Chapter Twelve

It’s a nearly perfect fall day when I wake: clear blue skies with the gentlest breeze in the air, a hint of the cooler weather that’s to come. I throw open my bedroom window to soak it all in. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

After a shower, I put on some minimal makeup and layer a fitted white turtleneck to go under a vintage nav y-blue crewneck sweater that reads CAPE COD over some black leggings and chunky sneakers.

“How cute do I look, Patch?” I ask. He doesn’t look up from the sunbeam where he’s napping, but I know he loves the outfit.

It’s early, and I don’t have my interview at Nature’s Grocer for a bit, so I decide to take full advantage of the autumn vibes and make use of the leftover pumpkin puree from our empanadas. On my phone, I pull up a recipe for pumpkin muffins and make quick work of mixing ingredients, then pop the first tray into the oven. I settle at the table to work on some homework while they bake.

It isn’t long before the air is filled with the sweet aroma of cinnamon, summoning Abuela into the kitchen. She’s wearing a hot-pin k velour tracksuit, her pajamas of choice, and it’s a total vibe.

“Buenas dias, mija,” she says, leaning in to give me a kiss on the forehead. “My mouth is watering! What’re you making?”

“Pumpkin muffins! I figured I might as well, since I was up so early.”

She rubs her hands together. “¿Cafecito?”

“Please!” I tuck my completed worksheet into my folder and sit back in my chair. “How was Titi Mariana’s? Were the twins there?”

Abuela slaps her forehead. “Dios mío.”

“So, delightful as always, then?” I tease. Titi Mariana’s and Tío Johanny’s youngest daughter, Ava, lives there with her husband, Juan, and their adorable but hyper five -yea r- old twins, who make every visit to their house . . . spirited? Or a straight-up challenge, depending on the mood you catch them in.

“One day, I’m going to go there and find Mari tied to a cha ir— just you wait!” Abuela shakes her head, laughing. “They are so cute, though.”

“They really are.”

The timer on the oven beeps. I grab an oven mitt to pull out the initial batch of muffins and place them on top of the oven. Abuela doesn’t bother waiting for them to cool and starts to pop them out of the tin with her bare hands.

“Abuela! Doesn’t that burn?” I ask, horrified. She always does this! I swear her fingers are made of Kevlar.

She waves away my concern, easing the final muffin onto a cooling rack. “Ah, it’s okay.”

“What smells so good?” Lily’s voice calls down the hall.

“Whitney made muffins! Come, sit,” Abuela says, pulling out plates and taking over breakfast prep, the way she tends to do anytime we’re in the kitchen. “Are you two coming to the shop today?”

“Can’t,” Lily says with a mouth full of food. “Going to Ruby’s house.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re hanging out with Ruby a lot, huh?” She shrugs, taking another bite. “And sorry, Abuela. I have that job interview this morning and then Marisol and Sophie are taking me to the pumpkin patch.”

“Don’t be sorry! That sounds fun,” Abuela says. “Except for the part about the job interview. I hope you know I don’t expect you to work. Just focus on your studies and your Now it’s my turn to wave away her concern. “I’ll be fine.” Because Abuela is ecause I don’t get my stubbornness from now t to say that we could really use the extra money. I peek at my phone. “And I should get going so I’m not late. I’ll swing by the shop to help you close up, okay?”

Abuela nods. “Okay, mija. Good luck!”

Maybe there was something special about Abuela wishing me luck because I get hired on the spot. But it’s more likely that wages for service jobs are so trash that Nature’s Grocer was super desperate for bodies. Either way, I’ll take the win.

I tell Marisol and Sophie about the success as we pile into Marisol’s black Escalade. I admit that every time I slip into Sol’s gigantic car a gif t from her wealthy stepfather, Robert, who is adorably sweet and dorky— I feel like a celebrity.

Sophie picks the music, and then we’re off to the Knoll, an “Instagram-friendly” pumpkin patch. We went for the first time last year and, to our surprise, absolutely loved it. Of course you can pick pumpkins, which is the most important thing, but the Knoll also has a farmhouse that’s been converted into an indoor haven for photos and selfies. Every inch feels photo-wor thy, including a space that offers different backdrops, like a wall made of tiny white gourds and a neon- ora nge sign over some greenery that reads HI, PUMPKIN! When I tell you we spent literal hours here last year, I am not exaggerating.

“Okay, so, photos first this year, right?” Sophie asks.

Marisol nods vigorously. “Oh, yes. There is no way in hell I’m lugging my pumpkin around first and getting all sweaty again. I look cute. I need photographic evidence of it.”

“Hard same. Let’s take our time with the photos, and then we can grab some of the cider and get on the hayride,” I say from the backseat.

Sophie turns in her seat to look at me. “Ooh, we should totally get some kettle corn, too!”

I grin. “It’s like you’re reading my mind.”

I have to admit that it means a lot to have my friends dedicate their Saturday afternoon to something I love. I know they’ll enjoy themselves, too, but after worrying we might have a hard time reconnecting after this past summer, this is a nice reassurance.

Still, there are times when I find myself feeling so, so guilty over not filling them in on my diagnosis. Though I’m not so ashamed of it anymore, it’s almost like the longer I go without talking about it, the harder it is to start talking about it. I don’t know.

We pull into the lot at the Knoll and climb out of the car.

“Shall we?” Sophie asks, holding out an arm to me and Marisol.

We link arms and head right into the farmhouse. It’s not too busy yet, so we can take our time grabbing individual, group, and artistic shots. Sophie literally squeals when she sees a corgi dressed like a scarecrow having its photo taken while she’s perched on a bale of hay. (Obviously we beg the owner to get our photo taken with the corgi, too. Her name is Pickles.)

Some cider and popcorn later, we hop in line for the hayride. While we wait, my gaze falls to a hickory tree with leaves already turning golden. “God, the leaves already look so pretty,” I breathe.

“One time, when I was younger, my mami took Natalia and me on a scavenger hunt for different shades of leaves so we could make a rainbow. Of course, Natalia kept saying the leaves I was picking were ugly, but I was only three! She complained so much that Mami had us each make our own,” Marisol says with a huff. “But that yellow leaf would’ve been perfect for it.”

“It’s not too late to grab it and send a pic to Natalia. Show her how good your leaf selection skills have gotten,” Sophie teases.

Marisol laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”

The tractorrumbles toward us pulling a wagon full of people, each with their selection of pumpkin. A group of four girls, likely middle school age, are the last to hobble off the wagon. As they near, I can see the reason for it: heels.

I nudge Sophie and Marisol and pucker my lips in exaggerated sympathy.

When they’re out of earshot, Marisol lets out a laugh. “God, that takes me back.”

“Right? I’ll never forget when we made the same mistake.” I laugh, too, shaking my head.

Back in the tenth grade, the three of us got all dressed up to go on a haunted hayride at nearby McNally’s Farm. So many of our classmates were going and we wanted to look cute, so we went all out with our outfits, including wearing heels— on a fa rm, in the middle of a rainy autumn. It was not our finest moment. Every few steps, we’d sink right into the ground and have to help one another walk. We thought the heels would make us look sexy and sophisticated. We were wrong.

“We all have to learn that lesson eventually,” Sophie jokes. “I pray for their poor ankles.”

“At least they look super cute. You know they got some good selfies back at the barn.” I nod toward the wagon. “You ready?”

Marisol climbs aboard the wagon first, grabbing us seats on a hay bale toward the back of the ride. Sophie and I flank her.

“Tenth grade feels so long ago, doesn’t it?” Marisol muses. “I was still chasing boys then. Gross.”

“That’s right! You had a huge crush on Erik Jimenez!” Sophie laughs.

Marisol makes a face. “Don’t remind me!”

“Isn’t he kind of a pyromaniac now?” Sophie asks.

“You really know how to pick ’em, Sol,” I tease. “Hey, maybe we break out the heels at McNally’s next weekend for old times’ sake.”

“I kind of think we should!” Sophie says suddenly.

“Speak for yourself,” Marisol jokes, but Sophie’s eyebrows are knit together in concern.

“Seriously, though! We’ll never go to McNally’s and foolishly wear heels again.” She frowns. “And this could be the last time we pick pumpkins together.”

I gasp. “Don’t say that!”

“But it’s true,” she insists. “After we graduate, who knows what’ll happen? I mean, Marisol is going off to become an incredible lawyer. I’ll be studying music. Whit will be off making people’s lives better. What if we drift?”

“No matter where we end up, we’ll still be friends,” Marisol says firmly. “You putas will never get rid of me.”

Sophie lets out a big sigh. “I’m just starting to get sad thinking about things I’m enjoying that might become our last without us knowing. It doesn’t seem fair.”

Hearing her say that makes my heart ache, especially as I think back to the summer. Were there things I missed during that time that I might never do again?

“It isn’t fair,” I say. “I think all we can do is soak everything in now and make the most of it.”

Sophie nods. “Consider me a sponge.”