Unfortunately, Héctor found that he was nervous every time he grabbed some masa or tried to spread the pollo evenly inside. His abuela had to reroll some of them because too much of the insides squeezed out at the end.

“You’ll get it, mijo,” said Papi. “Do you need me to show you how again?”

Héctor grimaced, but before he could say anything, Abuela raised her hand. “Ay, Félix, leave him be,” she said. “He needs to concentrate. He’ll do it on his own.”

But would he? He couldn’t concentrate. His hands shook, and any confidence he gained from the energy in Abuela’s home had disappeared. Where had it gone? Why was this so frustrating? It was like there was a swarm of bees in his stomach, stinging him over and over again.

Then he remembered: Mike, leaning over Héctor’s lunch tray, spit trailing down to the food.

Even this far from school, he still couldn’t get Mike out of his head.

He tried to assemble another tamale as Papi and Abuela chatted, and even their words felt wrong, like they were banging around inside his head. He watched as Papi grabbed some masa, spread it inside the husk, put chicken on top of it, and rolled the tamale up . . . all without even looking at it.

And of course it came out perfectly.

Héctor tried his hardest to imitate them both. But after he spread some masa out, his abuela raised a hand and pointed. “Más,” she said. “Missed a spot there.”

He looked at the pot in front of her. She’d made six of them in the time he’d failed to make a single one correctly.

He let the husk fall to his plate, and gave up. When he shoved his chair away from the table, it screeched against the floor.

“Héctor?” his papi said. “You okay?”

Héctor couldn’t even make eye contact with Papi. Tears stung his eyes, and soon, he found his feet taking him out of the kitchen, through the front door, and he plopped down on Abuela’s lawn so that the afternoon sun hit his face.

Why was he like this? He had been feeling so good after the time he spent with Sal and Juliana, and now, it was like his own brain had turned on him. Shouldn’t he be able to control it, like everyone else in his life did? No one else ever seemed as messed up as he felt.