“Jessie isn’t a good friend,” I tell her calmly, or as calmly as I can. “I’m sorry she said that.” Jessie and Marisa have been friends since third grade, but really frenemies. Jessie throws birthday parties without inviting Marisa. Marisa routinely ditches Jessie to have lunch with other friends. Their social-media relationship is fraught with “accidental” unfollows and passive-aggressive comments.

“So you’ll pick me up?” She’s heartbreakingly hopeful. “I can’t ride home with Jessie. Everyone else here is drunk.”

I restrain my frustration. She’s not listening to me. “I can’t,” I repeat, slower this time. “I’m in Connecticut. You have to call Mom.”

“I can’t call Mom!” Her voice explodes into my ear. Her sobs have stopped, and I can practically hear her fuming over the line. To be fair, I wouldn’t want to call Mom if I were in Marisa’s position. It’s not even that Mom will be that mad. Dad, yes. But Mom’s anger is a firework. A bright bang, then smoke drifting to the clouds. She has too much to do to stay angry.

The problem with calling Mom is she’ll tell Tía and Tía will tell the whole family. Second cousins in different states will hear a Ramírez daughter snuck out and got drunk at a party. Great-uncles will offer lectures and advice next time they’re in town. Family gossip is an epidemic with the only cure the next scandal.

“I need you,” Marisa pleads.

“Marisa, you’re not understanding. I can’t—”

She cuts me off. “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.

“I have to pick up Marisa,” I hear Mom tell Tía. “From a party.”

There’s rustling over the phone. Tía’s voice comes through closer and harder. “How could this happen? Marisa going to a party at two in the morning?” Mom’s evidently handed the phone over to Tía, who’s now questioning me.

I grope for words. Tía is ruthless in an interrogation, and I don’t understand why I’m the subject. Nor do I have the emotional energy to muster either patience or resistance. I’m exhausted. “I don’t know, Tía,” I say honestly. “I wasn’t there.”

“Exactly,” Tía replies. I understand a moment late I’ve given her what she wanted. “Do you think this would’ve happened if you’d been home, Juni? Do you think your sister could’ve snuck out if you were here?” They’re questions, but really they’re points driven in with practiced precision.

Defensiveness gets the better of me. “You’re being ridiculous,” I reply sharply. It’s true, though. Had I been home, Marisa wouldn’t have been able to sneak out. Everyone knows I’m a light sleeper. But that’s not the point. “You can’t make this my fault. Marisa chose to sneak out. Marisa chose to get drunk. She’s the one you should be lecturing.”