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He claimed I needed to get cleaned up after my face’s introduction to Mrs. Sanchez’s yard, but I didn’t buy it. He’d seen how emotional I’d gotten, and he evidently didn’t want to leave me alone while I was in such a fragile state.
    I’d never met anyone like Javi Castillo before in all the schools I’d attended. How did someone so popular and good-looking get to be so considerate and kind? It had always been my experience that kids like Javi were the biggest assholes on the planet.
    I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
    In fact, my natural caution almost made me decline the invitation. I suspected I was being lured into a false sense of security. That Javi was perhaps leading me to some dark alley or secluded lot where Rance and the Jock Brigade laid in wait to finish what Rance had started in the boys’ locker room.
    But after walking our bikes a few blocks—the collision with the rock had knocked the chain off the pulley and made riding my bike impossible—we finally arrived at Javi’s house.
    It wasn’t a grand house, but it sure beat my crappy, rundown apartment. It had been painted in warm earth tones, and white shutters framed the street-facing windows. A white rail extended the full length of the porch and over to the wooden poles that framed the carport, where a blue Lincoln Town Car sat on the driveway. Dark green grass covered the well-cared-for front lawn, and the branches of a huge Magnolia tree crisscrossed its heavy branches overhead. Young trees and hearty rose bushes, surrounded by painstakingly placed bricks, spotted the yard.
    The Castillos took excellent care of what was theirs.
    “We’re here,” Javi said as he dropped his bike on the grass. “You can leave your bike next to mine.”
    I nodded. My nerves made me capable of nothing else. I’d never met a friend’s parents before. Hell, I’d never had a friend before, and the fact that Javi was fast becoming a friend, had my head spinning worse than my recent tumble. What would I do if Javi’s parents hated me? Everyone else seemed to instantly dislike me. If the Castillos followed suit, they could forbid Javi from hanging around the poor white trash he’d literally found on the side of the road.
    “You just gonna stand outside or what?” he asked from the front door. I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed Javi cross the lawn to the house.
    “Maybe” was all I replied.
    He shook his head and laughed. “Get your ass in here.”
    And once again, I did as Javi commanded.
    The interior of the house proved to be as inviting as the outside. It wasn’t the furniture that was neatly arranged with the sofa and recliner facing the television set. Or the shelves along the far wall filled with books and knickknacks. The possessions were merely possessions.
    What I found so welcoming was the atmosphere. It smelled like a home, not some place that was merely occupied for the moment, and on the air wafted a mixture of cinnamon and tortillas.
    “What’s that wonderful aroma?” I asked as Javi closed the front door.
    “My mom’s cooking,” he said. “She always lights her cinnamon candles while she makes supper so the house doesn’t smell like caldo , carne guisada , or whatever she happens to be making.”
    I breathed deeply. I loved caldo. I hadn’t eaten Mexican beef soup in years, and last time I had the stew was longer than I cared to remember. “Well, I like it.”
    He grinned. “Me too.”
    “ Mijo , is that you?” A woman asked from the kitchen. I’d learned enough Spanish over the years to know it was Javi’s mother. Who else would address him as my son?
    “It’s me,” he yelled back. He then turned and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He headed across the living room and through the doorway to the right, where his mother prepared dinner for her family.
    While I waited for Javi to return, I inspected the dozens of pictures that adorned the living room walls. Most were of Javi throughout