Before lockdown, on the days that Parisa didn’t have band practice, Climate Club, yearbook, or whatever overachiever activity she’d signed up for, we’d get in her car after the final bell rang and drive around aimlessly till we had to be home for dinner. Usually, we’d just circle the suburban neighborhoods of San Jose, roads lined with craftsmen houses and old elm trees, and gossip about our day at school. I’d usually complain about someone from school, Parisa would usually try to put a positive spin on it, and I’d usually counter all her arguments. During these debates, we’d venture out of the perimeters of our school district and drive through an endless string of intersections that all looked the same until we arrived at a particular cul-de-sac in East Palo Alto.

“Are you sure you don’t want to knock?” Parisa would always ask me, as her engine idled across the street from my grandparents’ house.

“I’m sure,” I’d reply.

It only took me a few Google searches to figure out my abuelos’ address—the same home that Julia grew up in. I never confessed to my moms that I’d tracked down one side of my family and that from what Parisa and I had gathered on our stakeouts, a bunch of tech guys were now living in Elena’s old house next door. My gut told me that Julia and Elena would not be pleased that I was revisiting a piece of their history they preferred to forget. But the trips felt innocent enough, and they were my family, too. How could I not be curious about them?

I’ve been to more than a few raucous Naficy family parties at Parisa’s house, and I can tell you that despite the joy and laughter and constant dancing, those evenings always left me feeling empty. And I hated the feeling of returning to my tiny, quiet home in the aftermath. Where were my aunts and uncles and cousins? Where were my grandparents? Where was my joy? I don’t have an answer, but I guess I’m still searching for one. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked Wes to drive me here today.

“We would just kind of sit in Parisa’s car and watch the house,” I tell Wes. “Do you think that makes me a stalker?”

“Nope. Not at all. I’m actually kind of bummed you guys never told me you did this. It’s very Nancy Drew.”

“I prefer Harriet the Spy.”

“Gabriela the Spy,” he jokes.