room. She might be an actual robot—a well-dressed one. “The moon program from the planetarium is spectacular at Northern Madrone. The college has an excellent—”

I snatch the slip of paper. I squint, concentrate.

Parent signature.

School bus.

I need to be sure I’m reading the words carefully.

Northern Madrone College.

I squeeze my eyes shut. My breath is fast and shallow. In my mind, I see the photo of Francisco Gómez standing on the mountainside. I see the paragraph on the screen. This year’s Dupree Visiting Professor at Northern Madrone College.

It’s a sign.

Isn’t it? I picture the Operation D.A.D. plan in my notebook. Supplies, bus schedule. I open my eyes. What will Mercedes—

“Ms. Garcia!” I never blurt in class, I always raise my hand. But this is an emergency. She glares at me the same way she glared at November.