Parisa’s overly cautious about everything (the girl won’t even lie and tell the Waze app she’s the passenger and not the driver), and I was born without an appetite for rebellion. There’s a certain amount of privilege and entitlement that’s required of people who do the opposite of what’s expected of them. Think about it. Is it really a rebellious streak if you know you’ll make a soft landing? That no matter the consequences, you’ll end up just fine? The lucky ones reject conventionality for shits and giggles; the unlucky ones reject it because life hasn’t afforded them any other options. There are rebels, and then there are survivalists. Lately, I’m not sure which category I belong in. I can’t tell if I’m rebelling or surviving. I don’t know if I will have a soft landing or if my bones will break on impact. I’m starting to worry that the stakes of this pandemic have erased all my rational thought.

“This feels kind of wrong,” I say.

“Really? I feel like it’s the opposite of wrong,” Wes says.

It’s the fourth day in a row that Wes has shown up at my house after school. I haven’t told Parisa about our secret rendezvous because she seemed annoyed about our little meetup in the park and I’m worried she’ll judge me or feel left out. It’s not like I’m doing anything as messed up as Lizzy Pearson’s throwing a party. I never let Wes inside, and he never asks to come in. Instead, he sits at the bottom of the flight of stairs that lead to our front door while I sit at the top.

My moms usually don’t get home from selling food till dinnertime, so that gives us at least a two-hour window to complain about our lives, the pandemic, school, our potentially bleak futures. We have to talk louder than normal with masks covering our mouths, so I try not to be self-conscious about the fact that Raj can probably hear everything we’re saying from his apartment. I’m grateful that he hasn’t complained to my parents about our conversations. Grateful. There’s that word again. But seriously, the guy is the best neighbor since Daniel Tiger.

“Do you want me to stop coming by? Because I can if it makes you uncomfortable,” Wes says.

I smile behind my already weathered surgical mask. From the day he started hanging out with us, Wes has always wanted to do what’s best for me. I’m beginning to realize I took his generosity for granted.

“No, I think I’d miss this too much if you stopped coming,” I admit.