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his door and having his parents be home since they generally hate me. He says I’m the reason we aren’t together, not them, since I chose pretending to be Nancy Drew over him. His parents don’t want me with him because I’m allegedly dangerous . You solve a few small crimes and almost get killed twice and people typecast you. So I stand at the end of his block pretending to wait at the bus stop on the corner. Nearly an hour later, I have waved off three buses by the time I finally see his car turn onto his street. Not a minute too soon because it’s late November in Colorado and the sun is already lost behind the mountains, which means I’m probably in danger of losing a couple of toes to frostbite if I stand on this corner much longer. Or maybe give the wrong impression to the cop who’s driven by a few times now.
    I walk/run down the block to Marco’s house, mostly walking because I swear my feet are frozen, but I still manage to reach his house before he goes inside. He doesn’t see me coming because he’s leaning into his trunk gathering all his football gear. When he stands up and finds me there, he’s startled.
    â€œJesus, Chanti, why you have to sneak up on someone like that? You know that can get you hurt around here.”
    â€œSorry,” I say, handing him the cleats he dropped when I surprised him.
    â€œWhat are doing you here, anyway?”
    â€œNice to see you, too. You were right about our French project. We really should start working on it.”
    â€œWhere’s that dude? I thought you were hanging out.”
    Oh, that. While I was waiting for Marco to get home, I was so focused on MJ going back to her criminal ways that I’d completely forgotten about Reginald and the whole I–can–get–another–boy–if–I–want project.
    â€œNo, not hanging out. He just gave me a ride home because I lost my bus pass and he had his mom’s car today.”
    Marco closes his trunk and stops for a second to stare at me, a little longingly if you ask me.
    â€œYou look cold.”
    â€œI’m freezing. I’ve been waiting a while.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œI knew your parents wouldn’t like me here and that you’d still be at practice, so I waited down on the corner until I saw your car coming.”
    â€œThey also wouldn’t want you to die of hypothermia. Besides, no one’s home. Come in and warm up.”
    He leads me into their kitchen, which is more of the house than I saw when we were sort of together, since I never actually made it inside. It’s nothing like I expected, which I now realize was a stereotype: Mexican rugs, a crucifix in every room, Kokopelli sand art, and paintings of sombrero and poncho-wearing farmers in the desert. Since I’ve seen all those things in every house I’ve been in that was designed in Southwestern décor—and you see a lot of that when you live in Colorado—I figured that’s what would be in an actual Mexican home. But I was way wrong—everything is in sleek chrome, glass, and black leather. Well, pleather. And from what I can see, there’s only one crucifix—a tiny one hanging in the kitchen next to the phone on the wall.
    Marco gestures me toward the kitchen table, then takes down a mug from the cabinet.
    â€œHot cocoa okay?” he says, holding up a packet of Swiss Miss.
    â€œPerfect,” I say, watching him mix the powder and water before he puts the mug in the microwave. He’s wearing a long sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up just enough for me to see his muscular forearms. Yep, perfect.
    â€œThat’ll take a couple of minutes, just enough time to make copies in my mom’s office.”
    â€œShe works from home?” I ask as I take my French notebook out of my backpack.
    â€œNo, she teaches science at North Denver Heights, but teachers only do half their jobs at school. There’s all the