Read The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel for Free Online

homeroom the first day of freshman year, he told the teacher to call him Adiós because that’s what she’d be saying to him soon anyway. “We never stay anywhere for long,” he explained. When Lucia Castillo got here, she spent the whole year as a mute, shuffling from class to class and eating the food her mom made her—pinto beans and rice and tamales—by herself in the corner of the cafeteria. And when Eddie Pabón arrived, he was so excited to be in the United States and out of Guatemala that he took the concept of educational opportunity to another level—another
planet
—and joined every single one of the fourteen clubs at our school, started playing the trumpet in the band, lettered in three sports, volunteered as a hall monitor during his free period, and cozied up to the teachers so much that by the end of the first marking period, he was having bagels with them in the morning in the lounge. People started calling him Lambón Pabón, a nickname he accepted like it was an honor to be called a suck-up.
    “You have anyone new in your classes?” I asked my friend William one day.
    We were sitting in chemistry lab, waiting to see what happened when we mixed silver nitrate and salt. Everyone had ongoggles, and the girls had spent the beginning of class complaining that the elastic straps were messing up their hair. Mine didn’t even have a strap, so I had to hold them against my face with my hand.
    “There’s always someone new,” William said. “Can’t keep track of them.”
    “A girl.”
    “Way to narrow it down.”
    “Her last name is Rivera,” I said. “I think she’s Mexican.”
    “No shit? ‘Rivera’ sounded Chinese to me.” William grinned, and his braces glinted under the fluorescent lights. He was skinny, like me, but he was pale and his brown hair flopped down over his forehead.
    “She moved into my building last week—”
    “So?”
    “—but I haven’t seen her at school yet.
So
, I was wondering if you’d seen her.”
    William snickered. “Oh, I get it now. She must be hot.”
    “I hardly even saw her.”
    “Is she a hot taquito?”
    “You’re a jackass.”
    “A hot little taquito for little Mayorito.” He cracked up at himself. “All warm and soft inside.”
    I crossed my arms. My goggles fell onto the table. “Forget I even asked,” I muttered.
    I HAD STOPPED going to soccer practice after the day I crashed and burned in the star drill. I just didn’t have it in me to show my face there again. I also didn’t have it in me to break the news to my dad, who’d been especially tense and moody latelybecause he was worried about losing his job at the diner where he worked as a line cook, so for now I was pretending like I was still on the team. Every morning I packed my gym bag and every night over dinner I told my parents about the drills Coach had us doing to gear up for our big games or about Jamal Blair’s crazy bicycle kick near the end of a scrimmage or about whatever else I imagined was happening on the field without me. I probably didn’t need to try so hard. My parents were so wrapped up in their own problems that they barely even registered me. My mom had decided that she should get a job, just in case my dad really did lose his, an idea that my dad found unacceptable. “I am the provider,” he said over and over. “That’s all there is to it.”
    My mom kept having phone conversations with my tía Gloria in Panamá, the two of them brainstorming about positions my mom might qualify for. I’d overhear my mom saying things like “I’m a very capable woman” and “Is it a crime that I should want to help my family?” and “Claro. My life is not only about fulfilling his life. But try getting him to see it that way.” Once, after my dad caught an earful of their conversation, he rushed over to the phone base and stabbed the button down with his finger to disconnect the call. I was sitting at the kitchen table. My mom looked at him in shock. “Those