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me before he finished— “since he died. Mama said it takes people time. She says it’s different for different people.”
    I didn’t say anything. Lalo picked up another rock and drew back his arm to throw it.
    “Why didn’t they name him?” I asked.
    Lalo paused, then threw the rock way out over the water.
    “So,” he said, his hair lifting strangely in the wind, “
you
name him.”
    I stopped.
    “What?”
    “You always do that,” said Lalo. “You always say, ‘What?’ when you don’t know what to say. Or you don’t want to answer. The fact is, if you need him named, then you name him.”
    I stared at Lalo and he stared back. Then he turned and began walking again. I stood, watching him as he walked down through the beach plum; past the clumps of chickory gone by; past the juniper bushes.
    “You’re dumb,” I yelled at Lalo. “You’re so dumb. The very dumbest!”
    The sky darkened above suddenly, a cloud in front of the sun, like in a movie when it was suddenly serious and you’d better pay attention. Lalo disappeared over the hill and I stopped yelling. Then, after a moment, he appeared, looking at me.
    I looked at the sea again, then I walked after him. When I reached him he was sitting by the old scrub oak tree that perched at the edge of the cliff.
    I stood next to him and looked down on the town. I could see a car moving along Main Street, the church spire in the middle, a fishing boat coming into the harbor.
    “It wouldn’t matter, you know,” I said. “It wouldn’t matter as much, except—” I stopped.
    Lalo looked up at me.
    “Except that Sophie’s here,” he said.
    Tears came then, I couldn’t stop them, flooding down my face, cold and startling. Lalo didn’t move. He didn’t come over to put his arm around me, or put his hand on my arm. He just stared out over the water. And I cried, thinking about what my father had said to me not so long ago.
    “Don’t love her,” he had said to me about Sophie.
    Don’t worry, Papa. I don’t know how to love Sophie. I don’t know how to love Sophie because I don’t know how to love my brother
.
    I cried.
    Lalo sat under the tree, not looking at me.
    The sun came out.

chapter 8
    “My Wish for the World.”
    Portia Pinter stood in front of the class, reading in her high voice.
    Someone snorted.
    Ms. Minifred gave a piercing look to the back, probably to Ozzie, who always snorted. He had four brothers who snorted too. Lalo said it was part of the family tradition.
    “My Wish for the World,” repeated Portia, pushing up her glasses, “is for world peace and homes for stray animals, especially cats.”
    Another snort. Ms. Minifred smiled.
    Portia, short with jeweled eyeglasses, had toldus once she had relatives in the royal family of England. Lalo called her Princess Portia.
    Portia’s voice droned on. We were in the library, where water was leaking down the walls. It had rained for three days straight, so hard and fierce that at home Mama put towels on the windowsills and under the door where the water streamed in. Papa left early for work and came home in the evening wearing his yellow slicker, the wind nearly blowing him down the hill. Byrd sang songs and read books to Sophie, who happily pointed out new streams of water.
    At school we had all helped move the books to the middle of the room, and Rebel, the janitor, had come up from the basement to turn off the electricity. Rebel had come to the island with his Harley-Davidson motorcycle when he was eighteen and had never left. That was fifteen years ago. We had seen pictures of him then, and he hadn’t changed. He was still thin, and his hair stood straight up. He had a mysterious tattoo on his arm that said “Wild Eunice.”
    Rebel liked Ms. Minifred. Rebel and Ms. Minifred read books together. Lalo and I had come late to the school library one afternoon, andthey had been at a library table, Rebel sitting on a child’s chair, smiling, his chin resting on his knees as he read to