I know what she’s implying, but dating Wes Bowen is far too risky an endeavor. Sure, in the right light, he’s unconventionally hot. And he’s got this quiet way about him that makes me want to break his brain open and read all his thoughts, but Wes and I are just friends. Good friends. Who wants to screw that up by making him my boyfriend? Plus, if we did start dating, it would break Parisa’s heart, and I guess I’d rather break Wes’s heart instead.

Parisa takes out a giant Tupperware from her backpack and pulls off the lid. Inside, there are broken pieces of tahdig, my all-time-favorite Persian food. I’ve tried to re-create it at home, but I never get it right. The lavash either sticks to the pan or burns completely. And I know my way around a kitchen. I can make pork gyoza in my sleep. Parisa hands me the largest piece of tahdig, and I take a bite. It’s perfect. Wes, ever the gentleman, takes a burnt piece for himself.

“I just don’t understand what Andrew even sees in her.…” I trail off, staring across the quad at Lizzy sitting on Andrew’s lap. He says something in her ear, and she tilts her head back and lets out an enthusiastic laugh. He beams, and I remember the time we all piled into Wes’s car and drove to Capitola together for the day. We were so content, basking in the California sun on the beach, talking about where we would all be ten years from now. Friends forever, Andrew had declared.

“I don’t know what he sees in her either,” Parisa agrees.

“I could come up with a few things,” Wes admits. “And none of them have to do with her sunny personality.”

He’s being sarcastic, but we get his point. We all know what Andrew sees in Lizzy Pearson. She’s beautiful. And outgoing. And exudes sexuality. She’s never worn a bad outfit. She’s never had a hair out of place. She’s never even had a blemish. I bet she’s never even woken up with pillow creases on her face. On the inside, she’s a dumpster fire of a human. One day, when we’re adults, she’ll have to answer for her personality, but I don’t expect it to happen when we’re seniors at Winchester.

Lizzy and Parisa live across the street from each other, but Lizzy has barely acknowledged her for the last three years of high school. We are simply not cool enough to exist.

“I hate this place,” I announce. “I can’t wait to get out of here and never come back.”

“You are preaching to the choir,” Wes replies, looking directly at me. “But, like, I’ll really miss you guys once we get out of here.”