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Ben takes pity on him. “Nothing's wrong with her being born in Mexico, little bro. She just probably didn't want you to know that she's not an American citizen.”

“Ben, I think maybe we'll discuss this later,” Mom says in her company voice, which is a waste of manners with no company in the house. “Tyler and María are going to be in the same class, you know.” In other words, there are some private matters that Tyler should not know about his classmate because he might blab to the others.

Ben lifts his eyebrows at Tyler as if to say, She's the boss.

Tyler looks over at Dad, hoping he'll stick up for the un-derdog, like he often does. But Dad's still working on his half- full plate. Now that his right hand is out of commission, he has to feed himself with his left, which means eating din-ner takes him twice as long.

Mom sets down the brownie platter and nods at Dad's plate. “Are you done with that?” she asks, all brisk business.

Dad puts his fork down. “I'm done,” he says in a resigned voice, as if he's giving up on more than his chicken stir- fry

That night, Tyler lugs his telescope out to the barn. When-ever he's feeling upset, it helps to look up at what Gramps used to call the bigger picture. In the hayloft, away from the lights of the house, Tyler can see the sky more clearly. And away from his parents and the sounds of their conversations and phone calls and TV programs, he can think more clearly, too.

He feels stumped as to why his mom is suddenly so cau-tious. Could it be the same reason she sent him down to Boston to visit Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony? Does she seriously think Tyler's not right in the head and can't be told the truth about anything?

He climbs up to the loft, his flashlight throwing skewy beams this way and that as he tries to hold on to it and to the telescope while also keeping a footing on the ladder.

“Can I help you?” a girl's voice calls from overhead. It's the oldest Mexican girl. She has preceded him to his secret place in the hayloft, something Tyler is not happy about. “Here,” she offers, grabbing hold of the telescope just in time.

“You can lay it down,” he says, brushing off his jeans. He hates to admit he almost lost his grip on it. He doesn't want to even think what a drop from the hayloft to the barn floor would do to the lens of a telescope.

She lays it carefully between them. “What is it?” she asks, crouching down to inspect it more closely.

“It's a telescope,” he explains, shining his flashlight on it.

“What's it for?”

Tyler can't believe someone his age doesn't know what a telescope is for. Maybe it has to do with her being from Mexico, a subject he will not bring up. Last thing he needs is a girl crying in his secret spot. Bad enough she has intruded into it. “It's for seeing into the far reaches of the universe,” he says. Okay, it doesn't see that far, but Tyler loves to pre-tend that his is a powerful telescope, as powerful as the one at the Museum of Science. Maybe some night he'll discover some new star cluster or spot a spaceship zipping around the stars.

“My gramps gave it to me last Christmas,” he explains as he sets it up by the opened hayloft door. The half- moon casts only a faint light inside. Without Tyler even having to ask, Mari takes the flashlight and shines it wherever his hands are screwing together the parts.

“See that star there, that bright one?” He takes the flashlight from her and uses it as a pointer. “Now take a look.” He invites her to kneel down and peer through the telescope. A way of thanking her, even though he didn't really ask her to help him.

“Amazing!” she gasps.

Tyler feels his heart soar proudly as if he has arranged this incredible night show himself. And his is a piddly tele-scope. Wait till she looks through the one at the Museum of Science! “That's the North Star. It always points north. That's how when there was slavery, people would escape and follow that star all the way to freedom in Canada.”

“Like the Three Kings,” she says in an awed voice. “And what about those ones that look like a scooper?”

“That's the Big Dipper. And those that are like a little upside- down house, that's Cepheus. And then, see the cross right overhead? That's the Northern Cross.”

Tyler teaches her the most prominent constellations, first pointing them out, then having her look through the telescope. She is surprisingly quick for a girl.

“Did your grandfather teach you?” she asks when they are through.

Tyler nods. He doesn't trust his voice to explain that yes, Gramps taught him the most important things. As a matter of fact, Gramps would have been the one looking at the stars with Tyler tonight if he were still alive. “My grandpa died this June,” he finds himself saying, although he hadn't planned to mention it even at school to his friends. Talk about private.

“I'm sorry,” she says simply, which strikes Tyler as just the right thing to say. No clumsy consolations, no asking for the gory details. Then she tells him her own grandmother died last December.

“What about your mother?”

“My mother is alive!” she says, so quickly and sharply, it kind of surprises Tyler. “She is away on a trip. She is coming back soon.”

So much for Mom's sappy idea that the girls don't have a mother. Tyler suddenly remembers the letters he was sup-posed to get from her. Mari was probably writing to her mother. “My mom wanted me to pick up some letters from you?”

It's her turn to fall silent. “My father … he took care of them.”

Tyler follows her gaze out the loft door toward the small lit- up trailer. In the silence, he can hear the twittering of the swallows perched on the beams overhead. It strikes him that the loft of a barn is not a usual hanging- out place for a girl, even a girl who is good at learning the constellations. “So why did you come up here?”

“The birds,” she tells him. “I come to visit them. I watch them all day flying in and out and in and out.” She waves her hands in the air. “Like a dance.”

“Those are swallows,” he tells her.

“Swallows!” Mari seems delighted. “We have this song about swallows in Spanish. We call them
golondrinas.”
It's her turn to teach Tyler something.

“I took Spanish,” he tells her. But among the words Ms. Ramírez taught his fifth- grade class, Tyler doesn't remember
golondrinas.
“Any day now they'll leave and won't be back till next spring.”

“Where do they go?” she wants to know.

“Mexico,” he says before he even thinks that's the same place Mari is from, the place he's not supposed to mention or she might burst into tears.

But instead she seems delighted. “They fly all the way to Mexico?” When Tyler nods, she adds, “Just like the
mariposas.”

“Mariposas?”
Tyler vaguely remembers learning that word in his Spanish class.

“Butterflies,” she explains. “They're those little orange and black butterflies and they go to Mexico in the winter. I saw it on TV. They have another name.”

“You mean monarchs?” Tyler offers.

“Yes!” Mari's face lights up again.

Tyler loves how every word out of his mouth seems to surprise her. It's wonderful to be the teacher for a change. And he's also learning some Spanish words from her, which is sure to impress Ms. Ramírez this fall. “Butterflies, birds.” He counts them off. “I guess everybody wants to go to Mexico.”

Mari beams proudly. She gazes out the loft door as if she is looking for something. “Which way is it to Mexico?” she wants to know.

“Thataway,” Tyler says, pointing southwest. “But it's not like you can see it from here,” he teases, because she is leaning out the window like she might catch a glimpse of it.

She pulls back. “I know,” she says, sounding embar-rassed.

“Mari! Mari!” a man's worried voice suddenly calls out.

“My father,” Mari says, hurrying toward the ladder. “Please don't tell!” she calls out as she climbs down out of view. A minute later, Tyler spots her running across the backyard to the dark figure standing at the lit- up trailer door.

Coming in from the barn, Tyler is surprised to find his parents still sitting at the kitchen table, having a serious conversation.

“Tyler, son,” his dad greets him. “Come have a seat, will you?”

Uh- oh, what now? Tyler wonders. He's allowed to leave the telescope in the loft of the barn as long as it's out of the way. The flashlight is back in its cubbyhole by the door. It's almost as if he's giving himself a once- over to be sure there's nothing incriminating on his person. All these secrets peo-ple are asking him to keep are making him feel like he's living in a scary universe.

“Son, I know you're wondering why we asked you not to go telling folks that we got some Mexicans working for us.”

Tyler sits down, feeling relieved. Finally, the big mystery will be explained to him.

But his mother is shooting glances at his father. “We haven't yet decided how we're going to approach this,” she reminds him.

“I think the boy should know. What if there's a raid or something?”

A raid?

“Are we doing something wrong?” Tyler is shocked. All his life his parents have taught him to obey the laws and respect the United States of America. In fact, one of the names they toyed with for the farm was Patriots’ Farm, an-other name Sara vetoed on account of it sounded too much like a football training camp. Just as well they don't have a name. That way it won't be all over the paper: patriots’

farm raided for breaking the law.

“It's not wrong in God's eyes,” his dad explains. Some-times, a country has these laws that have nothing to do with what's right or what's best for most of the people involved. Turns out Mexicans need a certain document to be working in this country. “They all say they have it and that's all you need to know, legally,” his dad adds. “These three Mexicans showed your mom and me their cards with Social Security numbers. So your little friend—”

She's hardly his friend. But Tyler has to admit, the lesson tonight just flew by. He hasn't had this much fun stargazing since Gramps died. Even looking through the big telescope in Boston was kind of lonesome with no one to share his ex-citement. Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony would hang out downstairs in the café drinking wine while Tyler waited up-stairs in line.

“Her reaction this afternoon, about being born in Mex-ico, well, that tells me that, no, they're likely not legal,” Dad goes on.

“So what are we going to do?” Tyler asks. This is upsetting. Illegal people are living on their farm. “Should we call the police?”

Dad uses his left hand to hold up his limp right arm. “How badly do you want to stay on the farm, son?” His voice sounds bitter. His face looks suddenly as old as Gramps's. He pushes back from the table and limps out of the room.

Tyler puts his head in his hands. But it's no use. The im-age of his father's pained walk lingers in his head. He has never liked being the little kid in the family. And yet, if being a grown- up is this confusing, he wishes he could go back to that happier country of childhood. But it's sort of sad how the minute you realize you've left it behind, you can never go back again.

September 15, 2005

Esteemed Mr. President,

My name is María Dolores, but I can't give you my last name or anybody's last name or where we live because I am not supposed to be in your wonderful country. I apologize that I am here without permission, but I think I can explain. My teacher at my new school, Mr. B., said for our first big writing project we could write anything we wanted. So I decided to write to you because I understand you are the one in charge of the United States.