Luckily, due to the pandemic, most schools are extending their deadlines for college applications. I have a couple of weeks to get this essay right before I seal my fate and click the SUBMIT button. I’ll get it done because I always do, but I’d be lying if I said the pressure hadn’t elevated my anxiety to Mount Everest–level peaks. An analogy that makes me more anxious because it makes me think of all the people who’ve died trying to reach the summit. The nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach has turned into my default emotion. I can’t pin down whether it’s the actual essay that’s tripled my angst or the fact that nothing in my life is certain anymore. On top of it all, I feel like I’m the most selfish human being in the world. How can I be licking my wounds about college applications when doctors have to FaceTime people to tell them their family members have passed away? How can I worry about the state of prom and high school graduation when refrigerated trucks in hospital parking lots are storing the dead? I should be grateful that my college essay is my biggest problem right now. I will digest Gideon’s notes and start anew tomorrow. Until then, I stumble out onto my balcony, grab the wooden spoon and saucepan I keep out there, and prepare to bang the shit out of them. It’s a tiny gesture to recognize our first responders and essential workers, but it’s also a much-needed emotional release.

Before I can join the clanking drumbeat—much less robust than it was just weeks ago—already reverberating throughout our neighborhood, I’m startled by the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside Lizzy Pearson’s house. I freeze for a moment when I recognize that it’s the Jeep Grand Cherokee that belongs to Andrew and that he’s not alone. He gets out on the driver’s side, and a few other guys follow from the other doors. What are they all doing together? Why are they getting out of Andrew’s car? Why are they all walking into Lizzy Pearson’s house like we’re not all supposed to be confined to our own homes? Lizzy’s front door flies open, and I watch as Andrew picks her up in his arms, pulls down his mask, and gives her a kiss. From inside the house, I hear more people giggling and talking and singing along to Dua Lipa.

Holy fucking shit, I think. Is Lizzy Pearson having a party?

I guess I was wrong. I’m not the most selfish person in the world.

Parisa

You awake?

Gabriela

Barely. What’s up?

Parisa

It’s not good news.

Gabriela

WTF. PLEASE TELL ME.

Parisa