The five of them ate their food, which still wasn’t that good. They talked about relatively normal things: Video games. Music. The odd smell in the gymnasium that Mr. Holiday never seemed to notice. Taylor even told Héctor about how he had decided that Twinkies would be the currency of the future. “You know, since they last forever,” he said.

It was strangely brilliant, and Héctor told him so.

“So, this weekend,” said Aishah. “Thrifting?”

“It’ll be fun!” said Jackson.

“And my dad can still drive us,” said Taylor. He paused for a moment and looked at Carlos. “He’s got a big truck, so all of us could go.”

Carlos visibly gulped. “We could also get helados out by Lake Natoma.”

“What are helados?” asked Aishah.

Héctor’s eyes went wide. “Oh, you’re in for a treat!” he exclaimed. “They’re like these ice cream bars—”

“—and they’re like super creamy and good?” finished Carlos.

“They’re life-changing,” said Héctor.

“One hundred percent,” said Carlos.

“I’m down,” said Jackson. “It is unfortunately still eight billion degrees out.”

“I’ll ask my parents,” said Héctor. “But . . . yeah, I’d love to.”

Aishah punched the air. “Perfect.”

When the bell signifying the end of lunch rang, Héctor felt calm. At peace. And he didn’t know what the future was going to look like, but he knew then that he could imagine a future with these people by his side.

That felt like a victory to Héctor Muñoz.

Epilogue

Miles and miles away.

Another country.

Another state.

Another city.

Another school.

Hafsah adjusts her niqab while staring into the mirror in the bathroom. The door is locked, and someone is pounding on it, telling her to hurry up. A voice in her head says to take it off. It says to keep it on. It says that she will never escape their judgmental eyes. It says terrible things.

It overwhelms her and she starts to cry. She just wants to be herself, but the people in her rural school do not understand her. They call her names. They ask her demeaning questions. She just wants to escape some days. To disappear and feel safe.

But she can’t have that, can she?

She takes a deep breath and turns to the exit, but her breath catches in her throat.

There’s another door. It is ornate, made of some sort of dark wood, etched with a ridiculous pattern. Leaves, vines, and blooming flowers. Like the garden Hafsah wishes she had, where she could grow orchids and tomatoes and poppies and everything colorful and alive.

She drifts over to it, puts her hand on the wood.

Is it calling to her?

She pushes.