The months passed, and soon it was spring. I was riding my bike past his house on a Wednesday in mid-May—back and forth in front of it, to be totally honest. The sky was as gray as my aura. A light drizzle fell, just enough to make the pavement a little bit slippery. I lost control. The bike hit the side of a ditch and then—bam!—I fell onto the Ramos’ mailbox.
“Ow.”
Angel came running out. “Are you okay?”
I knew he’d be watching. He touched my cheek first, even though it was my arm that was scraped up and bleeding.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Help me up and I’ll go.”
“Is your father at home?” Angel had brought out some tissues. He was a real Boy Scout—always prepared. I was an ex Boy Scout—always in trouble. He wiped at my arm and held my hand with his other one.
“No. He’s…um…” I knew Angel
