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down the aisle and stop short of the back row. Mouton lies down and stretches out across two seats. He sleeps every morning on the way to school. Most days he ends up snoring by the time we pull into the parking lot. I always think about getting revenge while he’s sleeping—taking his backpack and hiding it—but then I chicken out and end up looking out the window.
    I sling my backpack into a seat and fall in next to it.
    Gabriela sets her bag down and eases into the seat across the aisle. She reaches into her bag, pulls out an orange notebook, and places it next to her. The notebook matches the orange design on her red dress, like it’s part of her special first-day-of-school outfit.
    Gabriela clicks her pen, opens to the first page, and begins writing.
    â€œWhat’s with the notebook?” I ask her.
    She ignores me.
    I try again. “What’s with the—”
    â€œI hear you,” she says. “The notebook is a gift from Papa. It is to write down important words so I can learn better English.”
    â€œSorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Pry’? What does this mean?”
    â€œIt means ‘to stick your nose in someone’s business.’ ”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Pry.’ I will write that one down. Thank you, Eddie.”
    She begins writing it in her notebook, so I spell it for her. “ P - R - Y .” She looks up and smiles, this time a full smile, like she’s suddenly comfortable around me.
    â€œHow is the bump on your head?” she asks me.
    â€œIt’s getting better. The swelling went down.” I point it out, showing her where the bump used to be. “See?”
    â€œYes, I see.” She closes her notebook.
    â€œThanks for the bag of ice. I think it helped a lot.”
    â€œYou are welcome, Eddie. You are—how do you say it?—very sweet.”
    She giggles, covering her smile. Her cheeks turn pink.
    I take in a deep breath. The clothes I’m wearing—stained khaki shorts, Dad’s faded Black Crowes T-shirt, and sneakers with holes in them—suddenly feel like a brand-new first-day-of-school outfit, just like Gabriela’s.
    Maybe there’s hope for our friendship, after all.
    Gabriela goes back to writing in her notebook.
    I stare out the window, looking for cardinals and hawks and golden eagles. I don’t see any of those, but I hear a downy woodpecker in a tree. No one else islistening closely enough to hear it, so I just sit back and smile while letting the morning breeze hit my face.
    Finally the bus pulls into the school parking lot.
    Mouton wakes up and elbows his way to the front, saying he has to see the principal about his schedule.
    Gabriela tucks her notebook into her bag and starts down the aisle. I follow close behind, hoping she asks for help finding her locker or homeroom. Who better to ask than me? I’ve got experience in helping students from other countries.
    As we get to the front, Sandy sticks out his arm and stops me. “Eddie,” he says. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
    â€œSure,” I say, stopping to listen.
    Gabriela walks down the steps without me, without her “pal” for the day, and she doesn’t even look back to say “bye.” What will she do without me? How will she find her way around? Who will tell her what words like “pry” mean?
    Sandy pokes his hat with his finger and it tilts up on his head. “How’s your mom doing?” he asks.
    â€œOkay.” I keep my response short.
    Gabriela is already out of sight. I’ll never see her again, because she’ll be whisked away by the popular girls, and the popular girls don’t ever talk to me.
    â€œYou sure about that?” Sandy asks.
    â€œYeah, I’m sure.”
    â€œOkay. But remember, I’m here if you two need anything. I mean it. I’m right here, in the driver’s