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jangling music and the off-key but enthusiastic voice of a male singer belting out a medley of old standards.
    I scan the white heads. From the back, any one of them could be Eddy.
    Then I hear the voice. She’s crooning along with the singer, her heavy Cuban accent mangling every other word.
    No. Way.
    My eighty-year-old, pink-tracksuit-wearing grandmother is sprawled across the piano on her stomach, stretching to reach the microphone as she kicks her purple sneakers in the air. She presses her cheek against the middle-aged balding guy with Einstein-wild hair who’s playing the piano, and together they belt out the chorus.
    “Everybody sing!” she shouts, sitting up. She holds her arms high above her head and sways from side to side.
    That’s it. I’m out of here.
    “Autumn!” she cries.
    Crap. I haven’t even made it two steps.
    “Eddy!” I say through the smile plastered on my face. “I didn’t see you up there.”
    Eddy grabs the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my granddaughter, Autumn! She has the voice of an angel! Come sing with us, Autumn!”
    The whole room applauds. Why did I agree to come here?
    I make my way to Eddy and she shoves the microphone in my face. “Hi, everyone,” I say, giving a wan smile. “I’m, um, not going to sing. I just came here to visit my grandmother.”
    There’s a chorus of “Awwwws” and one angry “Then get off the stage!”
    “Oh, be quiet,” Eddy snaps at the heckler. She slides off the piano, then takes my hand and snakes us through the crowd. She only comes up to my chest, but she’s fast; I practically have to run to keep up with her.
    She slows down once we’re in the open hall and on our way to her room. She wraps her arm around me and pulls me close, which smushes her head into the side of my boob. It’s a little disconcerting.
    “Hi, Mrs. Rubenstein!” Eddy calls to a woman shuffling our way. The two of them hug and chat about their families, Eddy introduces me … then the minute we start walking again Eddy mutters, “The woman’s a pill. Switched bingo cards with me two weeks in a row. And mine was a winner.”
    She doesn’t say this softly. I look over my shoulder to apologize, but Mrs. Rubenstein has the same smile on her face as before.
    Two conclusions: (1) High school never ends, and (2) It’s more pleasant when you can’t hear the awful things people say.
    Maybe I should invest in earplugs.
    I’ve pretty much had my fill of Century Acres by the time we get to Eddy’s room and she settles into her favorite chair, but she’s in the middle of another story. “And the nurses,” she says, “the meds they give me? Not what my doctor ordered.” She lowers her voice to a whisper even though there’s no one else in the room and the door’s closed. “They’re running experiments.”
    I reach into my bag for my phone, wondering if Eddy will notice if I text Jenna.
    “You tried to make him the
boniatillo
,” Eddy says. “He would have loved that.”
    I freeze midreach. “What?”
    Eddy leans forward in her chair. Her wrinkled brown face is solemn and her eyes are sad.
    “Reinaldo. The day he was coming home. It was a good choice. It was always his favorite. Just like you were. Don’t tell your brother I said so, though.”
    She winks at me, but I’m having a tough time following. Which is ironic, since this is the first thing she’s said that makes any sense.
    “Mom told you about that?”
    “Your brother. He showed me a little movie of you. A chef you’re not,
mi corazón
, but by the end it looked
muy delicioso, muy auténtico
.”
    “Thanks.”
    My voice is barely a whisper. Mom, Erick, and I never talk about that day. Ever.
    “You heard my message?” she asks.
    I nod. “You have something for me that will change my life?”
    “If you let it.”
    Eddy pulls something out of her night-table drawer and hands it to me. It’s a paper napkin folded around something rectangular. “Sorry about the wrapping. Reinaldo gave