“What do you know?

You don’t fit anywhere,”

Kortnee whispers.

I’m a whale,

and she’s like a hunter

always ready to attack with

her harpoon tongue.

I think about what Doc said,

how I need to replace all my

untrue, negative thoughts with

true, positive thoughts.

So I say to myself,

I’m not a whale.

I’m Ellie.

BELONGING

“Hola,” Sonya says,

opening the front door for me

and giving me a hug

when I arrive for a sleepover

a week later,

since I’m no longer grounded.

“Catalina’s up in her room.

Hopefully, she’s finished cleaning.

It was a mess.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“That girl.

What is it you say, Ellie?

‘Oy vey’?”

We laugh.

“I’d better get back to the kitchen.

I’m making your favorite dinner.

Chicken enchiladas.”

My mouth waters.

“Gracias!”

“Hey, hermana,”

Javier, Nat, and Izzy call out

from the great room as I start up the stairs.

“Hola,” I say.

I’m over here so much,

we’re family and

speak each other’s language.

Belonging feels good.

“Looks nice,” I say to Catalina, and

start to open the closet to

hang up my jacket.

“Stop! Don’t!”

She throws her body across the door.

“I might have tossed stuff in there.

Possibly.

Maybe.

Just don’t open it.

Unless you’re wearing a helmet.

Or feeling lucky.”

With the clutter gone,

I notice that in the middle of all the music posters

on the wall, there’s a map

of Mexico before

the Mexican-American War.

It draws my attention like

a long dash in a sentence.

People make Catalina feel

unwelcome here,

but Texas belonged

to her family

long before mine,

long before the rest of us.

It’s not fair.

HANUKKAH MIRACLE

Catalina thinks Hanukkah is

the Jewish Christmas, so

before she joins us for Shabbat

during the Festival of Lights,

I enlighten her.

Neighbors gather in our

backyard as Dad babies the brisket

all day in the smoker.

He makes an extra one to share.

He talks tips and techniques,

but he won’t share his recipe.

Barbecue is its own religion in Texas.

I’m just thankful

the Maccabees’ miracle

involved oil so we can

feast on fried foods,

like potato latkes and

sufganiyot crammed

with blackberry jam.

The true Hanukkah miracle is

Mom not saying a word about calories.

I figure it’s because of the articles

I’ve been leaving for her.

UNWRAPPED

Catalina and I exchange gifts

in the spirit of Christmukkah.

She opens hers first,

a leather journal with music paper

so she can write songs.

“I can’t even begin to guess

what this is,” I say,

peeling the paper off my present.

The box is taller than me and

so heavy she had to have Javier

carry it to my house.

“Side of beef,”

Liam mumbles when he walks by.

“New brother.”

Catalina doesn’t mumble.

“That would be such a miracle,”