1
Zoey stared at the rows and rows of makeup in front of her. Glittery lip glosses to her left. At least a dozen different kinds of mascara to her right—all promising lush, full lashes. Above, rows of foundation compacts for a wide range of skin tones. And beneath, rainbows of shimmering eye shadow and bright nail polish, just begging to be browsed. But Zoey’s hands stayed in the front pockets of her jeans. She’d watched so many tutorials online, and yet she always chickened out when it came to actually buying the stuff. It didn’t help that Dad would say it was a waste of money, either. She knew Mami would probably say the same thing if she were here. From what Zoey could remember, Mami had rarely worn more than a touch of blush, a dab of lipstick.
But of course, her mami had been beautiful—she didn’t need anything extra. Still, Zoey couldn’t help craving a dramatic transformation for herself. And it was more than just makeup she wanted—all the other girls at school magically knew what patterned tops and colored bottoms paired well, and how to coordinate outfits with fun shoes and costume jewelry. Zoey looked down at her own T-shirt, denim shorts, and beat-up, faded flip-flops. She wouldn’t even know where to start—and not knowing was embarrassing.
It reminded her of when she was little and Poppy had expected her to answer his questions in Spanish about school or the new toys he and Abuela had bought her. A language she should have spoken better—Mami had spoken almost exclusively to Zoey in Spanish before she’d started preschool years ago—but that left her feeling like a phony in her own skin.
She wished her mother were still alive so she could talk to her. But even if Mami were here, Zoey wasn’t sure she could find the right words to describe this uneasy mess of feelings that sank along with all her other problems into the pit of her stomach.
“Zoey! Where are you?” A deep, urgent voice cut through Zoey’s thoughts.
“Aisle nine!” Zoey called back.
A head of curly, dark hair poked around the aisle.
“Stop wandering off,” José scolded, deftly maneuvering a cart between a baby stroller and a delicate display of perfumes.
“I’m twelve,” Zoey said. “I don’t need to hold your hand like a little kid.”
“No, you need to help me find all the stuff on my list,” José said. He glanced at the endless tubes of concealer and foundation. “I don’t need anything from here. Vamos. Come on.”
Sighing and rolling her eyes, Zoey grabbed the cart from him and turned it around.
“Hey there. Don’t help me con mala cara,” José chided. “Leave the attitude in the aisle.”
“Sorry,” Zoey said, meaning it. Con mala cara had been one of their mother’s favorite phrases. It meant literally “with a bad face” and hearing it always made Zoey imagine evil fairy tale queens or cackling cartoon villains.
José looked down at his phone. “Okay, we’ve got the pillow, laundry bag, detergent, trash bags.… I still need bed sheets. I think they’re that way.”
Linens turned out to be on the other side of the store. Zoey’s stomach hurt as they walked. A few days ago, a dull ache had started just below her belly button. It was right around the time she’d done the math and realized she had only six weeks left before José went away to college. It totally sucked. José wouldn’t be here in August, helping Zoey buy supplies for her first day at yet another new school. Having José around always made settling into a new place easier. And this time was extra hard because they’d just moved in with their grandfather Poppy on the Jersey Shore, and Dad didn’t exactly get along with him.
“Navy or green?” José asked, plucking the last boxes left under the cheapest price for twin XL jersey cotton.
Zoey shrugged.
“What’s wrong? You’re so quiet.”
Zoey said nothing. She didn’t want to make José feel guilty about leaving. But she didn’t want to lie to him either.
“Tell me,” José insisted.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Zoey finally said in a small voice. To avoid José’s gaze, she busied herself reorganizing the items in their shopping cart, making space for the set of sheets in José’s hands. He tossed them in.
“Aw, Zo. It’s going to be okay.”
The dull ache suddenly turned into a sharp pain and Zoey bit her lip to keep from crying. She hoped José didn’t notice and think she was being too emotional. But thankfully, he seemed oblivious.
“I have to go to college,” José said, spreading his hands matter-of-factly. “I’m not doing it to leave you. If I want to become an engineer, I have to learn how. College has always been my dream. You know this.”
He playfully elbowed her ribs. Zoey nodded reluctantly, still fighting down the lump at the back of her throat. She tried sucking in her stomach, which seemed to help—but only slightly. Of course she knew her brother’s dream was to be an engineer. He liked science and building solid things and math. Every decision was carefully weighed and measured in José’s world. But Zoey suspected José hadn’t assigned homesickness or missing family much weight when he’d decided to go to the University of Florida. After all, Dad made them move so much that they didn’t really have a permanent home.
“I know. It’s your dream. Like how Dad dreams of owning a food truck on the Jersey Shore.”
“Ugh. Don’t compare me to Dad,” José groaned, pushing the cart toward the shower caddies. “I’ve wanted to be an engineer since third grade. Dad’s constantly changing his mind.”
“Dreams need time and freedom to grow and change,” Zoey said automatically. It was what their father always said. And at least Dad took them with him when his dreams led him halfway across the country, unlike José. For a second, she wished she could stow away in one of José’s duffel bags and go live in his dorm.
José’s jaw twitched. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t quote him, Zo.”
“Why not?” Zoey demanded. The pain had gotten worse again and now there was pressure beneath her belly button too. It felt like her stomach was the dumpster at the end of a trash chute, filling up with gross, heavy garbage bags, except she hadn’t even eaten much today. Why did she feel so awful?
“You have to know the way Dad does stuff isn’t normal. Burning through Mami’s life insurance money every time we move? Switching jobs five times a year? Quitting every single one of his business ideas because he’s not a millionaire by the end of the week? Dad’s so-called ‘dreams’ ”—José made air quotes—“are unrealistic, and he gives up on them too easily.”
“He just likes to have new things to look forward to. What’s so wrong with trying to make life interesting?”
José crossed his arms over his chest, exasperated. “Dad could mix it up once in a while, not every two seconds. He’s a loser—”
“He’s not a loser!” Zoey cut José off. “He’s doing his best. And he’s all we have. His dreams make him happy. And we can’t afford for him to get so unhappy that he gets sick and dies too,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.