Shine On, Luz Véliz!: Chapters 11–23

"First, the signal comes in. Then...”—he draws a line down from the diamond and makes a rectangle—“the program has to decide if it’s type A or B or C or whatever. Which team it’s on.”
He writes “DETERMINE SIGNAL.”

“I know it looks complicated, Luz, but a flowchart like this makes coding easier. Once I have my map, I can code each part and know that all the sections will work together.”

“Have you heard of autism, Luz?”
“Yes. Two kids in my class have it.”
“My grandson has it. Connor. A little older than you. He’s a smart boy, but he doesn’t always recognize danger. And he doesn’t answer questions fast; he needs extra time. Recently, he started leaving the house.”

Before Mr. Mac can slide off his stool, a voice wavers through the air from outside.

Dad says “my daughter” in Spanish when he’s trying to be tender, when he’s trying to soften a blow.

He grates cheddar cheese over each steaming bowl.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Mom says with a wan smile.

“She can’t live there anymore. They have four kids already. Staying there gave us time to sort things out, get paperwork signed. The embassy finally called today. Solana’s coming next week.”

It’s warming up outside, but I’m still in hot chocolate mode.

You’ll catch on to some Spanish, too, I’m sure. I’m the one who’s in trouble. My español has gotten rusty.

I see no way in which Mom’s situation is harder than mine when it comes to this issue.

“My point is, Einstein was deliberately curious. And it helped.”

If you learn basic commands on this machine, you’ll know the patterns that underlie all coding.

“Good guess! But in code, as in life, we want to anticipate the unexpected. What if we want to make some new lines of code before your line one?”

I quickly learn that the computer takes everything literally. It can’t deal with typos. It can’t deal with commands out of order.

None of his fretting and worrying feels like love.

She asks me something, I can tell by the pitch of her voice.

Mr. Mac reaches for it, too, and I see something strange. His thumb. It's thumping, like it’s repeating a note on a piano. In fact, his whole hand is waffling back and forth until he clasps the can.

She’s in a new flannel nightgown. Did her aunt buy it for her? Again, it seems formal and looks stiff; I want to tell her that a T-shirt and leggings is fine for sleeping.

“If the little one turns ten times, how many times does the big one turn?”
He writes “Calculating Gear Ratios” on the board.

She better not be sitting by the Populars’ window. Or by the stage where the cowboy-hatted Ropers sit. The borders are ragged, but each group has a kind of headquarters.

I take the stick and jerk my wrist, but the wooden cup doesn’t land on the stick. It hits my hand, it swings into the air, it thunks my forehead when I bend forward to concentrate. I’m used to being pretty coordinated, but this thing takes practice.

She changes her hand to a high-five, and he meets it with his palm. They’re fumbling this hand thing, but they don’t seem to care.

Tell your sister she's cool thrums behind every other thought in my head.

As I hand over three ones and eight quarters, Solana lets loose a patter of whispered Spanish, complete with gestures that I don’t understand.

In Guatemala, my parents bought papayas at the open-air market and haggled with the vendor over the price.

Now I see why Solana was so insistent. She thought we were getting ripped off!

“The computer could say, ‘Have a nice day.’ Or, wait, that Star Trek phrase: ‘Live long and prosper.’”

As I type in commands for a loop, I wonder if a virtual Magic 8-Ball will be good enough for a Showcase project.

I’d love to have Trevor ask my 8-Ball a question. But then I imagine showing Ms. Freeman. No, I think I need something more sophisticated.

I usually love chilaquilas, with the cheese all melty inside the fried squash, but the thought of eating anything, especially anything made by Solana, makes me queasy.

“So who is this Trevor?” Dad asks me. “Do I need to meet his parents? Is he an upstanding young man?”

Dad’s tone is mock serious, with teasing underneath, but I can feel my face turning red.

“Apology first,” she says.
“Lo siento,” I say, looking past Solana’s left shoulder, obeying the letter of Mom’s law. I’m pretty sure I don’t sound sincere.

I drag my feet down the hall, savoring it as the only stretch of floor with no parents and no Solana.