“I’m starting a makeup history channel on YouTube,” said Carmen. Then her voice dropped. “When I turn thirteen next year. My mom won’t let me make videos yet, so the meme kids don’t want me to sit with them.”

“And I’m the band kid who doesn’t fit in with the other band kids,” said Jackson. Héctor heard a thump under the table, and he looked down at the hard trumpet case at Jackson’s feet.

That was a surprise to him. “What do you mean you don’t fit in?”

“I listen to a lot of reggae and first-wave ska,” said Jackson, his face lighting up. “Like the real early stuff. Everyone else . . . well, they just want to compete, but I just wanna get better at the trumpet. And start a band! Maybe bring about a new wave of ska.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a band geek,” Héctor said quietly. “They’re not like you back at my old school in San Francisco.”

And it was true; the band kids Héctor had known didn’t seem to know any modern music aside from the covers they performed at school events. He wanted to ask Jackson about music, but Carmen changed the subject.

“Wait, you’re from the City?” exclaimed Carmen. “And you ended up here?”

Héctor poked at the food on his tray. “I mean . . . yeah. My mami got a big teaching job here, so we just moved.”

“Well, maybe you belong here with us,” said Aishah. “You can definitely sit here every day.” She paused. “If you want, of course.”

He smiled back at her. “Yeah, cool,” he said, and he tried the weird breaded patty.

Oh, he should not have done that.

His stomach rumbled as the others fell back into another conversation. Héctor tried to keep up, but he didn’t know what they were talking about half the time. Still, he felt a warmth in his chest when Jackson said that he hoped to see Héctor again at lunch the next day.

It’s a start, thought Héctor.

Chapter Three

“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the worst,” Héctor said over dinner that night. “Until I found out that there’s no drama club at school.”

“None?” Héctor’s papi ran a hand through his hair, thick with coiled curls. “They don’t do plays or anything?”

Héctor shook his head, then scarfed down the beans he had sopped up with his papi’s fresh tortillas. “Nothing. At all.”

Papi frowned, then looked toward Mami. “Lilliam, did you hear that? No drama, he says.”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I’m sorry, mijo,” she told Héctor. “I didn’t know that when we were researching schools. They told me they had a ‘robust art department.’”