Mom says my temper tantrums are proof that I’ll be a great CEO someday. Not that I’d ever want to have a job like hers, always traveling, always working, never home. But she means I have a lot of energy and that I care. But sometimes I wish I didn’t care so much. When Mom first started traveling for work, I used to have major tantrums. Kicking—like I just did—and screaming. I would hide her purse, dump out her travel-sized bottles of shampoo. But, of course, it didn’t help. She still left. Every time.

Now Mattie drags me away from Madrone Hall. My tantrum didn’t do anything except stub my big toe. In fact, the person my temper hurts the most is usually me. A sore throat from screaming, a bruised arm from hitting something, humiliation when someone sees me.

I’m embarrassed now. Mattie has just witnessed a full-blown Mercedes Miller Tantrum. Gaby and Rebecca are both used to seeing me lose it. Cristina hardly flinches. Mom just tells me about my future life as an executive. The only person who seems to be bothered by my outbursts is Tristan. He hugs me, even when I’m yelling. Because he’s younger than me, I know I need to be a better example.

“Feel better?” Mattie asks when we get to the road.

I shrug.

“Maybe take a few deep breaths. That always helps me.”

I stare at her. I want to lash out again. I want to yell and tell her it’s none of her business. But she stares at me like it doesn’t bother her that I had a major fit. My lungs fill with the woodsy air. I can smell the ocean and burnt popcorn and car exhaust. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. “We’ve got twenty minutes before Ms. Garcia leads the troops back to school.”

“Come on,” Mattie says. “Let’s take a walk. We both need to calm down before we go back.”

Part of me—the old Mercedes?—wants to tell her that I don’t need to calm down and that she’s not the boss of me, but instead I follow her across the street and along the path toward the middle of campus. We avoid the science building and don’t talk about missing Frank Gómez again or the stupid librarian or the fact that our field trip is over.

We duck under the madrone trees and end up on the other side of the athletic complex. Mattie stops at the fence that overlooks the Olympic-sized swimming pool below.

Neither of us say anything. The water sparkles in the sun.

“What time is it now?” Mattie asks.

I look at my phone. “It’s two thirty.”

“We should probably sneak back into the planetarium. The buses are leaving at two forty-five.”