No. It would be better for him to get to class and try to get through his day.

Héctor stood, then held his throbbing thumb against his chest. He needed a break from this, but it looked like Mike was determined to make his every day miserable.

There was a long, slow creak as Héctor turned to head to his homeroom. The bell hadn’t even rung yet, but he wasn’t going to hang around and see who was spying on him from one of the classrooms. He was certain that the whole school would know what had happened by the end of the day.

His head down, Héctor made his way to the other side of campus.

If he had turned around, he would have seen that the janitor’s closet had opened and stood ajar, almost like a quiet invitation.

Chapter Eleven

The rest of Héctor’s day passed in a blur. He sat in silence at the Table of Misfits, which had been his normal routine during lunch, but this time, no one spoke. Héctor wanted to ask them how Mike had stopped focusing on them. But would that ruin the already awkward mood?

Instead, no one said anything, and Héctor left lunch early to go hide in the bathroom.

Mrs. Caroline was her usual delightful self, and her mood had given him a little boost. By the time he got home, he had talked himself up. He had to show his parents and his abuela that he was trying. So he quietly borrowed some safety pins from his mami’s sewing case to repair the strap on his bag. Confident that it would hold, he set it down in his room and headed for the dining room. He had to at least try to make the day feel normal.

But then the jingle of the bells on his bag brought him back down. He quietly removed them.

Abuela was over for dinner again, and he was thankful for the distraction. Papi was cooking, making his rolled tacos in a deep pan that spattered and spurt oil. Papi tried to dance away from the pops and crackles, and every time he got hit, he swore in Spanish under his breath, certain that Héctor couldn’t hear him. (He heard Papi every time.) Soon, the smell of fried tortillas filled their home.

Héctor pulled out his notebook to get some homework done and was halfway through his history questions when Abuela sat beside him. “Dime, nieto,” she said. “¿Estás bien? You are so quiet today.”

He smiled. “Just trying to concentrate,” he said. “I want to get my homework done so I can get some sleep. Estoy cansado.”

She ran her fingertips up his arm, and bumps rose on his skin in their wake. “You can talk to me, you know,” she said. “Anytime.”