“I mean, they do, but not the kind of art I usually do,” said Héctor. “Aishah says I should join Mrs. Caroline’s art class with her, so I’ll probably switch to that tomorrow.”

“Aishah? ¿Quién es?”

Abuela Sonia—perhaps Héctor’s favorite person in the world—sat at the head of the table, opposite him. She’d lived in Orangevale for most of her life, so she had spent a lot of time at the house helping them unpack the last two weeks. If he got his temperament and humor from Mami, and most of his looks from Papi, then his sense of style . . . well, that all came from Abuela. She’d been making her own clothing for years, long before Héctor was even born.

That evening, she was wearing a blouse she’d made of this strange fabric she found at a thrift store. It was a pale yellow with orange koi fish all over it, and it looked incredible.

“I met some kids today,” Héctor said. “They invited me to sit at their table during lunch.”

“¡Mira!” Papi said. “That’s good.”

“It’s literally the table for the kids who don’t fit in.”

“Oh.” Papi exchanged a quick glance with Mami. “Well, maybe those are your people. You know, forge your own path.”

“True,” said Abuela. “There’s no one like you on this earth. Embrace that, papito!”

“And maybe this art class won’t be so bad,” said Mami. “We can look into an after-school theater program, but in the meantime, you can learn something else. You have always said you wanted to know how to paint.”

He nodded at that, then wolfed down more of his papi’s home-cooked meal, filling the pit in his stomach left by the mystery patties from lunch.

Héctor was still thinking about his mami’s suggestion later that night when he sat in front of the family computer and called Tim and Sophia on video chat.

They both answered immediately, and just the sight of his best friends filled his heart with joy. Since they’d last talked, Sophia had just gotten her first set of Bantu knots. Four of them sat evenly over her head. Héctor screamed as she showed them off on camera. “Oh, they look so cute!” he said.

“They took way longer than I thought they would, so they better,” she said.

“What’s good, homie?” said Tim, and he flashed a toothy smile at Héctor. He could see the wall of musical instruments behind Tim: guitars and basses, some brand-new, some beaten up from years of live music, all of them belonging to Timoteo’s father, who played in a Chicano punk band that was super famous in the Bay. “Please tell me you survived the move to Orangevale, and I’m not currently talking to your ghost.”

“Well, you might be,” said Héctor. “Would that change anything for you?”