My moms were best friends in high school, just like me and Parisa minus the lesbian part. They lived in the same cul-de-sac in East Palo Alto, back when the neighborhood wasn’t being gentrified by nerdy, rich tech bros. Their parents didn’t like them running the streets unsupervised, so they spent most of their time at each other’s houses. It didn’t take long for their families to become best friends, too, and one spring break, they scraped up enough money to go on a camping trip together. I guess the first night, Elena’s dad (my grandpa, though I’ve never met him) had a few too many beers (which he was known to do on most occasions). He stumbled into the wrong tent… and caught his daughter making out with Julia. All hell broke loose. Their families told them they were sinners and forbade them from ever seeing each other again. So they ran away together and never looked back. And I mean never looked back.

My moms are first-generation Mexican American and were raised Catholic, but we don’t speak Spanish in our house and I’ve never stepped foot inside a church. They’re also keener on spicy tuna rolls than they are on, say, queso fundido. Or at least they pretend to be. Personally, I think they hold their culture at arm’s length because it’s a painful reminder of two families who turned their backs on them. And I try to embrace that part of my identity as much as I can for the same reason. It’s my only connection to relatives I’ll never meet. Anyway, my parents’ past is all very tragic but also kind of romantic. My orphaned moms were high school sweethearts. They defied the odds and walked away from their parents to be together. If that’s not true love, then what the hell is?

“Lizzy Pearson and her friends are so… basic. And we are not basic,” Parisa says emphatically. “I guess we’re just too good for Andrew.”

“Agreed,” Wes pipes in while he tunes his guitar.

These days, our usual pastime at lunch is to sit under our favorite willow tree in the quad and stare at all the students we detest and secretly envy at the same time. It’s still weird to see Andrew living among them, holding hands with the queen bee of our high school. What a difference one summer vacation makes.

“At least the three of us still hang out. That will never change, right?” Parisa asks.