Page 1 of Every Version of You

Prologue

Rafael

“You’re going to have the best first day of 1school, mijo,” my mamá says, her sweet, muffled voice barely perceptible as she squishes me and my younger sister tight in her arms. When she releases us, she finger-combs my thick black hair and her eyes pop over my head. “Okay, the bus is coming,” she continues in Spanish. “I know you’re a little scared to start a new school, but this is going to be your favorite year yet.”

I highly doubt that. How can living across the country from my papá result in my best year yet? I guess Mamá does seem happier now that she’s not living with him. We moved in with her girlfriend, Christina, here in Radnor, Pennsylvania two months ago. It’s nothing like my home in Texas. And I guess it’s nice not listening to my parents fight anymore. But being the new kid? It’s like I’m being handed one uncomfortable situation after another.

“Mamá,” I whine. “Why couldn’t you drive us today?”

Screeching to a slow stop, the school bus throws open its doors as the few other kids at the bus stop start to file up the steps.

“Because this is a public school, not a private school like your last one. The bus is fun! Now go on. You’re going to make lots of friends today, I just know it. Go on. Take Gabriela’s hand. I love you, mijo. Love you, mija.” She smiles, then places a kiss on each of our heads.

Grabbing my backpack straps, my sister and I trail the student in front of us and I turn back to reluctantly wave at Mamá. When I reach the top level, the bus driver, a white man with a whiter beard and a sucker in his mouth, smiles at me. “Good morning and welcome to bus 302! I’m Mr. Murphy. We’re going to the trash dump, right?”

Uncomfortably laughing, I say, “No.”

“We’re not?”

The younger kids in the front row of seats giggle and shout as we make our way past them to find a spot. “No! We’re going to school!”

“School? Well, I guess that sounds better than the dump, huh?”

When I find an open seat in the middle of the bus for us and sit down, the bus jerks and starts to move away. Waving back to Mamá, I watch as she blows a dramatic kiss, and I imagine myself catching it to keep me safe. I’m almost ten years old after all, and only little kids catch kisses. But as the bus bounces along down the paved road, I lean my head against the shaky window and watch the morning mist-covered ditches and driveways pass by.

Other kids are talking and singing all around me. As badly as I want someone to be my friend already, I can’t bring myself to turn away from the window. My body is frozen solid and my heartbeat is getting louder and louder and…

And then everything in my body quiets when the brightest spot of color emerges from the gray mist. Standing at the end of a driveway with two other small boys, a girl wearing all yellow—my favorite color—waves joyously at the school bus. When Mr. Murphy opens the doors for them, I’m too far back to hear what he says to her, but every tooth in her smile shines as she hugs the man.

After helping the younger of the boys she boarded with find their seat, she floats her way down the aisle closer to me, her head bobbing from side to side like she’s singing a tune in her head. Her brown hair is up in two crooked ponytails, and she’s even wearing a yellow headband. When she spots someone she knows, she quickly arranges herself next to them and asks in English, “Did you really go to SeaWorld? Jenny said you did.”

For the next five stops, I’m engrossed in her conversation, but I keep my eyes trained outside. I like her voice. I like how goofy she is.

The bus pulls up to my new school and everyone herds off like sheep. Yellow Girl walks in front of me and I’m not sure where I’m going. I came here last week with my mamá, so I have a vague sense of my surroundings, but following her seems to be my only focus. Shuffling into the school, a teacher spots my sister and moves her with the other first graders, and Yellow Girl and I merge with the crowd, making our way to the same classroom. Even though the school is new to me, it still smells like my last school. The familiar scent of construction paper, wooden pencils, and cafeteria french toast sticks soothes me.

Waving her hands in the air, a tall Black woman I remember as Miss Carter calls us over. “Welcome fourth graders,” she trills. “Find your lockers, drop off your lunches, and then come on in to find a desk!”

Ducking my head between other students, I finally locate the large name label Rafael Jimenez and open it. The locker to the left says Tyler Gordon, and to the right of mine says Angel Johanssen. When my locker opens, Yellow Girl skips right next to me and whips open the locker. “Hi!” she beams. “Are you new?”

“Yes,” I mutter, keeping my face tight as it burns from embarrassment.

“That’s cool!” She looks up at my name. “Ra-Raf…”

“Rafael,” I supply. “But you can call me Raf.”

“Okay. I’m Angie.”

“Hi. It’s not…” I point to her name label. “Angel?”

“What? Oh! Ugh. No, it’s technically Angela,” she groans as she takes off her yellow sweater, revealing more of her short-sleeve sunflower dress. “But please don’t call me Angela. I don’t like it.”

I realize then I mixed up the letters and read them incorrectly. “I’m sorry.”

When we’re done at our lockers, with notebooks and pencil cases tucked under an arm, Angie surprises me by grabbing my hand and pulling me toward our classroom. Part of me settles down and relaxes when she does. “Miss Carter? Can Raf sit next to me? He’s new and he doesn’t know anybody!” Her face is as sincere as she is determined.

“Hello, Angie, it’s nice to see you again. Go ahead. I think I sat you two next to each other anyway. You’ll see your names on your desks.”

“Thank you, Miss Carter.”

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