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She calls me Mexican. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to Shelli’s mother I am her Mexican friend. Never mind that Shelli has told her a million times I’m half Romanian , and that I never see my dad anyway. No, sir. I’m still a señorita from south of the border. I guess an immigrant is an immigrant to her but it gets not so amusing because Shelli actually had to beg to be friends with me after her mom found out. I’m not kidding. Shelli had to actually beg her weirdo mother for days to let her be friends with a half-breed like me. Her mom had literally said, and I quote, “I don’t want no daughter of mine hanging around with a beaner.” End quote. Can you believe that horse manure?
    Shelli was loyal, though. She went on a hunger strike till her mom had to give in. Still, I don’t exactly like sticking around when she comes home from work.
    Before then, though, Shelli and I have a whole tradition. When we get to her house, since it’s halfway between school and my house, we plunk down, eat cookies, drink hot chocolate, watch MTV, read magazines, and gossip about guys she likes. We should probably lay off the cookies but don’t forget it’s getting cold out, so that makes it impossible, really.
    Cookies are not meant to be today, though. Once Becky went off with Brad Kline and his festival of jocks, Shelli and I thought we were in the clear. We got about five blocks from school and guess who came riding up on his moped?
    Logan. McDonough.
    Shelli looks at me like it’s the Hells Angels.
    â€œ What do we do what do we do?”
    â€œAct casual.”
    He pulls up on the corner in front of us, so it’s not like we can ignore him. He takes off his helmet, squints at the visor.
    â€œYou wanna ride?”
    Shelli and I look at each other. Which one of us?
    â€œYou. Anika.” Then he says it again, to himself kinda. “Anika.”
    Shelli looks at me, whispers, “Um. Freak?”
    â€œI’m gonna,” I whisper back.
    â€œNo, you can’t!” Now Shelli seems actually scared.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou know why.”
    â€œDo you think I’ll burn in hell?”
    â€œNo. I think Becky will torture you, slowly, and you know it.”
    â€œWell, don’t tell her.”
    â€œShe’ll find out.”
    â€œNo, she won’t.”
    â€œShe’ll totally find out.”
    â€œIt’s just a ride. It’ll be . . . our little secret.”
    And now I’m off to get on the back of Logan McDonough’s moped. Can you believe? He looks like he can’t either. He stares at me like he never thought in a million years this would work, but also like his chest just got inflated.
    I look back at Shelli.
    She’s in some kind of catatonic state. I wave. Even though she wants to be mad, I know she can’t be. There’s a part of her, no matter how small, that kind of loves this. Drama!
    Logan hands me his helmet and guns it off the corner. If I told you how many times my mom has lectured me not to get on the back of a motorcycle, which I’m assuming correlates directly to a moped, you would think I’m the world’s worst daughter for not giving it a second thought. But then you’d be forgetting that (1) It’s cold, (2) It’s almost two miles home, and (3) Logan seems to have suddenly, overnight, turned into that guy in that old black-and-white movie, down by the docks, the one with the funny mouth, saying, “I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody!” Or that other one, where he just yells “Stella!” all the time.

eleven
    H ave you ever flown through the air with the greatest of ease? Have you ever had the trees and the wind and the houses and all the noise in the world you’ve ever heard just whiz by and off and up above you and next thing you know it’s like you could whoosh up into the evening sun and maybe past that, too? Up, up, up into the