“Hola, Emmie,” she says, juggling the earbuds and phone, and waves me over before I can change my mind. Ale is nowhere in sight, so I join her and explain why I brought the cones. Then I ask how Ale’s beekeeping test went. She killed it, of course, which I already guessed. Ale’s mom promises to give Ale the pine cones and sets the buckets on the porch, shooing off a few curious hens. Then, unexpectedly, she kneels down beside me.

“Don’t be a stranger, mija.” She squeezes me into a hug. “Arguments can be fixed.”

My face gets hot, though I’m not sure whether it’s embarrassment that she knows about our fight or jealousy that Ale has her mom to talk to about it. Maybe Ms. Che reads my mind, because she hugs me again, then pushes me back to arm’s length, still holding my shoulders.

“Ale misses you,” she says, “and you’re not the only one who misses your mamá. She was my friend, too.”

I’m surprised to see that Ms. Che’s eyes, big and dark brown like Ale’s, look teary. “All our hearts still hurt,” she continues. “I know it’s not the same, but you can talk about her with me anytime you want.”

I suddenly remember fall evenings, in our yard or theirs, our families gathered around a firepit, making s’mores and roasting hot dogs and corn. My mom and Ale’s, playing their guitars and laughing, everyone singing along as they plucked out songs.

It hurts to think about, but it helps, too. Knowing it’s not only me who feels that hole. I hug her back, my eyes stinging. “Thanks.”

“You got a mamá here, too,” she says, sternly now. “All you need to do is ask, mija.”

Just ask.

Speak up.

Why do I keep hearing that lately?

I don’t know if it’s the guitar music that blasted from Ale’s mom’s phone, or her surprising, sweet offer to be there if I need a “mamá.” Either way, later that afternoon, something makes me go and dig through my parents’ closet for Mom’s old costumes.

I lay them carefully out on the bed, smoothing a tulle skirt here, an embroidered corset there. Mom loved dressing up so much, and some of the costumes she put together were impressive. When I turn out the light and leave, I have three of her dresses in my lap.

Then, after a lot of thought, I go back one more time. I dig farther into the closet, to the very back, until my fingers find the neck of her guitar.

When Dad gets in from the shop late in the evening, I’m in the living room, picking out chords on Mom’s guitar with some help from YouTube. His eyes dart from Mom’s dresses on the couch to her guitar in my hands, and his shoulders go rigid. I swallow hard and keep playing, ready to do battle if he tries to stop me. But he just drops into his chair, presses his fingers into his eyes, and listens to me play until I run out of chords, which doesn’t take long.