Cordero, Ariana: ... shakes his head, not making eye contact. One white earbud dangles around his neck, the other hidden beneath his red hood.

"If you think of anything, write it down. Jamone, who gave you my information, can answer some questions, too. He just got his new family last month, so he remembers all of this."

I look over the rest of my list. Front Door Face. Check. Food. Check. Things to pack in your backpack. Check. School stuff. I'll wait until our next meeting for that. I move to the next letter in the outline. FFR: Foster Family Research.

"Do you know the name of your new family?"

"Alma Graves."

Spooky.

"I don't recognize the name, but give me a few days to ask around and see what I can find out. I'll Google her tonight, too. When are they going to place you?"

He shrugs. "Lenny says next week."

"I know Lenny! He's a good guy. Do you know about giving him Snickers bars when you want something?"

"Heard about it."

"It totally works. He loves Snickers. Eats them for breakfast. I once saw him dunk it in his coffee like a doughnut. Who's your caseworker?"

He shrugs. "Mary something."

"Mary Beth? The lady who laughs all the time?"

"I don't know."

I'll have to figure that out, too. I know the shelter staff better, but caseworkers make all the big calls. I won't see my caseworker, Ms. Veronica, for three more weeks, or I would see if she knows anything about Santos's caseworker.

I close my notebook and pull out the calendar I made in yearbook class. I used the library's color printer without permission, but color looks more professional than black-and-white.

"Since you move sometime next week, how about I see you next Wednesday? Right after school?"

"Yeah, all right."

He hops off the ledge and begins scanning the street in front of us like he's getting ready to bolt. He shoves his hands in his pockets before turning back to me.

"How much I owe you?"

"You don't need to pay me yet. The first meeting is always free, but have my payment ready when we meet Wednesday. I'll get a message to you if I don't find anything on your foster mom, and you won't owe me the full price. Unless you want me to do more research."

"Cool."

"Oh, and practice your Front Door Face. Use a mirror if you can."

He nods and then looks both ways before running across the street, his hands clasping the bottom straps of his backpack so it doesn't bounce on his back. I wonder where he's running to.

I carefully tuck my calendar into my work notebook, sliding both in the hot-pink backpack I've covered with Sharpie doodles of stars and moons to hide its Barbie-like hideousness. As I'm zipping it, I hear my name from behind me. It's my foster mom's son, Hamilton Jennings, ready to walk me home.

Hamilton's baritone taps against the sidewalk every few beats, marking the tempo like his very own metronome. I don't know why he picked such a big instrument when he's one of the smallest kids in seventh grade. He practically fits underneath my armpit. He says the baritone reminds him of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade that he and his mom, Marjorie, went to when he was five. Since then, he's always wanted to play the tuba, but no seventh graders are allowed to. Thus, the little-brother baritone.

"Mom asked Mr. Ortman to remind us that she has parent-teacher conferences tonight," he says, his breathing heavy. "We are in charge of turning on the crock-Pot when we get home. She says it's curry."

When Marjorie met me and found that I was Indian American, she took a cooking class to learn to make Indian food: a few types of curries, daal, treats like samosas and biryani. Now she makes Indian food once a week, even though I don't really remember the exact meals Ma cooked for me when I lived with her. I was pretty young then, so only certain smells are familiar. And mostly we ate a lot of sandwiches or macaroni and cheese or leftovers from the Chinese restaurant she worked at for a while. Hamilton doesn't like all the spices in Indian food, so he just eats the naan with peanut butter and jelly.

"I can't walk home with you today," I tell him as I adjust my backpack.

"Why? Are you meeting that boy again?" Hamilton sets the baritone down with a thud.