Chapter Five

Nothing is going to stop me from meeting up with Sophie and Marisol this morning.

I lay out my clothes. I prepack my bag. I prepare breakfast in advance. And I wake up extra early to shower, which I’m actually okay with it avoids Lily waking me like a sleep-deprivation demon. We’re even out the door with enough time to swing by Starbucks to grab three PSLs and a strawberry iced tea for Lily. I walk my little sister to her homeroom, then practically sprint toward the school’s courtyard. It’s the one pretty spot at this ancient school, a grassy area with octagonal picnic tables surrounded by pink dogwood trees that turn salmon come spring. A giant elm tree in the center of the courtyard offers ample shade on the hot days.

When Marisol and Sophie show, I offer my best and most apologetic smile. “Hi!”

Sophie smiles back. “Hey!”

“Hi,” Marisol says, voice flat, as if she’s already bored with me. She’s never too shy to make it clear how she’s feeling. If it isn’t obvious enough by her tone or mannerisms, she’ll tell you, point-blank , no guesswork involved.

With the tips of my fingers, I scoot the tray of drinks toward the two of them. “Pumpkin spice latte?”

Marisol sniffs. “Somebody’s sucking up.”

I reach for one of the drinks. “I’m not ashamed to admit that. Look, I even waited to take a sip until you two showed up. That’s love.”

“That is love,” Sophie agrees, reaching for her cup and sliding into the seat next to me. She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Thanks.”

When Marisol doesn’t budge, I turn the cup around to show her a tiny sun the barista drew beside her name. “Cute, right?” It’s a reference to her nickname, Sol. When not even that impresses her, I get desperate: I pick up her drink and pretend to make it talk in a high-pitched voice. “Aww, c’mon, Sol. You know you want me!”

That makes her break, and the sound of her laughter is sweet relief. “Fine, you weirdo. I’ll take the latte.” She playfully snatches the cup away from me and sits, shaking her head. “Thank you.”

I give her a little nod. “So, how’d the rest of the afternoon go for you guys yesterday?”

“It wasn’t terrible. Most of my teachers are ones I’ve already had, so they all adore me,” Marisol dramatically flips her dyed bronze curls over her shoulder.

“Except for Mr. Greene,” Sophie says, wrinkling her nose. Marisol groans. “Ugh. Don’t even get me started on that pendejo.”

My eyes go wide. “What happened?” I ask.

“She got stuck with Mr. Greene for AP History, and apparently he used to love Natalia,” Sophie explains. “He was not shy about letting Marisol know it.”

“He kept calling me Natalia Pérez’s little sister. As if that’s all I am!”

I make a face. “What? That’s not okay at all!”

Sophie sighs. “That’s what I said. But he’s super tight with Principal Johnson, so he gets away with everything.”

“He’s probably going to make me suffer all year long because I’m nothing like the Supreme Teacher’s Pet Natalia.” Marisol rolls her eyes. “I’m obviously way better.”

“Obviously,” I say with a laugh. “But I’m sorry. What a douchebag.”

“It’s whatever.” Marisol shrugs. “This one got quite the surprise, though.”

Sophie can’t hide the soft blush that creeps across her cheeks. “It was definitely a surprise.”

“Well?” I press. “Don’t leave me hanging. Spill!”

“Loverboy Noah had the hookup and somehow managed to switch a ton of his classes so they’d be on the same exact schedule,” Marisol says. She clears her throat and makes her voice low, imitating Noah. “Babe, I just can’t fathom not being with you twent y-four seven. You’re the air that I breathe, babe. Can I carry your books, babe? Should we get matching sweaters? Babe? Babe! ”

Sophie shoves Marisol in the arm. “Oh my God, shut up! ”

“What?” Marisol asks, laughing. “That’s what he sounds like! I’m surprised he’s not texting you right now, like, Babe! Babe, I haven’t seen you in, like, hours. I need you, babe! ” A perfectly timed text sets Sophie’s phone buzzing on the table, and Marisol dives for it. “It’s him! I told you!”

The two of them erupt into more laughter, Sophie desperately trying to wriggle her phone from Marisol’s grip. I laugh, too, though there is a small pang of jealousy in my chest as I listen to their easy banter. This is what I’ve been missing out on.

Sophie holds up her phone triumphantly, unlocking it to show us the notification. “See? It wasn’t even him. It’s a notification from my French teacher clarifying a homework assignment.”

Marisol rolls her eyes. “Boring.”

“Speaking of my French teacher . . . Madame Dubois was saying there’s a music internship program Elmwood is offering this winter— and it t akes place in Paris.”

I grip her wrist excitedly. “You have to apply!” I quasi- shout. I hardly know anything about this opportunity and I’m practically salivating on Sophie’s behalf. She’s dedicated the last three years to the violin, and her French is parfait. Not to mention the girl’s obsessed with Paris.

“I’m thinking about it, but my parents would lose their minds.” Sophie sighs. “It would require me to be in France for three weeks over holiday break.”

“Three weeks is nothing,” Marisol says.

“To Má and Ba, I might as well be abandoning the family and running away from home.”

I take a sip of my PSL and consider this. “Okay, so, we’ll have to figure out a creative way to sell them on this.”

“If I even get the internship,” Sophie adds. “You really think I should apply?”

“Oh, you’re applying, and you’re getting this internship. That’s a promise,” Marisol says. “We’ll do some plotting this week.”

“I’m in,” I say with a nod. “And actually, I wanted to run something by you two.”

Marisol looks over at me. “Oh, yeah? What’s up?”

“I really want to be on the Fall Fest committee this year. Like, do the whole runn ing-for- Fall-Fest-president thing, even. And I was kind of hoping you guys would join the committee with me.”

I’m surprised when Sophie immediately exchanges a look with Marisol. “Oh, um. It’s just that Marisol and I had talked this summer about maybe auditioning for the school play . . .”

After a long moment, “Oh” is all I can think to say back.

“I mean, you weren’t around, so we couldn’t exactly discuss it with you!” Marisol argues.

“But, I mean . . . it wasn’t set in stone or anything. What does being on the committee entail?” Sophie asks. “Like, we’d have to organize everything?”

“Yes, exactly! Choose the themes and help execute the events,” I explain.

Marisol wrinkles her nose, as if she’s just smelled something sour. “It sounds like a lot of work.”

My heart sinks. How can I convince them that this will be fun?

“It’ll look really good on our college applications,” I offer. “If I’m president, I’d handle all the heavy lifting with whoever is named senior officer. Honestly, you two could just be there for moral support!”

“Do you even know the first thing about organizing a huge event like that? It’s a whole week of activities! Plus a dance.” Marisol puts a hand on either side of her temples. “I’m overwhelmed just thinking about it.”

“I understand it’s a lot, but you guys know how organized I am, and you know how determined I can be if I set my sights on something,” I say. “I can do this.”

Sophie grimaces. “I know you can do it. But do we have to?”

“I could do it alone,” I admit. “But I was hoping to share Fall Fest with both of you.”

How much, exactly, do I love Fall Fest? Let me count the ways.

Mi abuela y abuelo, Paola Acevedo and Eduardo Rivera, met at the Fall Fest in the late seventies. But it wasn’t some kind of instant fairy-tale romance. Abuela rejected him at first.

They were the only two Puerto Rican students at Elmwood (though that’s thankfully changed!), and their friends insisted they had to get together— because a shared ethnicity destines two people to fall in love, right?

Abuela was insulted that everyone was trying to set up the only two brown kids. She admits that she stubbornly wouldn’t speak to Abuelo for most of the night, despite their friends conveniently pushing them together at every turn. But it became hard to ignore him, Abuela says, because Abuelo was funny and charismatic and unbelievably cute with his black curly hair, deep voice, and sharp jawline.

Despite not exchanging much in the way of words, Abuela kept sneaking glances at Abuelo, and Abuelo wouldn’t stop trying to charm her—with jokes and bravado and dance moves and a laugh that sounded like music. He was determined to make her smile, and the moment he did, catching sight of her dimples, he fell to his knees and pretended his heart was thumping right out of his chest. Abuelo was smitten.

He used to say it was as if a golden light had shone down on his Paola and his heart decided it had seen enough— she was everything.

They danced with fervor, with joy, with connection, the way only two people who long to be seen and understood can. They talked about their families; their traditions; our culture; the music and foods that felt like home . . . and somewhere between the fake leaves and scratchy haystacks they fell in love. Everything about that night felt like theirs and theirs alone.

It’s a story they always shared fondly, and one I cherish.

But Fall Fest was only the beginning. They bought their house in the autumn; they got engaged in the autumn; and it was in autumn when their Julia, mi mami, was born.

We don’t talk about her, though.

Sometimes I wish the story of her absence in my life was slightly more interesting than “She just left right after Lily was born.” Couldn’t she have been abducted by El Cuco or something?

First she had me. When my biological father (the sperm donor, as I call him) found out he and Mami’s casual fling had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy, he booked it to Puerto Rico, leaving Mami to nurse a broken heart. But she didn’t give up on love, and found another man, Lily’s father, Andrés, shortly thereafter.

He didn’t want kids, either, though: not any of his own and definitely not a talkative three-year- old that he’d inherit as part of the relationship. So after Mami, a hopeless romantic, gave birth to