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  Sam keeps his head low. “Oh, did you?” He continues to work, his movements becoming more pronounced.

  “She asked about you.”

  Sam stops. He looks at me for a moment. Then returns to his task, muttering, “These things don’t affect me. I’m a grown man. Seasoned.” Staple. “Mature.” Staple. “Completely unaffected.” Staple, staple.

  “Sam?”

  He sighs. “Yes?”

  “You just attached your shirt to the seat.”

  “Blast it!”

  My senior-citizen friend reaches for a screwdriver to pry his shirttail from the seat. His flustered hands fumble.

  “Look, you two like each other, so what is the deal?” I watch his progress with the errant staple. Or lack of it.

  “Did she say that? Did she say she liked me?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then forget it.” He pulls the staple, and a piece of his shirt comes with it.

  “Hey, I’m no expert on romance or anything, especially of the retirement home variety, but you just need to make a move. Tell her how you feel.”

  Sam lays his screwdriver down and gives me his full attention.

  “Say, ‘Maxine, I like you. And I want more than secret runs through the Burger Barn drive-thru. I deserve the real deal.’”

  “I deserve the real deal.” Sam tries it out, his eyes focusing on something beyond me, like he can visualize his heart-to-heart with Maxine. “I deserve the real deal.”

  “There you go.” I pat him on the back.

  Sam nods. “Yeah, there I go. Go?” He jumps up, his tool belt catching on a protruding staple. “I forgot . . . I gotta . . . uh, I gotta go. What time is it?”

  Where did our bonding moment go? “It’s four thirty.”

  “Oh, no. I’m late. I need to leave.” He dusts off his knees, readjusts his hat, and scrambles away from me.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  Sam yanks open the exit doors. “I’m, uh . . . uh, I’ll see you later. Carry on. You’re doing great. Keep it up. Bye.” And he shoots out the door.

  Pretty impressive speed for an old guy. Why wouldn’t someone of Maxine’s biking skills be attracted to him? Clearly he can keep up with her.

  I pick up the seat bottom and continue the re-covering process, my attention drawn again to the actors.

  “Deny thy father! Refuse thy name!”

  Bev bolts out of her seat and approaches the stage. “Okay, stop, stop. Stephanie, maybe a little less enthusiasm this time? Remember, you wish Romeo would stand up to his family and fight for you. You wish nothing else would matter but the two of you. All right? You shouldn’t be happy. This is not a happy time.”

  Has the girl even read beyond her kissing scene? Hey, Steph, you take a dagger to the heart in the end. Nothing Juliet can smile her way out of.

  “Hello, there. How is it going?” Millie comes up behind me, dropping her phone in her purse and taking in my progress.

  “Oh, hey, Millie. Not so great. Bev’s yelling at Stephanie to quit grinning. Stephanie keeps doing her Juliet-as-played-by-Cheerleader-Barbie routine. It’s not going well.”

  “No, I meant with you. How are you doing? I see Sam has you reupholstering some of the seats.” Millie picks up a cushion. “Looks like you’re doing a wonderful job.”

  I’m probably beaming enough to light the stage. I am kind of proud of my work.

  “Where’s Sam?” Millie checks her watch and looks around for her right-hand man.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. He took out of here like his overalls were on fire. Said he had to go somewhere.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Millie shrugs it off. “Well, are you ready to go?”

  I gather the materials and set them in Sam’s toolbox. “Sure, let me grab my backpack.” I retrieve it from a nearby corner and sling it over my back, carrying the bulk on one shoulder. “Home, then church, right?”

  “Well, change of plans. I’m going to drop you off at Frances Vega’s house. James and I have to be at church early for a deacons’ meeting I completely forgot about.” Millie walks toward the lobby, and I fall into step beside her. “So you’ll eat dinner with Frances and her family, then ride to church with them.” Millie pauses to read my expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Vega are very excited to have you.”

  Her attempt at encouragement reminds me of Stephanie.

  I give her a slight smile. Hanging out at Frances’s? Part of me is nervous, worried I won’t be polished enough for her family, and part of me thinks it’s kind of cool.

  On the way to the Vegas’ house, I check my hair three different times in the car mirror, making sure I have shaken out all the stray sawdust.

  “You look beautiful. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I brought a change of clothes in case you needed them.” Millie points to a bag in the backseat. “I grabbed the pink shirt and some jeans. Church on Wednesday nights is very casual. And I packed your toothbrush.”

  I’m impressed. “Cleanliness is next to godliness?”

  “Yeah, that and I don’t want my foster kid going around with bad breath.” She grabs my cheek and gives it a playful squeeze.

  The sedan zips into Frances’s driveway, and Millie shifts the car into park.

  “Okay, so I’ll see you tonight after church. Make sure you girls do your homework.”

  “Millie, this is Frances Vega’s house. They probably won’t feed me until I’ve finished my homework.”

  Millie grabs my bag of clothes behind the seat. “Have fun. Hey, and Katie . . . just relax. Be you. Well, not totally you. Don’t show them how you can play ‘Jesus Loves Me’ with armpit noises.”

  “Maxine taught me that.”

  “Yes, I know.” Millie rolls her eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder at the wisdom of forcing you two together every week.”

  I climb out of the car, just as Frances steps onto the porch, waving.

  “See ya, Millie.”

  She wheels out of the driveway, waving goodbye.

  “Katie! I’m so glad you could come over!” Frances radiates excitement, and I can only laugh and shake my head.

  “I thought I should warn you.” Frances takes a deep breath. “My mom is from China, and my dad is from Mexico.”

  “And?”

  She shakes her head. “Well, I just mean . . . Oh, nothing. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on in.”

  I follow Frances into the house. And my head spins for the second time today. Total sensory overload. I’m surrounded by multicultural artwork, photography, flags, and knickknacks. It’s like China and Mexico went to war here—and I’m not sure who won.

  “Bienvenidos! Welcome! I’m Cesar Vega.” Mr. Vega enters the foyer and grabs my hand in a tight grip, shaking it until my teeth rattle. “We are so glad you are joining us tonight. We have heard much about Zhen Mei’s friend, Katie.”

  “Zhen Mei?” I whisper to Frances, who is right by my side.

  “Remember? It’s my name. Duh. We covered this on day one.”

  “Yeah, well, we also covered where the bathrooms were, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t try to tinkle in the janitor’s closet.”

  “Yes, yes, so good to meet you. I’m Ling, Zhen Mei’s mother.” A tiny Asian woman wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and comes to stand beside her husband. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you, haven’t we, Cesar?” Her long black hair sways as she nods in answer to her own question.

  Mr. Vega laughs beneath his black mustache and puts an arm around his slight wife. “Oh, si, we see you in church, of course, and we are so proud to have you in our home.” The two smile at me, and I don’t know whether to laugh or run. This definitely explains where Frances gets her enthusiasm.

  “Um, thank you. Thanks for having me?” It comes out more like a question, and I try to channel Stephanie’s Juliet and plant a smile on my face. I suddenly notice the smell traveling from the kitchen and take an appreciative whiff. “That smells awesome.”

  Mr. Vega’s smile gets even wider and he lo
oks like he’s considering hugging me. I take a step back just in case.

  And bump into a statue of a dragon.

  “Oh, tonight you are in for a special treat, Katie. Is she not, Zhen Mei?”

  “Sure, Dad.” Frances is totally unimpressed.

  “Tonight, Chef Cesar is in the kitchen, and I am whipping up a lovely menu of enchiladas de camarones. You will love it. All of Zhen Mei’s friends love it, do they not?”

  “They do!” Frances’s mother nods vigorously.

  I hear a humph! from Frances.

  “Zhen Mei, you are a lucky girl to have such fine fare this evening,” her father scolds. “Some kids’ dinner comes out of a box.”

  Frances grabs my arm and drags me out of the living room and down the hall. “Can’t we just have pizza for once—like normal people?”

  “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes!”

  I follow a steaming Frances into the third room down the overly decorated hallway. Frances’s room is like entering another world. It’s so different from the rest of the house. Her walls are a funky green, with white-and-black accents in random places, like art.

  “Luis, get off my computer. I am not messing around. I have homework to do, and I have a guest.” Frances approaches the intruder in her room and points her finger in the direction of the door.

  Frances’s brother puffs his chest out and sticks out his hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Luis, and I’m five. I’m the man of the family in case you need anything.” His big brown eyes watch me behind large round Harry-Potter glasses sitting crooked on his face.

  “You can’t even spell man. Now out, Luis. Go play games on Ming Yu’s computer.”

  Luis crosses his arms and pokes his lower lip out. “You are interfering in my educational enrichment, Frances.”

  She checks the computer. “You were playing tic-tac-toe. Now scram, brat.” Frances takes her little brother by the shoulders and gives him a gentle push out of the room. She shuts the door on a sigh. “Take a seat.”

  “So your brother calls you Frances, but your parents don’t?” I settle myself into a black director’s chair.

  “Yeah.” Frances flops onto her bed, rummaging through her backpack. “I have been called Frances since the first day of kindergarten. The teacher couldn’t pronounce my name, so I told her to call me Frances, my middle name. My brother and sisters call me Frances, too. I’m the oldest, so they have to, or I’ll beat them up.” She grins.

  “But your parents don’t call you that?”

  Frances’s face clouds. “No way. They say I should be proud of my culture and embrace who I really am.”

  I don’t follow. “Who you really are? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know if you picked up on this, but my parents are both really proud of their heritage. They are both first-generation Americans, which they’re proud of, but they are really big on making sure we kids know where our family comes from, the culture, traditions, holidays, blah, blah, blah.” Frances shakes her head and flips her science book open.

  “I think it’s cool. What’s the problem?” I’ve never seen this girl negative about anything.

  “Cool? You think it’s cool to celebrate every American, Chinese, and Mexican holiday? I can’t keep them all straight. I wake up to a new holiday every day. I’m surprised they remember my birthday for all the other celebrating we do. And then my mom and dad are always in this competition over whose culture is the most important, and whose culture we’ll recognize today, and it just never ends.” Frances takes a deep breath. “I just want to be Frances. Not Zhen Mei Frances Vega. I don’t want to be torn between two cultures. I just want to be me.” She grabs her notebook to begin on our science review. “My parents drive me nuts.”

  Oh, to have parents to drive you nuts. And not in a “I’m in jail again, feed the cats” sort of way. I’d love to have two parents who love me, who want to cook for me, who give me some cool name and care that I know where I come from. I don’t even know my dad’s mother’s name. How’s that for not knowing your heritage? What if I need something from her one day, like a biscuit recipe? Or a kidney?

  I open my science book and together, Frances and I finish our review questions just in time to get called to the dining room.

  The Vega dining room is wall-to-wall family portraits and watercolor renderings of historical events. As I sit down next to Frances, I wonder if eating next to a painting of a man being gored by a bull is all that good for the digestion. Dinner time is a bit chaotic. Mr. Vega brings in the food as his wife corrals the younger three Vegas.

  “Zhen Mei, take the knife away from your brother.”

  “Maria, we sit down in our high chair.”

  “You put the frog back outside, didn’t you, Ming Yu?”

  “Luis, put the plate down. It does not belong on your head.”

  “Ming Yu, no reading at the table.”

  “Luis, get the napkin out of your ear.”

  “Maria’s poking me with her fork, Mom.”

  Frances grabs the fork out of the baby’s chubby hand and looks at me like Can you believe I have to live with these people?

  My lips curve in a happy grin.

  Mr. Vega clears his throat and all the chatter magically stops. “Let us pray.”

  I put down my water glass and bow my head, totally used to the drill.

  “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for this day. Lord, we thank you for our guest, Katie, and pray for your blessing upon her. Lord, we ask you to be with the pastor tonight as he brings the message and with the youth pastor, as well. Bless this food to our nourishment. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

  And the tornado begins. The noise level jumps a few hundred decibels as the food is passed around. All the Vega children tell about their day, and Frances informs her parents of my passing out. Before the end of the story, she is out of her seat, imitating my final moments of consciousness. “Bacon Bits! Bacon Bits!” The table erupts into laughter, and Mr. Vega wipes his eyes with his napkin. Little Luis tries to top the story by telling about a kid in his kindergarten class who stuck a crayon up his nose. Everyone at the table looks at one another—and then burst into laughter again.

  I have really learned to enjoy my mealtimes with the Scotts, but dinner time with the Vegas is totally different. With the Scotts it’s just the three of us, and it’s kind of quiet. But here? Platters clanging, little kids yelling, glasses spilling, loud voices talking over one another, obnoxious laughter, and—joy. These people are happy.

  They’re a little kooky, but they’re happy.

  I don’t know if I would call the Scotts’ home joyful. Do I make them unhappy? Does the fact that Amy’s gone make them unhappy? Sure, on the surface everything is fine. But tonight I got a taste of what happiness really is. Tonight, as I eat this weird shrimp dish, I can feel their joy just as much as I can taste the hot spices.

  Something’s missing at the Scotts. And whatever the Vegas have, I want James and Millie to have it too.

  Chapter 33

  “Luis, if you don’t move over, I will sit on you.”

  I duck into the Vegas’ minivan after Frances clears her brother out of the way.

  “I want to sit by Katie.” Luis bats his eyes at me, then sticks his tongue out at his sister.

  “Luis has a girlfriend!”

  “Stop it, Ming Yu!” Luis yells to his older sister. He leans in close as he climbs into his seat. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

  I take a good look at his chocolate-milk mustache. “Not today, but thanks.” Finally a boy who will ask me out. And he plays with Ninja Turtles.

  We all buckle up, and Mr. Vega steers the van onto the road. Mrs. Smartly would love this vehicle. I think the seats are real leather, not the plasti-leather that sticks to your legs and won’t let go.

  Mrs. Vega pops in a worship CD, and soon the entire family is belting it out like they’re on American Idol. Little Luis, like me, doesn’t know the words, but he’s making t
hem up as he goes. At least, I don’t think “Jesus loves peanut butter, and so do I” is legit.

  Four tunes later, Mr. Vega slides his minivan into a parking spot at the church, and the seven of us pile out.

  “Zhen Mei, do me a favor and take your little sister to the nursery.” Mrs. Vega hands over a drooling Maria and her diaper bag, and the little girl clutches her big sister, making a quick grab for Frances’s hair.

  “Ow. Okay, let’s go take Maria to the nursery, and then we’ll go to Target Teen.” Frances transfers the baby to her other hip and consults her watch. “We’re a little early.”

  Church is still a little overwhelming to me, especially now, on my first night of the teen ministry. I hate getting somewhere early. It’s all awkward. “I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. I’m going to go say hi to James and Millie before church.”

  Frances and I take off in different directions, and I hustle toward the office, excited to tell my foster parents about Frances’s not-so-tame family. I round the corner leading to James’s office, wondering if the Scotts know Mr. Vega’s grandfather was a famous matador in Mexico. And Mrs. Vega’s parents still live in China, and her father is a—

  “You knew she was coming.”

  I freeze in my tracks, hearing James’s raised voice.

  “Yes, I did.” Millie’s tone could freeze the Pacific.

  “You’ve known she was coming this whole time, and you didn’t think to tell your husband? She’s my daughter too, Millie.”

  “I know that. I just thought—”

  “This is why you don’t want the opening date moved back. Do you actually believe Amy will show up?” James laughs. But there’s nothing funny about it.

  I move a little closer to the office door, keeping one eye on the hallway in case someone walks by.

  “I think she’s coming this time. I really do.” Millie’s voice catches a little.

  “When are you going to get it? She’s not coming. She might never come back.”

  “She’s our daughter. How can you say that? And you wonder why I didn’t tell you.”