Mom has always said that shame of any kind, any hint of being mocked, was my dad’s Achilles. His eyes darken, and his cheeks clench, a look I remember and don’t miss. I should keep my mouth shut. I don’t.

“Your problem—what has he ever done to you?”

“Done?” He sputters. It’s like I asked why it’s bad to stick a cat in a microwave. “It’s—it’s just not right. You can’t be that way.” It offends him that I don’t inherently know this. “Where are you from again?”

“Somewhere cooler than this, obviously.” His brows are so furrowed his forehead is going to collapse.

Ma Elena spots trouble from a distance and gets between us before it gets worse. “I got you, babe,” she says, thrusting a frothy orange shake at Gordo.

“Your new friend thinks it’s okay for Chaz to be—” But now, for some reason, he can’t say it. Maybe it’s the fire in my eyes. Maybe the fire in hers. “You know.”

“Let it go. Chaz is not your problem.” She shoots me a look to let me know she is dead sick of this and hopes I won’t hold him against her.

“But he makes the school look bad!” Gordo’s ire is fading, and he leaves it there.

“Only to you, babe.” She offers me a sip of her Orange Julius, but I’m suspicious and wave it off. “We better get back. Frohmy loves me, but there are limits.” (She calls him Frohmy? I’m dying.) “You have a ride, right? I have a car—perks of living off campus—but I don’t think I can sneak you both in. Gordo has to lie on the floor of the back seat as it is.”

I assure them that Ms. Silverthorn is right outside, and they’re gone—Ma Elena poking Gordo hard in the arm as they walk away. I recognize her angry lecture face. If she already knew he was a jerk at eighteen, why let him come back in her thirties? It’s hard to imagine. Marrying your high school sweetheart is unwise enough, and worse when he’s an obvious ass.

Music starts thumping above me, and I look up. The lights have come on in the second-floor village windows, and shadows fly by. It takes me a moment to spot the sign: Interskate 90. Oh my god—a roller rink. Two couples enter in a row, doppelganger mulleted boys in ringer tees and girlfriends with teased perms. Even though I’m still mad at Cheng, I wish he were here. He loves to be in motion: swimming, skateboarding, whatever.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, I find myself heading upstairs. Ms. Silverthorn won’t be back for a while, so why not try it out?