“God, Juniper. You’re so selfish.” The line beeps, the call disconnecting.
She hung up on me.
Selfish? It’s not like I’ve never heard it before from my family. Studying instead of working in the restaurant, hanging out with friends instead of distant family in town, considering colleges out of state. I’m the most selfish Ramírez there is.
Still, it stings. I remember other requests, other drop-everythings, other obligatory kindnesses. Searching countless cardboard boxes in the garage to find old photos for Tía. Planning Marisa’s thirteenth birthday party. Driving her home with Steve instead of doing homework or having Froyo with Matt or whatever I wanted that afternoon. I don’t remember my family calling me selfish then.
But I don’t remember them thanking me either. I’d reached up to what I imagined was generosity, only to find I’d done nothing but reached the normal, unremarkable, expected standard for family contribution. Every time, I would hide my pride and my futile frustration, my fear that the love I thought would be unconditional was becoming . . . kind of conditional.
By now it’s turned into a truth not worth fighting, like things that hurt tend to do. As long as I am doing one thing for myself, I won’t be the daughter or sister my family wants. Eventually, I learned not to think about it, to keep my eyes on the road ahead.
I’d like to ignore my sister right now, but I can’t. Even if I can’t drive her, I need to make sure she gets home safely. If she weren’t a drunk teenage girl on her own, I’d call her a Lyft, but I don’t want her in some stranger’s car.
Without hesitating, I call my home phone. I know the ringing will wake up the whole house, and I don’t care. When I explain, neither will they.
My mom picks up, her voice hushed but hyper-focused, the way mine was when I took Marisa’s call. “Juniper?” There’s rustling over the line. She’s sitting up in bed. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Marisa,” I explain urgently. “She snuck out. She went to a party and she needs a ride home.”
I hear my dad in the background. He wants to know what’s going on. My mom’s voice becomes distant while she explains, then returns to normal volume. “Has Marisa been drinking?” She sounds casual, like she’s trying to lull the truth from me by pretending the question is inconsequential.
It’s a thoughtful effort, though it doesn’t fool for me for an instant. I breathe in, preparing myself. “Yes, but—”
Mom interrupts me. “Gabriel, call Marisa right now,” she instructs Dad. “Keep her on the phone until I get there.” Her voice comes closer, addressing me again. “Where is she?”
“Steve’s house,” I say, quietly thankful Mom knows what to do. I knew she would.
“Who the hell is Steve?”
I don’t bother to recount the one project Marisa did with Steve over a year ago. Remembering the hedges in front of Steve’s house, the sequence of turns I took from the school, the trampoline in the yard on the corner, I fumble to pull the memories together into understandable directions. “It’s—on Pelham, off Peer. The white house with red trim.”
I hear doors opening and Mom’s footsteps moving from the carpet in their bedroom to the tile of the living room, her keys jingling in her hand. “If she calls you again—” Mom starts to say.
“I’ll tell her to wait for you there,” I finish.
I hear Tía’s voice over the phone, fuzzy and faint. “What’s going on?” She’s talking to my mom. “Where are you going?”
Hearing Tía, I remember I haven’t talked to her in days. The realization hits me with, not quite homesickness, but one of homesickness’s cousins. The consciousness of finding myself far from familiar things, from the routines and routine details of my life up until now. While I’ve talked to my parents on the phone every day, I haven’t eaten breakfast with my brothers, haven’t bumped my head on the cabinet in the bathroom, haven’t picked Malfoy’s hair from my clothes. I haven’t spoken to Tía except for one text—haven’t heard her voice.