I roll my eyes, hoping neither of them notices.

“You know Matt’s responsible, Sofi. Gabriel and I trust him. And we trust Juniper,” Mom replies, giving me a small smile, but I hear the don’t prove me wrong behind her confidence. I return the smile reassuringly. “Besides, we’ve worked it out with Matt’s parents to give them money for separate hotel rooms.”

Even though she’s emphasized this every chance she gets, I hold my tongue and keep from rolling my eyes this time.

“It’s not about the hotel rooms,” Tía protests. “She’s too young to spend so much time with a boyfriend. You know what happened when Luisa took up with what’s-his-name.”

His name was Chris. And by “took up with,” Tía’s referring to how Luisa ditched her high school graduation so she could road trip to California with her boyfriend, which, for the record, I thought was badass. But of course, in my family, I’m bound and restricted by whatever has happened to everyone who shares my last name.

“This is our call, Sofi,” my mom replies firmly. “We’re her parents.”

Tía frowns. “Well, this trip could wait until you, her parents, could go with her. Instead of some boy—”

“Some boy?” I interrupt. “You know his name is Matt. Remember, Matt, who helped you rearrange the furniture in your bedroom and drove you to urgent care when you caught pinkeye from Anabel?”

“I did not,” Tía says, “catch pinkeye.”

Mom cuts me off before I can correct Tía in irrefutable detail. “We postponed this trip once,” she reminds Tía, which is true. Matt and I were going to go during Thanksgiving break until Tía convinced my parents not to let me skip school. “Juniper and Matt will be fine.”

Before Tía responds, there’s a heavy bang down the hall, followed by exuberant shouting. My mom briefly closes her eyes, and I wonder where she goes. Probably a tranquil valley between mountains, or a beautiful waterfall in the heart of a canyon. She opens her eyes again and gives me an apologetic look before darting from the room to stop Xan and Walker from causing any further damage.

Tía eyes me, no doubt eager to continue the argument. It’s not the first time she and my parents have clashed in a small-scale parenting power struggle. Tía’s opinions and preferences carry weight in this household because she helps my parents, who both work full-time, handle their six children. When conflicts sprout, watered by guilt trips and stubbornness, and branch into towering trees of resentment, my parents are often too busy to chop them down, and their shadows cast darkly over everything.

“I have to go,” I tell Tía. “I’m not missing school this time.” It’s only possible because my school purposefully gives three weeks of winter break to allow seniors time to finish college applications. “This is my only chance before college applications are due on New Year’s.”

“I don’t understand why applications require spending nights unsupervised with your boyfriend,” Tía replies with frustrating patience.

I should go scour every corner of the house and under the floorboards for my college binder. Yet there’s a part of me that wants to win Tía’s approval, even her support. She’s the grandmother I have, whether or not she’s my actual grandmother, and honestly, we don’t have much in common outside of family. Tía speaks Spanish with friends and relatives. I don’t. Tía goes to church every weekend. I only go for Christmas and Easter. Tía worries about every member of the family every minute of every day. I really, really don’t.

Despite our differences, I want her to understand me. To want what I want, to respect what I choose. It’s that part of me that pulls me to reply.

“When I’m in college next year, I could be spending all my time with boys and you wouldn’t even know,” I say.

She fixes me with a faraway look. When she speaks, her voice is hard and gentle, like sculpted stone. “Next year is next year,” she says.

I eye her uncertainly, my brows furrowing. Tía’s never been one for riddles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Next year you’ll be eighteen.”

“I’m practically eighteen now.”

“Seventeen is not eighteen, Juniper,” she pronounces, like this mathematical declaration carries infinite weight. “When you’re eighteen, you get to make these choices for yourself.”

I feel the color rise in my cheeks. “I’m old enough to make choices now.” We watch each other confrontationally for a long moment.

Finally, she speaks, her voice settling decisively. “Separate hotel rooms . . . and you’ll take the tamales.”

I scoff, because that’s the best I’m ever going to get with Tía. “I won’t take the tamales!” I call over my shoulder as I leave the living room and head for the stairs.

“Juniper Ramírez,” I hear behind me, “you’re not getting out of this one.”

   Juniper

UPSTAIRS, I ESCAPE into my bedroom, the only place where I have an ounce of privacy, despite sharing the room with my sixteen-year-old sister. Marisa is nowhere to be found, probably with her friends or the boyfriend she’s doing a terrible job hiding from the family.

I hunt for the binder in desk drawers of student government flyers and physics homework, though I know I won’t find it. I would have remembered leaving it in my desk. I don’t even venture over to Marisa’s half of the room, which is explosively untidy. She could be hiding the bodies of her enemies or a pet Komodo dragon under her laundry piles, and I would have no idea. I do know she didn’t take my college binder. She’s the only other person in this house eager for me to go to college. She showed me a Pinterest board of her plans for my half of the room. It was . . . overwhelmingly pink.

Right now my side is not pink. It’s cluttered but organized, with certificates and photos and watercolors tacked to the bulletin board next to my towering bookcases. I could draw every detail from memory. The collection of Nancy Drew books on my bookshelf, the photos of my friend Carolyn and me ice-skating in sixth grade, the Keira Knightley Pride & Prejudice poster over the bed—each a thread tying me to a time and place. The bedroom was my dad’s when he was my age, and he’s pointed out to me and Marisa the hole where he nailed his high school baseball medal to the wall.

I love home, I do. I love my bedroom and my family. It’s just, there’s a point where the changelessness of everything becomes enveloping instead of encouraging. There’s a claustrophobia in comfort. The threads become a web, confining the person I want to be to the person I was.