When it’s my turn to go inside, I wait for Ms. Garcia to say, “Mercedes Miller.” And then I drop the wrapper and get ready to chase it right into our meeting spot.

But it doesn’t move. It’s caught on a blade of grass. Malik is behind me and he shoves his lunch bag into my back. “Get moving,” he grumbles.

Ms. Garcia has her eyes glued to her attendance list. “Seventy-five.” I kick the wrapper with the toe of my sneaker and it breaks loose, fluttering on a gust of wind. Malik is just stepping inside by the time I make it to the grove of trees.

Mattie is waiting for me on a wooden bench. We made it! she mouths.

Unseen from the leafy shade of our grove of trees, we watch our classmates.

“We have to wait until they’re all inside,” I whisper. I sit beside Mattie on the bench. It has a plaque: IN MEMORY OF DOLORES WHITMAN, 1909–1986. I read the words on the plaque aloud: “First woman graduate of Northern Madrone College. Isn’t it strange to think of a time when women didn’t go to college?”

Mattie nods. “I’m definitely going to college.”

“Yeah, me too. Of course.”

“My mom was the first one in her family to go to college. But she says that because I love to read, college will be easy.”

“I think if you can do high school, you can do college. Maybe I’ll go here. To Northern Madrone.”

“That would be cool,” Mattie says. “Especially if Francisco Gómez is still teaching here.”

I let Mattie’s words hang in the air. It’s as hard to imagine going to college as it is to imagine meeting our father. From Miss Whitman’s bench, we watch the last stragglers march through the door and get counted by Ms. Garcia.

“All set,” I say, once they’re gone. “Let’s go around that way.”

We leave Miss Whitman’s bench and head away from the science building. The library should be around the next building, according to the campus map. When we turn the corner, we find ourselves in a big grassy lawn rimmed with paths.

“This must be the Quad,” Mattie says, heading straight on the sidewalk. She points ahead. “I see the library.”

“If we follow the sidewalk, we’ll be going the long way.” I head for the grass. “Let’s cut across over here.”

“But…” Mattie points to a sign that says PLEASE STAY ON THE SIDEWALK.

I roll my eyes and gesture around us. College students are everywhere, sitting on picnic tables, on beach towels, on stacks of books. They’re talking and reading. One person is playing a worn-out guitar. Blankets are spread out under the trees, shoes piled on the grass and their owners lounging. Someone is juggling.