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  “Lots of people hate it.” Her mom dug a chip into the pile of tomatoes and jalapeno. “Your father does.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t like how it overpowers everything else.”

  On TV, the local news station ran an update over a talk show’s closing credits. An anchor in a sleeveless blue dress said, “We have breaking news from East Malo Verde this afternoon. A man has been shot and killed in front of the El Toro Carniceria on Guadalupe Street. The victim has been identified as a Sureño gang member. Gang task force agents believe this incident is retaliation for last night’s attack on a prominent Norteño gang member. The man’s name has not been released.”

  The video feed rolled a clip of a bearded Mexican man wearing sunglasses and a flannel shirt, black braid dangling over his shoulder. Carlos Vasquez, Malo Verde Gang Task Force, the subtitle said. “We really need residents to tell us when they see something or hear something,” Vasquez said. “In many cases, they’re not comfortable doing that in case the gang retaliates against them. That’s why incidents like this happen, and will continue to happen, until we can convince people it’s okay to talk to us. We can’t help unless we know what they know.”

  Emma looked at her mom, whose gaze drifted out the window to the roses in the backyard. “Mom,” she said softly. “I heard someone at school talk about that shooting.”

  “You don’t know what you heard.”

  “I’m not stupid. I know what they were talking about.”

  “You’re not to have anything to do with this.”

  “But that man just said people need to come forward.”

  “He didn’t mean you.”

  “Dad’s in East Malo Verde. What if I could help?”

  “I printed out the paperwork for a transfer. It’ll be over soon.” Her mom put the iced tea pitcher back in the fridge, her hand grasping the door’s narrow handle long after it shut. “I don’t want you involved in this.”

  I already am, Emma thought. She remembered what the Mexican boy said to Tim in the hallway: Maybe I’ll be behind you. Maybe we all will. “Mom, what’s the NF?”

  “I don’t know,” her mom said, her voice pulled tight as a guitar string.

  The pretty anchor smiled. “We’ll keep you updated as we learn more. Join us at six tonight for an exclusive interview with the state’s Secretary of Education about the recent tuition increase for California’s public colleges and universities. Tuition now tops $6,000 per semester at even the lowest-priced CSUs, making higher education out of reach for many. We’ll talk to students and get their reactions.”

  Emma squeezed her fingers and shattered the chip in her hand. White corn shards slid across the floor. “Pick those up,” her mom said.

  • • •

  Later that night, she turned on her computer, brushing her teeth for the eternity it took the thing to boot up. When it was done clanking like the ghost of Jacob Marley, she closed the bedroom door behind her. Just in case, she opened a Word file as well as a browser tab.

  In the browser, she searched for “East Malo Verde NF.” The first result was a news piece from the Sacramento Bee, about Nuestra Familia gang members from Malo Verde who’d been sentenced to life in prison after their indictment on drug charges. She read the entire story, noting the names of Malo Verde sub-gangs also referenced: South Sobrante, East Palomar. The FBI had taken seven years to bring down the four gang members mentioned in the story.

  Emma sat back in shock. Seven years.

  The Empire State Building had been built in one year and forty-five days.

  A knock on the door startled her. She clicked back to her Word doc, an old English essay on Hamlet. “Come in,” she said.

  Her mom opened the door. Dressed in a blue bathrobe, she’d tied her hair back and washed her face. The skin beneath her eyes shone with some sort of face cream that smelled like milk and honey. “Still working?”

  “For a little bit.”

  “You know we’ve cut back a lot lately.” Her mom stood behind her and placed warm hands on Emma’s shoulders. “It’s not what I wanted for you and Mattie.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But I saved up a little money.” Her mom’s hands gathered up her hair and began finger-combing it, teasing the tangled strands straight. She kept her right hand turned so the pointy diamond’s clasps wouldn’t catch on Emma’s hair. “Enough for a dress.”

  Emma bent her head. Her cheeks turned the color of cherries. She couldn’t tell her mom that no one of the opposite sex wanted to be seen with her, at the prom or anywhere else. Hell, Dan hadn’t even returned her pencil after the chem test.

  She swallowed and felt the saliva stick in her throat. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Don’t stay up too late.” Her mom bent and kissed her on the forehead, then closed the door behind her on her way out.

  Emma let out her breath in a whoosh.

  I’m such an asshole, she thought. Again.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday, March 30

  Her mom poured a cup and a half of milk into the waffle mix and whisked with strokes that would put a swimmer to shame. Emma watched with a feeling of deep inadequacy. The one time she’d tried to mash potatoes ended ten seconds later, with her arm feeling like it was on fire.

  “Are we ready?” her mom asked.

  Mattie swiped her fingers under the kitchen faucet and flicked them over the open waffle iron. Water droplets hopped like a tap dancer on hot coals. “Ready.”

  Her mom held up the mixing bowl and poured some of its contents into the waffle iron. She tilted the bowl to shorten the stream and keep it from splashing on the counter. Emma wondered if all moms could do that, or just hers. “Go get your father. Tell him to wash up.”

  Mattie skittered to the sliding glass door just as the phone rang. “It’s telemarketers,” she said. “Don’t answer it.”

  “It’s probably for you,” Emma said as she picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Emma, it’s Rachel.”

  “Hi. What’s that noise?”

  “It’s the microwave. I’m making dinner.”

  “Hot Pockets?”

  “Chicken nuggets. Hey, do you want to come with me to youth group tonight? It’s at eight.”

  Emma bit her lip. By that time, she usually had her Daffy Duck pajamas on. Plus, she had to start reading Lonesome Dove for her book report. “I was just going to read tonight.”

  “There are lots of guys from other schools. I thought you might be interested.”

  Emma wondered what Rachel wanted more: a couple she and Tim could double-date with, or not to be the only one who picked up a date at church. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Emma. Just try. You might actually have fun. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “It is.” She remembered the toothy smiles of the Mexican kids in the courtyard. “Wait for me in the parking lot, okay?”

  Her dad and Mattie came in from the backyard, each carrying four red blooms. “Ingrid Bergman is early,” he said. “Look at that color.” The crimson blossoms matched the SeedCorp logo embroidered on his white polo shirt.

  “I have to go. See you tonight.” When Emma hung up with Rachel, she turned to her mom. “I need the car later. Is that okay?”

  “Where are you going?” Her mom lifted the lid of the waffle iron and forked out a perfectly browned waffle.

  “Rachel invited me to her youth group.”

  Her dad filled the iced-tea pitcher with water. “What church does she go to?”

  “That’s not a vase,” her mom said. “What if I wanted to use that?”

  “First Baptist,” Emma said.

  “I couldn’t find a real vase.”

  Mattie reached for a waffle. “I want sprinkles on mine. Do we have any?”

  “You can’t have
sprinkles for dinner,” her mom said. “Em, I’ll draw you a map after dinner.” Every time Emma went somewhere new, she left with a hand-drawn map that kept her far away from streets like El Camino Rojo and Sobrante Street. You can’t be too careful, her mom said. People in this town get shot at the mall. “The car has plenty of gas. And don’t forget to park under a street light.”

  • • •

  First Baptist was in South Malo Verde, the oldest and nicest neighborhood in town, full of sprawling brick houses and trees with sidewalk-buckling roots. The church was on a corner, with a lit marquee in front that said, Don’t tell God how big your storm is, tell the storm how big your God is.

  When she pulled into the parking lot, she saw a back door propped open with a folding chair. Rachel’s Kia was there, penned between two white pickup trucks. She parked as close as she could to it, even though there was no streetlight above the space she chose. Rachel was nowhere to be seen.

  Emma looked toward the rectangular doorway. The night’s inky darkness surrounded the one yolk-like source of light. She took a deep breath and walked toward it.

  Inside, she found herself in a gymnasium with a polished hardwood floor and a basketball hoop at each end. Shit, she thought. Was “youth group” code for intramural sports? Rachel should have known better than to invite her anywhere to play basketball, especially on a weekend.

  On the other side of the room, a few guys bounced a ball back and forth. A few more leaned against stacks of folding chairs. They were mostly white, except for a few Filipinos and one Asian guy.

  “Em, there you are!” She turned to see Rachel’s gleaming eyes and pink cheeks. Instead of her usual T-shirt and jeans, Rachel wore a fluffy floral skirt and white tank top.

  “I looked for you in the parking lot.”

  “I was in the bathroom. Come on, let me introduce you to my friends here.” She led Emma across the gym to a group of girls standing in the corner. “Emma, this is Tina, Madison, and Carmen.”

  “Hi,” Emma said. “I’ll probably forget your names.”

  “Do you go to school with Rachel?” Madison asked. Her hair was three or four different colors from root to tip, ranging from dark brown to white blonde.

  Emma nodded. “We met in middle school.”

  “So you were there?” Tall and thin, Tina had blunt-cut bangs and skin with the same blue undertone as one-percent milk. “When Tim punched out that guy?”

  “Yeah, except he didn’t actually punch anyone out.”

  “He was going to,” Rachel said. “He was defending me.”

  “He was defending himself. And you never told us if he got suspended.”

  “Suspended?” Carmen asked. “Doesn’t that mean he can’t go to prom?”

  “My dad’s looking into it.”

  “Who’s your dad?”

  “A lawyer. The kind you don’t want to piss off.”

  Emma bit her lip. Rachel’s dad was a patent lawyer.

  “Hey, have you guys seen Tim?” Rachel asked, turning her head to scan the room. “I want to say hi.”

  “What about me?” Emma asked.

  “I’ll introduce you to Owen. Come on.”

  Once again, Emma followed Rachel across the gym. She tapped her finger against her chin, wondering how much of her healing zit was still visible. “Who’s Owen?”

  “You’ll see.” Rachel stopped in front of a boy standing alone in the far corner, barely taller than Emma. He had pale grey eyes, an overbite, and shaggy brown hair, thinner and less curly than Dan’s. He wore a long-sleeved black thermal under a navy T-shirt. “Hi, Owen.”

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “See?” Rachel turned to Emma. “He has a weird sense of humor, just like you.”

  “Owen, this is Emma. Why don’t you guys talk while I go say hi to Tim? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Emma stared, wondering why Rachel had chosen Owen. His eyes were bright but cold, and she couldn’t picture him with a smile. “Sorry you got stuck being my babysitter.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s good practice for the day someone trusts me with something worth stealing.”

  Emma watched Rachel cross the floor, to the group of guys gathered in the far corner. Tim stood in the back of the pack, wearing a cowboy hat. The hat made the contrast between his bronze skin and pale hair vanish, which was the part of his appearance that bothered her. Suddenly, she understood Rachel’s attraction. “I don’t trust anyone,” she said.

  “You’ve never been here before.”

  Across the basketball court, Rachel stood with her weight on one leg, hip jutted out. When she laughed, she reached out and put a hand on Tim’s bare arm. “Safe to say I’m not coming back, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “The sign outside creeped me out.” Emma turned back to Owen. His lashes were long like Dan’s, but they didn’t have glossy silver tips. It seemed like every guy on the planet had better lashes than she did. “Why do you come here?”

  “Good place to find out what I’m up against.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “You should always want to know.” He followed Emma’s gaze and sighed. “Stop looking over there. She’s not coming back.”

  “I know.”

  The door at the far end of the gym opened and a pudgy man wearing glasses and pleated shorts emerged. His dark hair was cut short over his ears and forehead, but it curled down the back of his neck—a mullet. Looking at it made her want to get a pair of scissors and cut it off.

  “Okay, everyone!” he said. “Welcome! Come on over so we can get started.”

  Owen pushed himself off the wall and shuffled toward the pudgy man, hands in his pockets. Emma followed. Nothing about the night made sense. Rachel’s dad wasn’t a flesh-eating lawyer. Tim threw a punch to defend himself, not Rachel. Wasn’t it against the general idea to tell so many lies in a church?

  “Huddle in so we can pray.” The youth minister held out his arms as if he could embrace everyone present. The kids around her bowed their heads and Emma followed suit, studying the cleanliness of everyone’s shoes. Not surprisingly, hers and Owen’s were the worst.

  “Dear Lord,” the youth minister said, “we thank you for your many blessings. Thank you for opening the hearts and minds of our youth, thank you for providing a place where they can come and learn about your holy grace. Help us in our walk with you, Lord. We all need you in our lives—”

  Someone said, “Amen.”

  “—and I know it’s hard for these kids to believe in you in a world that tells them you don’t exist. But you do, and we’re going to help them see it. All things are possible through you, Lord Jesus. May your peace and blessing be upon us as we worship and praise you in your almighty father’s name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the crowd repeated.

  “Amen,” Emma said. She wondered what would happen if she asked God to let her ace the chemistry test. The paper with her answers on it was already in Mr. Lopez’s possession. Maybe she had to ask before the test? It can’t work like that, she thought. There was no way God was just an office manager, rubber-stamping prayer requests like Michael Scott on The Office.

  After the “amen,” everyone floated back to their familiar orbits. Owen trudged back into his corner, one leg crossed in front of the other. She felt his eyes on her and turned her back to protect her face from his grey-eyed scrutiny.

  “Hey,” Rachel said, jostling her elbow. “You okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did you like Owen?”

  “He tells the truth.”

  “Why don’t you go talk to him again?”

  Emma looked at her friend. “Tell me why you really invited me here.”

  “It’s a church, Emma. There’s n
o motive except to be a better person.”

  I don’t believe you, she thought. “I have to go. I’ll see you at school.” She reached into her pocket for the car keys.

  “Emma, wait.” Rachel reached out and touched her arm. “Remember when you said you wished everything was over? I just wanted you to see there’s more to life than school.” Her cheeks bloomed, making her freckles invisible. “Via has art. I have church. What do you have?”

  “My family.” She walked to the door, still feeling a prickle between her shoulder blades. Owen, she thought. With her lips clamped shut, she held her breath and hoped Rachel wouldn’t ask her to come back.

  In the parking lot, she heaved herself into the Buick’s driver’s seat. She slid the key into the ignition, but an uncomfortable thought held her hand in place. Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe her life was empty. Maybe she’d never write a story worth reading because she never did anything worth writing down. Maybe she was the only one looking backward when everyone else was looking forward.

  Emma pulled the key from the ignition. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  • • •

  Forty minutes later, when the side door to the parking lot opened, she watched the flood of participants emerge in the rearview mirror. Owen bypassed the parking lot entirely and walked across the church’s front lawn on foot. She spotted Tina and Madison as they got into their cars and drove away. Carmen stood on the curb and waited for someone to come pick her up.

  A couple of Tim’s friends got into the same pickup truck, which meant one of them was over eighteen or they didn’t care if they broke the law. She turned in her seat and saw the youth pastor pull back the folding chair that propped the door open.

  Where is she? Emma thought. The parking lot was almost empty—only four cars left, plus the Buick.

  Then the door opened again, and two shadowy figures emerged, one with a waterfall of red hair. Emma slouched in her seat and watched them in the side mirror. The taller figure, Tim, bent down and kissed Rachel. Rachel’s fingers came up around his arms, squeezing his biceps.