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the best hits of Tito Puente, Celiz Cruz, all the good old stuff that the relatives like.
    Tomorrow after school we’re shopping for party goods. Then we’ll hide them at Simon’s.
    I should be so excited about this party.
    I’m not.
    What will the neighbors think?
    What are we doing, Nbook?
    Is this party a good idea?
    Here? In Palo City?
    Why are we asking people we love to come to a place like this — a place where you can’t even stand on a public sidewalk without being assaulted?
    I’ve learned something, Nbook. I’ve learned I’m a fool.
    I trusted too much. I let myself be a target.
    I didn’t realize that people will hate you for no good reason, and you can’t control it. It doesn’t matter who you are, how you dress, what you sound like, what’s in your brain.
    It’s how you look. Period.
    And if you run into people whose minds work that way, ain’t nothing you can do.
    So my question to you today, Nbook, is, How many of them are in Palo City? Is it 5%? 20%?
    75%?
    Are those girls the only ones, the only racists in Palo City?
    Yeah. Right.
    They had to get their attitudes from somewhere — parents, brothers, sisters, friends. Anti-Latino sites on the web. Whatever.
    It took me awhile [sic] to realize how bad it is. But now I know. It can happen anywhere, anytime.
    How long will it take for it to happen to Abeula Aurora? Or Hector or Cristina?
    Maybe while they’re walking through the airport.
    Maybe on Sunday morning, when Abuela takes her traditional walk to the bakery for fresh rolls.
    I have this creepy feeling, Nbook, that we should cancel.

9:17
    Nguyen.
    Asami.
    Jose.
    Kareem.
    Asif.
    Luis.
    Benazir.
    Do you know who these people are, Nbook? They are characters in the math word problems.
    Now, I never really noticed these names before. But today I do. And I think, Hmm, the writers are really trying to make people of color feel included.
    “People of color.” Those are the exact words that pop into my head.
    And here’s what I realize: That is the world’s stupidest expression.
    What does it mean anyway? Of color compared to whom? Who isn’t of color? Everyone I know is — brown, tan, pink, yellow, olive, beige.
    OK, Nbook, you’re not “of color.” Your pages are white.
    And that, dear Notebook, is the real answer. “Of color” means “not white.”
    Think about it. It means we Latinos are defined by what we’re not.
    But who is white?
    Those girls at the theater — they’re white. At least in their own minds. This obviously means a lot to them. “Of color,” to them, translates as “different.” Which, I guess, is a short jump from
    “bad” and “threatening.”
    But this is what I just don’t get. Threatening to what? Who could be threatened by me?
    Correct me if I’m wrong, Nbook, but I was born in America, right? And that makes me an American citizen. Which means I can go to their schools, shop at their stores, see their movies, stand on their sidewalks without fear of being attacked for the way I look.
    MY schools. MY stores. MY sidewalks. They’re mine too.
    The truth is, if Maggie had been standing in front of the theater the other night, those girls would have passed right by.
    This is what Maggie can’t understand — I mean, really understand. In her soul. Or Dawn or Sunny or Brendan or Cece or Marina. Maybe Ducky, a little bit. The boys make fun of him for being different — but that’s just because of his mannerisms and the way he dresses and the fact that he hates sports.
    Now, I love Maggie. She knows it too, otherwise she wouldn’t be over here so often. She feels the warmth and closeness in our family. She wishes she were in our family. And she is, in a way.
    But she could never know what it is like to be a Vargas. She has something none of us have.
    She is wealthy. She is white. And what happened to be will never, ever happen to her in her life.
    Nbook, I can’t believe I just wrote that.
    Midnight
    Yes, I can.

    It’s the truth.
    Monday,