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Marina Peralta stared out the passenger-side front window of her mother’s Infiniti SUV as it pulled into the driveway of a canary yellow A-frame where her best friend, Fernanda Fuego, lived. Between the wild mix of luscious flowers in the front yard and the bright colors trimming the house, it seemed like the Fuego family used nearly every color Crayola ever invented to decorate. Marina looked longingly at the powder blue and white house next door, with its relatively boring agapanthus-filled garden. She remembered how she used to peer out its upstairs window at the eclectic neighborhood.

“I miss living here sometimes,” Marina said wistfully. She twirled the ends of her long brown hair and stared reflectively at the porch swing where she and Fern had gobbled down ice cream cones nearly every summer night.

“How could you miss living in the barrio?” Marina’s mother asked as she lay on the horn, causing Marina to flinch. “I worked hard to get us out of this neighborhood, and I don’t want you spending any more time here than you have to.”

Five years ago, Marina’s mother, Rebecca, had become an instant success as a real estate agent. She uprooted the family, consisting of Marina; her younger sisters, Monica and Samantha; and their stepfather, Steve Michelson, to an upper-middle-class section of Orange Olive at the base of the prestigious Peralta Hills. For the most part, Marina liked her new neighborhood—every yard was immaculate, there was a pool in her backyard, and a gorgeous gate marked the entrance of the subdivision—but it was also kind of sterile and a little too perfect. She missed the cozy feel of her old neighborhood.

Marina twiddled the drawstrings of her khaki miniskirt and frowned at the seagull appliqué on her Hollister tank top to keep from saying anything. She didn’t dare give the answer she wanted to give. The retort at the tip of her tongue would have started an argument, at that moment, Fernanda came bounding out of her house.

“I’m ready!” Fernanda called as she ran down the bright red porch steps and across the lawn. Her curly shoulder-length auburn hair flopped playfully over her Plimsouls T-shirt, a tribute to her love of 1980s psychedelic and punk bands. She opened the car door, held on to her paisley wraparound skirt, and slid into the backseat. Immediately she kicked off her Birkenstock sandals. “Hey, Marina. Good afternoon, Mrs. Peralta.”

“Hey, Fern. We’ve got to pick up something before we go to my house,” Marina said.

“What do you need to pick up?” Fern asked, leaning forward from the backseat.

Marina twisted around and tugged one of Fern’s untamed ringlets. “A chart.”

Fern swatted her hand away and Marina chuckled under her breath before settling back into her seat. She had started pulling Fern’s tangle of corkscrew, cinnamon-colored curls when they were in grade school. It was the one thing Marina could do to get talkative Fern to shut up. Now that they were both fifteen, Marina just did it to annoy her.

“What kind of chart?” Fern asked.

“An astrological chart,” Marina’s mother answered as they cruised down the streets of Orange County, California, looking for a specialty store among

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