How am I supposed to get any rest during a pandemic that’s made it nearly impossible for my moms to stay on top of our bills? The only thing worse than crashing on a pullout couch in the living room would be sleeping in the back seat of our used Honda Accord, but that could be where we’re headed. My parents are so stressed out, they didn’t even have it in them to celebrate Thanksgiving this year, and ordered takeout from Katie’s Diner instead. I’m glad we’re supporting them, but, honestly, the taste of their food takes me back to simpler times, and thinking back on prepandemic days just makes me feel more depressed and lost.

Last year, my moms and I were invited to Parisa’s house for Thanksgiving. I remember piling my plate high with a green bean casserole that was made with a cream of mushroom soup that didn’t come out of a can, and sweet potatoes that had been soaked overnight in bourbon, butter, and brown sugar—courtesy of a chef they’d hired for the occasion. Julia and Elena didn’t even stick around for dessert, but they were happy to let me stay the night. Parisa and I helped ourselves to two slices of the pecan pie I brought over, courtesy of Julia’s top-notch baking skills, then escaped to the screening room to watch that old movie Beaches. After it was over, we argued over which one of us was CC and which one of us was Hillary. Parisa was adamant that I had Hillary’s looks but CC’s personality: Basically, you’re the perfect combination. Eventually, I relented, and we let the tryptophan lull us to sleep. I didn’t know how easy we had it back then.

I take out my phone and send a text to Wes. I guess Parisa isn’t the bridge anymore. The only thing that got us through that week of detention was secretly texting each other.

Any chance you’re awake? I write, then hit SEND. Three dots immediately appear on my screen.

Can’t sleep either? he writes back.

Nope. Watching more bad TV on Netflix. What are you doing?

Writing music. He adds three guitar emojis.

Ugh. Why do you and Parisa have to be so productive all the time?

I can’t help it. I’ve been feeling inspired these days. And then he sends a heart emoji.

I’m glad Wes can’t see me right now because I don’t want him to know that I’m grinning. Platonic friendship aside, how can I not be flattered when I think he’s implying that he’s writing music about me? I’m only human.

“Chiquita, what are you still doing up?”