What am I doing? Performing can wait. Finding Frank Gómez can’t.

“Sorry, lady,” Mattie says. “We gotta go.” For once, I’m relieved when she grabs my arm. She pulls me through the crowd, toward the library.

CHAPTER 27 Mattie

A musty smell attacks us the moment we step inside the brown brick library. We walk past the checkout desk, where a girl with dyed-black hair and a nose ring has a thick book open on the counter. The library is a hush of quiet, especially after the noise of Mercedes’s audience. Groups of students are bent over, heads down at the tables. Constellations of dust dance silently in a beam of light shining through the high windows. No sign of a Colombian professor.

“You look that way; I’ll look this way,” I whisper. I point to the rows of books on each side of the reading room.

How will we find Francisco Gómez? Will we recognize him? In the photo on my dresser, he has scruffy black hair, light-brown skin, a wide nose. His brown eyes have flecks of amber.

We split up and pace—well, run the aisles. My backpack flaps against my back. I can picture it now. I’ll come around the end of a row of books and on the other side will be Francisco Gómez. He’ll look up from his book and see me. And then he’ll recognize me.

Like that first time I saw Mercedes. Her eyes, her nose, her hair. I didn’t know her, but I could feel something—something familiar. Francisco Gómez might not realize who I am right away, but he’ll know—deep down inside—that a thread connects us.

At least, I hope that’s how it works.

“Can I help you?”

I stop in my tracks, one foot in front of the other, and spin around. A woman with brown hair is looking at me over her glasses. She’s wearing a brown dress and brown tights and pink combat boots.

“Is there a book emergency?” she asks, and then chuckles. Her large belly jiggles when she laughs and I can’t help laughing, too. “Those happen, you know. More often than you might think.” She winks at me.

“Uh, I’m not looking for a book. I’m looking for something else.”

“Well, then, why don’t you come to the reference desk. We’ll figure it out.”

Before I can answer, she turns. Her ponytail is dyed as bright pink as her boots. She sinks into a chair behind a large wooden desk. A sign above her says: INFORMATION. This is what we need. Information. I finally feel like I’m in the right place.