I reply with three thumbs-up emojis, then put my phone away and close my eyes. Bonnie, my therapist, is trying to teach me to stay present in my feelings, and I hope that basking in this triumph means I’m not that depressed after all. We still don’t know if I’ll be going to college in person in the fall, but I try to picture my new life on the East Coast anyway. Moving into the dorms, meeting my roommate, aimlessly wandering around campus trying to find my classes, meeting my future boyfriend at a bar I’m not old enough to frequent, having sex in a twin bed in his dorm room while his roommate has to sleep in the hallway, and most important, making friends who don’t secretly hate me. It all feels so close and so far away at the same time. But either way, it feels good to think about the future again. Some things are still a little blurry, but at least one aspect of my life is starting to come into focus.

GABRIELA

Lunardi’s Market is the kind of grocery store that caters to customers who don’t check the prices when they’re shopping. The type of place that has entire aisles devoted to artisanal granola butter and raw, ethically sourced honey. It’s tucked away in a quaint shopping center down the street from Parisa’s house, and now that cases are at an all-time high and our hospitals have officially run out of ICU beds, a quarter of Lunardi’s employees walked off during their shifts because they were scared they were going to get sick. Normally, I’d never cross a picket line, but I also have a very justifiable fear of living in Elena’s car.

Sometimes, we have to make hard choices. So I filled out an application, charmed the manager during my interview, and after a few days on the job, I’ve learned there’s an actual method to bagging groceries. I’m also getting paid eighteen dollars an hour, and if I become a full-time employee once school is over, I’ll be eligible for health benefits.

Julia and Elena made an impassioned plea for why they didn’t want me working at a grocery store. They said that a job, even one that pays well above minimum wage, wasn’t worth risking my health—and then I argued that the only thing I was sick of was letting the virus rule my life. Not to mention we had more pressing problems to contend with. Our landlord had been calling every day, demanding rent and telling us how easy it would be to find another family to move in. We needed the money, which proves that I didn’t apply to work here just because I’m hoping that I might run into Parisa or someone from her family and ambush them with an apology.