For once, I’ve made it out here before Neda. I’d never admit it to my sister, but our daily swims together have served as a much-needed reprieve from my anxiety. Especially now that I’m getting stronger and can make it all the way across the pool without treading water to catch my breath. My form is improving, and the repetitive motion of each stroke feels like a meditation practice. And I repeat my mantra with every kick: I will get into Harvard. I will get into Harvard. I will get into Harvard. I don’t count how many laps I swim. I just keep gliding through the water until the sun hovers over the pool, and then I let myself float on my back and bask in its warmth. It’s sort of like my version of Savasana.

I look up at the sky, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot a frazzled Neda approaching the pool. She not-so-gracefully dives in and swims toward me. My normally calm older sister has been in an emotional tailspin recently, and she let it slip the other day that Gideon’s been “very unavailable.” I hope it’s not because I’ve been taking up his free time with my college essay. I don’t want them to break up. I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to stay friends with him if he’s no longer dating my sister.

From under the water, Neda tugs at my legs, and before I can react, she presses her hands on the top of my head and dunks me in the pool. I go limp to scare her, then break through the surface and splash her in the face. Normally, she would slap me or pull my hair, but instead she laughs and gracefully floats on her back. This is the way we are around each other now. Gabriela always makes fun of me for looking for silver linings, but the bond I’ve formed with my sister is the best thing to come out of quarantine. Even if I sometimes question her motives. Is she just being my friend because she’s scared that if I die of the virus, she’ll have to live with the guilt that she was terrible to me our whole lives? I try to push those thoughts out of my head as soon as they arrive. If Gideon were here, he’d say those doubts were just “my writer brain talking.” I don’t know how to stop inventing stories in my head. Sometimes they pop up with no warning.

“Can I make a confession?” I ask Neda. I am sometimes wary of talking to her about my problems because she gets such a thrill out of playing devil’s advocate.

“What’s up?”