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surprised to see us.
    She carried a small white dog in her arms. She wore a pink housecoat and had a pink towel wrapped around her head. She had on enough gold to fill an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb. Necklaces, bracelets, rings and earrings. Her skin was as tanned and tough as a mummy’s too. Her wrinkles were so deep, I was willing to bet that if she stood outside in the rain, her face would collect water. I had aquick mental picture of her shaking her face, like a big, old, slobbery Saint Bernard. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
    â€œGood evening,” Jennifer said. “We’re here to speak to Carlos.”
    A few other thoughts were going through my mind. This woman definitely wasn’t Carlos’s mother. I also doubted she was his grandmother. Carlos looked more Hispanic than she did. Maybe a visitor? Maybe Carlos had been adopted by this family?
    â€œCarlos?” she repeated in a scratchy voice.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Jennifer said. “Carlos Pelayo. We go to school with him. We’d like to invite him to try out for the track team.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said.
    I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her eyebrows were plucked into a thin high arch, and she had tons of makeup around her eyes. The smell of her perfume was enough to kill a skunk. Her dog lifted its lip to snarl at me, as if it knew my thoughts.
    â€œWell,” Jennifer said, “we saw him run the other day. And he’s very fast.”
    No kidding, I thought.
    â€œMy dad’s a track coach,” Jennifer continued, “and we’re hoping he can join—”
    â€œI understand that part,” the woman said sharply. “What I don’t understand is why you’re here.”
    â€œTo speak to him,” Jennifer explained patiently.
    â€œDon’t treat me like a child,” the woman said. “He’s not here.”
    â€œOh,” Jennifer said. “Maybe you could give him a message—”
    â€œYoung lady, he doesn’t live here.”
    What?
    â€œWhat?” Jennifer said. “I mean, I beg your pardon? Carlos Pelayo doesn’t live here? But this is the address on the computer at school.”
    â€œI have news for you,” the woman said. “Computers aren’t always right. Of course, if you had been born before television like I was, you might understand that.”
    â€œAre you sure, ma’am?” I asked, speaking for the first time.
    â€œOf course, I’m sure,” she said. “Seems likemost of the time computers make much bigger mistakes than humans do. I’m still fighting a utility bill that makes me just furious.”
    She scratched her dog’s head. “Right, Sugar-booger?” she added in a high singsong voice.
    Sugar-booger? “I mean about Carlos,” I said, feeling like we’d walked into a movie shoot with the wrong script. “You’re sure about him?”
    She glared at me. “Are you asking me if I’m sure whether some kid named Carlos lives in my house? Like I’m some old lady who’s lost her marbles?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    â€œYou talk funny,” she said. “I’ve never heard anyone say ‘sore-ee.’”
    â€œHe’s from Canada,” Jennifer said. “They all sound funny up there.”
    Like that was helpful as we looked for Carlos?
    â€œCanada?” she said. “My fifth husband was from Canada. But I’m not sure where. A stroke took him before I had time to find out much about him.”
    She scratched her dog’s head again. “But he left behind lots of money, didn’t he, Sugar-booger?” She frowned. “The Canadian dollar wasn’t worth as much as I expected, and I almost felt cheated about the whole thing. His breath was horrible and—”
    â€œWe’re sorry to have bothered you,” I said, backing away.
    Jennifer and I quickly walked to the