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A few minutes later, Mr. Rossetti came down the stairs in his bathrobe as fast as he could with the help of his cane. His white hair was all messed up like a little baby's. “What in tarnation?” he said when he found us standing in his kitchen, all looking terrified.

“We need for you to take us in,” Grandma began. Then she sort of raced through a crazy explanation about agents surrounding the farm and us escaping the back way. Before she had even finished her account, she was heading toward the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. It looked like a telephone from when telephones were first invented. No wonder we couldn't call Mexico. Mr. Rossetti probably couldn't get long distance on that old phone even if he wanted to.

“Hold your horses, Elsie,” Mr. Rossetti was saying. “Maybe I just woke up, but this isn't making a bit of sense to me. Why would the law be after you?”

“I don't know that they are, Joseph,” Grandma said more calmly. She already had one hand on the phone. “But if you'll kindly let me make a call, then I can tell you what is going on.”

The phone couldn't have rung more than
once, and then Grandma was talking to Tyler's mom. She repeated some of the stuff she was hearing out loud for Mr. Rossetti's benefit, as he looked like he was going to grab the phone away from her any minute. “Let me talk to her,” he kept saying, but Grandma kept holding up one hand and shaking her head.

“They were taken away…. You don't know where…. They left you a number…. You didn't mention … Yes, they're here with me. So's Tyler. But you're okay?”

When she was done, she hung the receiver carefully back in its holder and sort of collected herself, then turned around. She still looked worried, but her voice was calm and strong like she was an actress playing the part of the heroic grandmother who saves the day. “I want everyone to take a seat—you too, Joseph.”

Mr. Rossetti grumbled about the gall of some people not letting him use his own phone, but he did finally sit down. Once we were all seated, Grandma explained what had happened at the farm. How my parents and uncle had been taken away by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. How Mrs. Paquette had tried to show them the paperwork that proved the Cruzes were paying taxes. How Sara had arrived as it was all happening with her boyfriend, Mateo. How Mateo had translated for Mr. Cruz, who asked the Paquettes to
please not say anything about the three Marías as he was afraid they would be taken away. How before they drove off, the agents gave Tyler's parents a phone number that they could call for more information on the status of the Cruzes, and if and when they would be deported to Mexico.

Mr. Rossetti had both his hands on his cane in front of him and now he put his head down on his hands as he listened. Seeing this, both Ofie and Luby began to cry.

“I want my daddy,” Luby wailed. “I want my mommy. I want my doggies.” All I could think was that just what Luby called our parents—not Mamá, not Papá, but Mommy and Daddy— showed she didn't belong in Mexico.

“That's no way to treat decent folks!” Mr. Rossetti said when Grandma had finished her account. “And what's more, these here girls have rights. They're American citizens!” he added angrily, jabbing the air with his cane. Tyler glanced at his grandma, who flashed us a look to keep quiet. So much for telling the truth to your friends to improve their characters.

There were a bunch more phone calls back and forth, but Grandma said that Tyler's parents were afraid to say too much in case their phone was being tapped.

“That's when they spy on what you're saying without you knowing it,” Tyler explained. It
sounded just like what Mr. Bicknell had said happens when your government is a dictatorship.

It was very late by the time we piled into Mr. Rossetti's spare bedroom upstairs with pillows and blankets that smelled musty, like they had not been used in ages. Ofie even found this cocoon in her blanket with a little moth folded inside it. Tyler slept downstairs on the couch. I don't know where Grandma slept. Mostly, she stayed up, talking to Mr. Rossetti late into the night. I could hear their worried voices drifting up from the kitchen.

As for me, I don't think I slept a wink. I couldn't bite my nails as there were no more nails to bite. By the time I finally got out of bed, light was pouring in the window. Grandma was gone and so was Tyler. They had driven back to the farm early to help out with chores. That's right! Papá and Tío Armando would not be there to milk the cows this morning.

Later that day when Grandma came by with Tyler, she told Mr. Rossetti she had called someone from the VA to come over and pick up all the little flags we had put together. “I just don't have the heart to celebrate anything today,” Grandma admitted. Her nerves had calmed down, but she looked tired and as sad as when we arrived on the farm last August a few months after her husband had died.

Mr. Rossetti was nodding his head. “My
sentiments exactly, Elsie. I called up Roger and told him I couldn't blow for them today, either. And it's a crying shame, because if anyone deserves our gratitude it's our vets.”

That's why later that night, once it had gotten dark, we piled into Grandma's car. It is the one and only time we've been out since coming over to hide in Mr. Rossetti's house. We were surprised they were risking it just one day after everything had happened. But Mr. Rossetti said he wanted to be sure we girls saw the proud face of America.

Which was why I was confused when we ended up in a graveyard! There were little flags all around that Tyler shone his flashlight on, the very ones we had put together the night before. We stopped at one gravestone that Mr. Rossetti explained belonged to his older brother, Gino, who had died in World War II.

“These boys did not die in vain,” Mr. Rossetti said in a gravelly voice. Then he cleared his throat and said it again. “I'm going to make damn sure of that.”

“Watch your language in the graveyard,” Grandma reminded him. But she didn't sound that upset at all over Mr. Rossetti's swearing.

Before we left, Mr. Rossetti pulled out his trumpet from the trunk of his car. There in the dark with sprinkles of rain falling on our faces, he played the saddest tune, as sad as
“La Golondrina.”

“God bless America,” he said when he was done.

Both North and South America, I thought, remembering the swallows on the TV special.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Dear Diary,

Mrs. Paquette came by with Señora Ramírez and Tyler today. They've spoken to Papá! He is now in a detention center in Clinton, New York, wherever that is. Mamá is somewhere else as they were separated when
la migra
took them away. Papá is sick with worry about her as well as about us. Señora Ramírez said he pleaded with her not to say anything about his children because he has heard that
la migra
takes kids away from the parents. “I told him I don't think that will happen,” Señora Ramírez explained. “Plus, you girls are
americanitas.
You have
derechos
and rights as U.S. citizens.”

Tyler and I looked at each other, wondering if this was the time to come out with the whole truth. But Mrs. Paquette whispered something to Señora Ramírez, who quickly glanced over at me and then looked away.

Honestly, I don't know why it has to be such a
big secret that I was born in Mexico. Or why grown- ups can't just tell us what is going on. “They don't want to worry you,” Tyler says. But it worries me more to think there's something so awful that I can't be told!

Besides, Tyler always fills me in. Maybe because his ears stick out a little, but he seems to overhear a whole bunch of secrets. Today, he stayed on after his mother and Señora Ramírez went to meet with Mr. Calhoun up in Burlington. It had been raining all day, and so his father wouldn't be able to plant the back field. Tyler had a free afternoon until milking time.

“It's really hard right now,” he told me about the work around the farm. “Just me and Ben and Dad.” His father has improved a lot, but the fingers on his right hand don't yet work correctly, so doing chores takes a long time.

What Tyler has overheard is that the raid on the farm happened on account of Mamá's bag that
la migra
confiscated when they raided the
coyotes’
house in North Carolina. Inside, they found her Mexican passport and phone numbers they tracked down to a farm in Vermont. But instead of thinking that poor Mamá was a victim of these
coyotes,
the agents assumed she was one of the traffickers! So she is being treated like a criminal. “Your dad, too, on account of he resisted arrest and struck a federal agent,” Tyler
explained. “The only one who's going to get sent back real soon is your uncle, as he just let them arrest him, then admitted he was here without papers and all he wanted was to go home.”

“Mamá and Papá should do the same thing,” I said, even though I knew that would mean we would all have to go back to Mexico, and I wasn't sure I wanted to live there anymore. But I'd rather go back and be together with my parents than stay here, all separated, with Mamá and Papá behind bars. “We've got to tell Señora Ramírez to tell Papá—”

“But that's what I mean,” Tyler broke in. “They don't get to make that choice, because now they are criminals who broke the law. You know, like when your uncle Felipe ran off. They'll have to stand trial and maybe go to jail before they can go home.”

That's when I really lost it. Two or three weeks without getting to see my parents I could stand, but months and months! We had already suffered for over a year without Mamá. Now we had finally gotten her back, and she was being taken away from us again. It just did not seem fair at all.

“Mari, don't cry, please,” Tyler kept saying. He looked as helpless as Mr. Rossetti when my sisters and I start sobbing. Only difference is Tyler doesn't have a dirty handkerchief in his pocket to offer me.

Later that afternoon, when Grandma came by to pick up Tyler, she brought us a cake to cheer us up. It was made just for us, I could tell, as the frosting was pink. Stuff she makes for Mr. Rossetti is more hearty and supposed to help him move his bowels. Now, there's a kind of love for Mr. Bicknell to put on the board next year for his Valentine's Day assignment. Old people's love where you try to improve their characters and help them go to the bathroom!

I almost made myself laugh out loud, writing that down. But then, remembering that I probably won't ever see Mr. Bicknell or my classmates, I started crying again. This time, though, there's no one looking on, wondering what on earth to hand me for blowing my nose and drying my tears.

Except you, dear Diary. You can hold all my sadness just as long as I cry in ink here.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Dear Diary,

Today was the first day in a long time that it wasn't raining, so Tyler's whole family had to get the corn planted. After supper, they all came over with a carton of ice cream in honor of Father's
Day. Mr. Paquette hardly said a word, he was so tired. I suppose it's no way to spend your special day, but then it's a whole lot better than spending it in jail.

All day I felt so sad thinking about Papá. There had to be a way to help him and Mamá get out of jail, but I couldn't figure out how.

“What if we told
la migra
the whole truth?” I asked Tyler, who shook his head.

“They won't listen, Mari, I can tell you that much. Why do you think they're called ICE?”

They were ICE all right, with cold hearts to do what they'd done to my family!

Still, look at Mr. Rossetti. He had turned out to be so nice after all. Maybe if we explained what had happened to Mamá and why Papá would have been so frantic to protect her, and how they had kids who were suffering, and two of those kids were American citizens whose sufferings counted even more, maybe the agents’ icy hearts would melt. “Maybe they'd even give us our papers because they felt sorry?”

Tyler crossed his arms. For the second time in two days, he reminded me of Mr. Rossetti! This time it was the same look Mr. Rossetti gets in his eyes when Grandma comes up with one of her grand plans. And the very same words were coming out of Tyler's mouth: “Mari, you are a dreamer, aren't you?”

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Dear Diary,

Today was the last day of school. Afterward, the bus dropped off Tyler, who had a letter for me from the whole class! Mr. Bicknell wrote it on the board, and everyone contributed a message. Then, during lunchtime, he typed it up on his computer.

I'm going to paste it here.

Dear María,

We miss you so much. Today, on the last day of sixth grade, we decided to write you a group letter, telling you how much it meant to us that you were in our class. (Mr. Bicknell here: I'm typing each person's message in a separate paragraph.)

Dear María, you are the best Earthling on earth! Love, Maya

I hope you come back to be with us in seventh grade, so you can help us save the planet. Peace, Meredith

Dear María, are you in Mexico? I hope you are having an awesome time. Chelsea

María, call me if you can, 802-555-8546, my father is a lawyer and he can help you out. Caitlin Have a great summer. Sincerely, Ronnie