I’m glad Camille is so good at filling the silence, because Julian hasn’t said two words to me since last night when he showed me the guest room. He did wait for me this morning before heading out to walk to school, but when I said good morning, he just kind of smirked.

As we get closer to the school, the football field is the first thing I see. A tiny nugget of happiness breaks open in my chest when I see the yards and yards of green grass and the bright yellow goalposts at each end of the field. I can’t wait to get back out there.

“And my cousin Annie’s family moved to Sugar Land when I was just a baby. Right after that hurricane.” Camille is still talking about people she knows in Houston. “My mom says she tried to convince her to come here, but Annie says there’s no way she’s going to live near the ocean anymore. And who can blame her, really? All that water nearly swallowed up her house, and my mom wants her to live right on the shore again? Shit,” Camille says, sucking her teeth. “For a college professor who is supposed to be smart, sometimes my mom makes zero sense.” Camille’s mother has been teaching women’s and gender studies at Coastal Texas Community College our whole lives. Her dad is the middle school Spanish teacher. It’s only because of him that I know how to properly say “No hablo español muy bien.” I can also ask directions to a library if I ever find myself lost in Puerto Rico. ¿Dónde está la biblioteca? It’s only because of Camille that our entire third-grade class knew all the good Spanish swears. Camille would charge us twenty-five cents per swear lesson. Honestly, half of my third-grade class could have taught us those swears, but Camille was the first to suggest it and then monetize it. By the time she got caught at the end of the school year, the whole third grade at Meridien Elementary School already had a full repertoire. When she finally did get caught, our teacher, Mrs. Bowles, told Camille she had a real keen eye for business. Third grade with Mrs. Bowles was probably the last time I liked school. Or felt like maybe I was kind of good at it sometimes. It wasn’t that I didn’t try. It was more like trouble found me a lot of the time. Around the end of eighth grade, though, it was pretty obvious that I was going to have to try a little harder. Smiling my way out of things wasn’t going to work in high school, and I knew football would be the first thing I’d lose if I screwed up.