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for me to go. She has work to do, and
I’m distracting her.
“Why won’t they just leave me alone?” I say, slapping away
 my stupid, stupid tears. I hate that anyone can make me feel like
 this, that I have no defense against it.  
“Because you are different from them.”
“How?”
“You go to a different school than they do. You talk differently
 than they do,” she says. Then she sighs. “And you are different
 in other ways.”
“What ways?”
“Has no one told you this?”
“Told me what?”
She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. “You have
 green eyes.”
“So?”
“So? So? Ay!”
She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and slings it over her
 shoulder. “Your mother used to work for a very wealthy man who
 has green eyes. You’re old enough to figure it out.”
I don’t understand what she means right away. Then I jump
 up from the stool and yank on her apron. “Who was it?”
“Oh, chica. Your mother should be the one to tell you this.”
“Who!”
“I can’t think of his name. He builds all the big buildings in
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    the city.” She is snapping her fingers, trying to jog her memory,
 but nothing comes.
I kick her in the ankle and run outside as she shouts names at
 me. I am in a blind rage as I run back out into the alley—right into
 the group of kids who were taunting and chasing me. Suddenly I
 am on the pavement, my face pushed into a grease-slicked puddle.
I hear a group of girls giggle. The sound of girls laughing can be
 the ugliest sound in the world. I feel someone walk over my back,
 and I raise my head to see several pairs of shiny black loafers and
 ruffled socks skipping away.
The memory ends abruptly, like someone’s shaken me to
 get my attention back. I’m facing the garage wall. I see a
 hedge trimmer, a pair of clippers, a small scythe.
A weapon. That’s what I need. That’s what I want.
Hiding doesn’t suit me at all.
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    CHAPTER 5
 look around for something. Anything. I don’t even
I  know what.
In the garage there are three huge lawn mowers. They’re
 the kind the landscapers here stand on to mow the acres of
 grass that surround this place. Next to them is a small trac-
 tor, with belt treads instead of tires. I look at it longingly,
 but I know I can’t take it. Where would I go, especially in
 this weather? And it would draw a lot of attention. If I’m
 going to escape I’ll need to do it quietly. I have a feeling
 no one is going to let me leave if they can possibly help it.
A row of lockers lines one wall. Maybe there’s some-
 thing in one of them that can help me. I find a hammer
 in a nearby toolbox and give one of the keypad locks a
 couple hard whacks. The first locker springs open; it’s full
 of nothing. The next one is more helpful. There’s a set of
 blue coveralls and a big overcoat; it’s green canvas on the
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outside and flannel on the inside. I strip off my wet clothes
 and put the coveralls on. I’ve got to roll the sleeves and pant
 legs up about six inches to get it to fit. I put the overcoat
 on, and it’s so warm and soft I momentarily hug myself in
 grateful relief. In the next locker I find a lunch box with
 a sandwich and apple inside. I stuff them into my pockets.
Then I remember the passcard and the pills. I need to get
 them out of my wet clothes.
I put my hand in the pocket of the hoodie and come
 away with the plastic bag. One of the two remaining gel
 capsules has popped, and the baggy is leaking whatever was
 inside. It probably happened when I slid out the window
 and landed on my chest. I put the baggy in the coat pocket.
I smash another few lockers before I come up with a
 stretchy black cap. I put that on and instantly feel a thou-
 sand times warmer. I find a pair of leather work gloves
 lying on a nearby bench and put those on, too.  
This garage is full of landscaping tools, but what am I
 going to do? Carry a