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Tyler, the sole boy, and three little girls, plus Mom and Sara and often Grandma as well. He's going to feel totally outnumbered.
    “They had a fight,” Tyler offers. He wasn't going to bring it up until now, when his mom might balance her good idea for company against commotion in the house.
    “A fight fight or a disagreement?” His mom would make that distinction.
    “The older one ran off crying and locked herself in the bedroom.”
    That piques Mom's interest. “What about?”
    And now Tyler's curiosity takes over. Why did Mari get so upset? He explains that the two little sisters were telling how they were born in North Carolina and then when they told him the oldest was born in Mexico, she started to cry. “They're also all named María.” He doesn't know why he threw that in. For the first time in his life, he has met people who are really different. It doesn't exactly upset him so much as make him realize he's just one of a zillion people. Like finding out in Sunday school that God loves everyone the same, whereas Tyler was hoping that maybe God had reserved a special place in his heart just for Tyler. “He has,” Mrs. Hollister, the minister's wife, told Amanda Davis in Sunday school when she asked the very thing Tyler was thinking. “God's heart is vast enough for everyone to have a special place in it.”
    “I think I understand,” his mom is saying. She exchanges a look with Dad and Ben.
    “What?” Tyler wants to know. He hates this feeling that the grown- ups are keeping some secret from him. In a couple of weeks, he's starting sixth grade, for crying out loud. “What's wrong with her being born in Mexico?” But Mom is suddenly busy removing the serving dishes from the table.
    Ben takes pity on him. “Nothing's wrong with her being born in Mexico, little bro. She just probably didn't want you to know that she's not an American citizen.”
    “Ben, I think maybe we'll discuss this later,” Mom says in her company voice, which is a waste of manners with no company in the house. “Tyler and María are going to be in the same class, you know.” In other words, there are some private matters that Tyler should not know about his classmate because he might blab to the others.
    Ben lifts his eyebrows at Tyler as if to say, She's the boss.
    Tyler looks over at Dad, hoping he'll stick up for the un-derdog, like he often does. But Dad's still working on his half- full plate. Now that his right hand is out of commission, he has to feed himself with his left, which means eating din-ner takes him twice as long.
    Mom sets down the brownie platter and nods at Dad's plate. “Are you done with that?” she asks, all brisk business.
    Dad puts his fork down. “I'm done,” he says in a resigned voice, as if he's giving up on more than his chicken stir- fry

    That night, Tyler lugs his telescope out to the barn. When-ever he's feeling upset, it helps to look up at what Gramps used to call the bigger picture. In the hayloft, away from the lights of the house, Tyler can see the sky more clearly. And away from his parents and the sounds of their conversations and phone calls and TV programs, he can think more clearly, too.
    He feels stumped as to why his mom is suddenly so cau-tious. Could it be the same reason she sent him down to Boston to visit Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony? Does she seriously think Tyler's not right in the head and can't be told the truth about anything?
    He climbs up to the loft, his flashlight throwing skewy beams this way and that as he tries to hold on to it and to the telescope while also keeping a footing on the ladder.
    “Can I help you?” a girl's voice calls from overhead. It's the oldest Mexican girl. She has preceded him to his secret place in the hayloft, something Tyler is not happy about. “Here,” she offers, grabbing hold of the telescope just in time.
    “You can lay it down,” he says, brushing off his jeans. He hates to admit he almost lost his grip on it. He doesn't want to