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type, but a lot of girls think he’s hot.”
    I freeze at the mention of a newspaper. “What does he want?”
    Emmy laughs at me. “Duh, he thinks you’re cute. He wants to meet you. Here, I’ll introduce you.”
    Before I can do anything to stop her, Emmy stands up and waves Ian over. His face reddens slightly when he realizes that he’s been caught staring.
Good
. I’m pleased that he feels ashamed. I haven’t yet grown comfortable with how boys and girls interact here. There’s something crude and carnal about the way they mingle and touch and talk to one another so casually. It makes me nervous.
    Sure enough, Ian sits on the bench next to me, sliding closer than I’m used to. I know it doesn’t mean anything here, but when his elbow brushes against mine as he leans over to talk to Emmy, I yank my arm and lean away automatically.
    He notices. “Sorry,” he says, and jumps to his feet. He looks mortified. “Sorry,” he repeats.
    Good
, I think again, not entirely sure why his discomfort pleases me. He’s more aware of the space between us than most of the other boys I’ve encountered here—bucket-fed giants, bigger than most grown men in my country, who jostleme in the hallways or brush against me in doorways without even noticing.
    Emmy is gleeful. She introduces us with a teasing note to her voice that doesn’t vanish even when I glare daggers at her. “Ian, Laila. Laila, Ian. You two have a lot in common. Or maybe you don’t. I really have no idea. Why don’t you talk and figure it out?” She leaps off the bench and skips away, turning back just long enough to wink at me.
    Now I am the one who is mortified.
    Ian rolls his eyes at Emmy’s back. “Subtlety is not her strong point,” he says.
    He shifts from foot to foot. I fidget on the bench. We at least have our awkwardness in common.
    He finally speaks. “So, um, I’ve heard a lot about you. Well, I’ve heard about you a lot, anyway. I guess that’s different, isn’t it?”
    He’s rambling. I let him—perhaps a cruel thing to do, but I don’t know the rules here. I feel vulnerable without Emmy to translate his shifting weight, his lopsided smile, and his habit of pushing his hair back out of his eyes more often than necessary.
    “I know how hard it is to move to a new country,” he’s saying.
    Now I’m interested. “How do you know?”
    “We moved around a lot when I was a kid,” he says, looking grateful for the foothold my question gives him. “My family, I mean. Sometimes here in the States, but we also spent a couple of years traveling around South America. A few months in Ecuador, almost a year in Paraguay. All over, really.”
    “Why?” I don’t mean to be abrupt, but this question feels somehow important to me.
    “My parents were working as missionaries.” He holds his hands up quickly, palms out. “But wait. Don’t be freaked out by that. I’m not trying to convert you or proselytize or anything. I’m not like that. At all. They’re not either, really. It was just a thing they did.”
    I keep my face neutral, but in my mind I put up an invisible barrier between us. Newspapers. Religion. Two things that have torn apart my family. Ian has two strikes against him, even if he does seem sweet. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, standing up from the bench. I pick up my backpack and start to edge away. I know I’m being rude, and I hope he doesn’t take it personally. It’s not him. It’s what he represents.
    Ian, perceptive once again, hears the stiffness in my voice and doesn’t try to prolong the conversation. His half wave goodbye shows his confusion, though. “See you around?”
    I nod once and he looks encouraged. As I walk away, I realize that I’m smiling. It was purely an accident, that smile, and I hope that Ian didn’t see it.

RECOGNITION
    More visitors.
    This time I come home to a group. Five men, a boy my age, and my mother. They’re squeezed three to the couch, and the rest on the rickety