Barefoot, I creep into the next bedroom over. Dark and cold, I rush over to the figure lying in the bed.

“Mariana!” I cry, “Mariana!”

My sister rolls over, her light brown face smudged with dirt and her black hair rumpled from sleep. Her eyes are still closed, and she greets me with a grunt.

“Mariana,” I say again, walking into her room. “Where is Papi?”

“Papi’s at work, Julio,” she groans, turning back over. “And Mami is at Señora Lopez’s, so she’ll be gone a while. She has a lot of house to clean.”

She says it more to the pillow than to me.

“But Mari…” I whine, pulling on her hand. “It’s Saturday. You said you would take me to Peter’s today.”

Mariana sits up in her bed, crossing her legs.

“Fine,” she exhales, “But I have to get out of pajamas first. You, too.”

I nod quickly and flick the light switch for my big sister, but no light comes. I flick it a few more times, hoping it was just a fluke.

“It’s broken, Julio,” Mariana snaps, “Leave it alone.”

I leave my sister alone in the dark.

Luckily, the lights work in my room, even if it _is _the size of a closet. I pull a blue shirt and a pair of black shorts out of my small dresser and pull them onto my small body. I’m short and skinny, even for a seven-year-old.

I wait for Mariana in the kitchen. In the kitchen, I can hear everything. From upstairs, I hear Madame LaRoux practicing her cello scales. From the right, the man and the woman whose names I don’t know arguing in Russian. From the left, a baby crying and an Irish mother, Mrs. McAdams, attempting to quiet her cries. It can get a little loud, but I love to hear everyone’s stories. It reminds me that we aren’t the only ones who have issues.

Mariana comes out, wearing a pink shirt and a matching skirt. When she hears the baby crying next door, she groans.

“I wish that baby would shut up,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s driving me insane.”

I don’t say anything.

Mariana marches me outside and walks to her bike. The concrete soaks up all of the Florida summer heat, which burns my feet, but at least the sun is out.

Mariana puts on her pink helmet and hops on her pink bike. The metal sears her skin, too, and she shrieks as she gets on. At least her shoes aren’t falling apart like mine are.

I hop into the little compartment attached to her bike, and she starts to petal. That’s because a few blocks down is the Rich Complex.

The Rich Complex isn’t its real name, but that’s what I call it, because everyone there is rich. They’re people who can afford clothes and toys and books and television. People who wear cool fashion and listen to the hot new music from Britain.

Peter lives there, too.

I’m friends with Peter because he’s the only other kid I know who speaks Spanish. It’s not very good, but my Inglés is even worse. So I talk to him in not-so-good Inglés, and he talks to me in not-so-good Español.

His grandparents came from Cuba, just like we did. But his grandparents started their own business, and it became successful. So now, his papá is rich. But his mom isn’t even Hispanic. His mom is White, so she can find work easily. At least Peter gets to have a mom that works.

Peter says he doesn’t understand Spanish, but that’s not the case for me. I know lots of English words. Apple. Kitten. Paraphernalia. But when I try to make words come out, they get jumbled and tangled up in my untrained tongue. That’s why I love talking to Peter, because I can practice.

The Rich Complex comes into view, and I start smiling. When Mariana pulls up, I hop out, but she stops me before I start ascending the stairs.

“People like you can’t be friends with someone like Peter,” she says it firmly, like Mami does when I’ve done something wrong. “You’ll always been an immigrant, and he’ll always be a citizen. You’ll always have none of the money, and he’ll always have all of it. He’ll always have privilege, but you’ll keep slipping down that slick metal ladder that is life. The world will never be kind to us, Julio, even though we had come here to escape a Communist country. For them, that’s even more reason to hate us. I don’t believe that things will get better. But you do. I’ll always see the glass as half empty, and you’ll always see it as half full. It’s time to wake up.”

Mariana pedals away.

At least I know she loves me.