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quick round of thank yous and we head for the door.
    James is busy putting away equipment. As I walk up to him and say good-bye, he picks up an amp and walks toward the back of the garage. He looks up, grunts “'Bye,” and disappears.
    Oh, well. I'll call him today.
    1/1
    8:00 P.M.
    Nbook, Nbook, I don't know what to do.
    Isabel won't stop crying.
    Just a little while ago, we're all in a great mood. We're in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
    Papi is playing one of his old beloved Tito Puente tapes and we're dancing and laughing.
    And then the phone rings. Mami puts her hand on the receiver and tells me to turn the music down.
    I run into the living room and turn the volume knob. I hear Mami saying “Happy New Year” to someone, and then “Yes, Isabel's right here.”
    When I get back into the kitchen, Isabel is sitting at the desk, the receiver cradled to her ear. Her mouth is open and her eyes are filling with tears. Then she puts the receiver on the desk and runs upstairs. Obviously she's continuing the phone conversation in Mami and Papi's room because she calls down, “Hang up now, please!”
    As Mami obeys, I ask if Simon was the one who called. I figured he and Isabel had a fight.
    Mami shakes her head. “It wasn't Simon. It was Ms. Hardwick.”
    Well, the Tito Puente tape ends and no one bothers to turn it over. Isabel comes
    downstairs and her makeup is all wiped off. I can tell she's been crying. But when Papi asks if she's all right, she nods and says, “It's nothing.”
    Mami, Papi, and I keep asking her what's the matter. Is someone sick? Did someone die?
    Was Isabel fired? (Can you be fired from a volunteer job?)
    Finally Isabel says, “Something happened at GAEA, that's all. To one of the residents.”
    “What happened?” Mami insists. “Tell us, hija!”
    Isabel just shakes her head. “I can't.”
    She hasn't said a word more about it all night, Nbook. And now she's sobbing in her room.
    What am I supposed to do?
    Fri 1 / 2
    You know what I wish, Nbook? I wish I could close my eyes, go back to sleep, and wake up this morning again.
    This year is not up to a good start.
    I'm in my room, trying to relax, and all I hear is Isabel. She's muttering to herself. She's clacking her rosary beads. She's typing something on her computer. She's whimpering.
    I finally go into her room. She's sitting at her desk, and her fingers are flying across the keyboard.
    I see the words “Dear Linda” at the top of the screen.
    Linda.
    I'm trying to think who that is. I'm running through the faces of the moms I met at GAEA.
    “Hi,” I say. “Who's Linda?”
    Isabel whirls around, like I'm some masked intruder. “Who said you could come in here?”
    “Sorry,” I reply. “Must have forgotten my invitation.”
    I mean that as a joke, but Isabel sure doesn't take it that way. She's sitting in a strange position, with her head covering the screen so I can't see it. “Get out of here!” she yells.
    This gets me angry. I've been worrying and worrying. All I want to do is help. And when I reach out, Isabel pushes me away.
    “I already saw the name,” I say. “You're writing to Linda. Who's that?”
    I try to look around her, but Isabel now drapes a magazine over the monitor, so it covers the screen.
    “Amalia, I am not allowed to talk about anyone in the shelter. You know that.”
    “But I volunteered there,” I remind her.
    “For a day! You're not officially signed up.”
    I sit on the bed. “Isabel, I met some of those people. Don't you think I care about them too? You're not the only one with a heart in this family!”
    Isabel looks like she's going to cry again. Immediately I feel bad. I start to apologize, but Isabel cuts me off.
    “When you volunteer at GAEA,” she says, “you have to sign this confidentiality
    statement. You're not supposed to find out residents' last names, just their first names. And you're even discouraged from mentioning those outside the center. It's to protect their