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closed and locked, so I rapped against it loudly.
    "Guess who," I said hesitantly, deciding to play this as a light-hearted prank.
    Yeah, bad idea. I'm full of those.
    A man with an exposed beer belly hanging over his shorts came to the door and gave me the stink eye. " Que tú quires? "
    "Uh..." I switched to Spanish. "Where's Lydia Suarez? And Oscar?"
    The man's face didn't soften at the names of my parents. "Who?"
    "The owners of this house," I said, but I immediately knew I was wrong. The Mustang on the street, the dog sign... I didn't need to see the blank face of this stranger to know that my family didn't live here anymore.
    "I don't know who you're talking about," he said gruffly. "This is my house."
    I remained quiet, absorbing the news. I think I swayed a little.
    Where does a person go when they have no home?

 
     
    Chapter 8

     
     

    I was dazed when I left the doorstep. Not sullen, not nostalgic, but straight up dazed.

    The man with the Mustang and rearview-mirror panties was in my house, and I wanted to tell him to get out or else I'd make him. I didn't care if he flashed a deed to the property—I had a mind to storm past him and lock myself in my room and blast rock music.
    Still reeling from everything else, I did the smart thing and walked away. Maybe it would've been smarter to ask questions, but walking away was as smart as I could handle. Give me some credit. I could always approach later with a cooler head.
    With nowhere specific to go, I strolled the old neighborhood, seeing things I recognized, but also seeing plenty of differences. Plenty of cars I had never seen before. A new roof on the Sanchez house. An iron gate on the corner. A missing palm tree.
    Slowly I was getting the feeling this wasn't my neighborhood anymore.
    The icing on the cake was the brand new stadium where the Orange Bowl used to be. A sleek building in place of the familiar rust bucket. My rust bucket. That wasn't the type of thing that changed in a single year.
    A parked Fiat next to me chirped as it unlocked. I'd never seen the tiny car before, and I don't mean in the neighborhood. I mean I've never seen the model before. No one was in the car so I turned and kept walking, and that's when I saw the curvy hottie walking my way.
    This girl was gorgeous. Supermodel hot, with her own Latina flair. That's not just code for big ass, although hers was serious business. She was short, tan, and had long, straight hair like a styled wig. I couldn't get a good look at her body because she wore loose sweats, but it was obvious from the way her blouse hung that she had a big chest.
    The star of the ensemble cast, though, was her face. Plump lips, a Marilyn Monroe style beauty mark above on the left, and deep-brown eyes with matching eyebrows that incited intrigue. I couldn't not be fascinated with the girl, and she was dressed down.
    She watched me curiously as she approached. I maintained my gait, tried to not look too impressed, and even managed a wink when she was close. That drew a puzzled smile.
    I didn't know if that was good or bad.
    I continued on, too wrapped up in my own problems to act. Or that's what I like to tell myself. The truth is, I was too chicken to say anything. This girl had the face of a diva. Very intimidating to my former (muscle-less) self. I liked to pretend I was smooth, but nobody was that smooth.
    "Francisco?" came the singsong voice from behind me. "Is that you?"
    I turned quickly, too quickly, with my left hand raised and my right in a fist at my side. A knee-jerk defensive move that made me look like a jerk. I couldn't blame myself for being a little jumpy, but would she? The pretty girl raised an eyebrow, puzzlement becoming shock.
    "It is you!"
    She took some hurried steps my way. I backed up and warded her off with my hand. I didn't know this woman. She saw my reaction and froze in her tracks. The shock on her face transitioned to relief, then fear.
    "Who are you?" I demanded, checking the street for