In the morning, after she's cried a year's worth of tears in the span of about ten or so hours, her mom hits her with more bad news.

"We're being fumigated."

November, having forgotten to add water to her hot chocolate, chugs hot chocolate powder and starts coughing.

"What? Us? Now?" The questions pour out when she's done coughing.

"Tonight."

"When were you going to tell me this?"

"Tonight," her father supplies, playing with the TV remote, his eyes remaining downcast. "Hey, you don't have to sit on the floor."

She slowly turns from her mother—sprawled out on the couch—to her father, trying his best to relax in his chair. Either this is recent news to him as well, or he's getting uncomfortable with the fact that there may be creatures of unknown size in their very home. She raises an eyebrow in a 'what other choice do I have?' motion before finding a pillow to sit on.

"Okay, and where are we going? Why haven't we left earlier?" She has so many questions, but for now, she's super itchy.

"Up until last night"—her mother speaks with a clipped tone—"we were hoping to stay at the Reynolds-Somber's house. That doesn't seem to be happening anymore."

"I'm sorry," November mumbles into the pillow below her.

"You're lucky Cameron is incredibly forgiving."

"I know."

She scratches an itch on her shoulder with one (almost impossibly) perfectly painted teal nail. "Maybe she'll forgive you."

"Why did you let me go out last night?" She blurts. "I thought I was grounded."

Her mother seems surprised at the question. "Did I not tell you you're not grounded anymore?"

I was hoping for an answer to the first question. That's why I asked it first.

"Nope."

"Well, you're not grounded. And you were having a bad day; I wanted to help you. It's your birthday. You're seventeen."

Don't.

"Look, we have some friends we can stay with if Cameron's house doesn't work out, but they're not exactly...welcoming to kids. Do you have any other friends you could stay with?"

"I don't..." She has four options, but their home lives vary wildly. "I'll see."

Option 1: Ainsley Nicks

"That depends, and my mom wants to know how long the fumigation will take."

November can picture Ainsley clearly: she's in her bubblegum pink t-shirt ($2.25 at a yard sale at the library, circa 2018) with her dark grey Roots sweatshirt (formerly November's, who got it from Jessie, who found it at a thrift store), and ripped jeans (pair #7.) She's pacing, and likely balancing Cosmo on her shoulder.

"Yeah," November—who isn't exactly listening—replies.

Cosmo cries, and she suspects he got his long, fluffy tail stuck in one thing or another.

"Oh, you poor kitty," Ainsley coos. November hears a harrumph come from him. "Yeah, Nove, you didn't answer me."

"What?"

"My mom wants—"

"My parents don't know how long it's going to take," November interrupts, suddenly remembering what she had asked in the first place.

"Hold on." There's a loud shuffling in the background before Ainsley opens a door. "Mom! She doesn't know!" A pause. Then, "Mom wants to talk to you."

Oh, some words she dreads. Talking to other people's parents (and adults in general and...anyone really) has always been a constant discomfort in her life, and unlike doing the bulk of the work in a group project and getting zero credit after the presentation, it's not something she's gotten used to.

"Hey, November."

She goes to sigh before remembering that would sound rude and settles on quickly exhaling through her nose—which ends up sounding like a sigh anyway. "Rebecca, hi."

"So, here's the deal. Of course we would love to have you."

But.

"But the thing is, we just hired professional painters to paint a few rooms—including Ainsley's—and the cancellation fee is over two hundred dollars."

She suspects the pause is deliberate.

"We don't have any space for you, November, I'm so sorry. Can't you stay with whoever your parents are staying with?"

"My parents are staying with their...um, their friends from college. And the friends, uh, I mean, the friends are totally fine, but my parents don't think they'd be super friendly towards me."

"Have you tried any of Ainsley's friends?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I really am sorry we can't take you."

"No, it's not your fault." My parents just need new friends.

Option 2: Daphne Chandler

"Ew, what does that mean?" Daphne says after November explains her situation.

"They're going to gas the apartment, and if anything's in there, it'll be poisoned and die."

"What does the superintendent think is in there?"

"You think I wanna know?"

"Well, my mom won't let guests into the house unless it's a close friend."

Oh, god. Are we not close friends? I thought we were, but our definitions aren't necessarily the same. And if I'm not a close friend, what are we, then? Normal friends? Friends who graduate and never speak again? What if we're—

"Yeah, she just uses it as an excuse to bring anyone over and claim they're a 'close friend' when she doesn't have any. Makes it impossible for me to bring friends over."

"Oh, a close friend of hers," November says, breathing a sigh of relief. "Not yours."

"Uh, yeah. Duh. She doesn't let me have friends over. My dad, though—"

"Yes. Yes. Your dad. I like your dad. What about him?"

"He—um...he's in a hospital in New York."

Hospitals seem to be a recurring theme in her social circle. "I'm sorry," she says instinctively. "How long is he going to be there?"

"I don't know, but he said it's nothing serious."

"So you can't take me in?"

"Why can't Jessie?" she asks in lieu of any sort of actual confirmation.

Because I'm trying to exhaust all of my options instead of going back to the same person every time? Even when that person is in the hospital.

"Jessie's in the hospital."

"Oh."

Before she can react to this, Daphne goes "I have to go, No. Sorry."

Option 3: Luz Nicolas-Garcia

"Hey, it's Luz. I'm not available. Leave a message and I'll get back to you later."

November pauses for a few seconds after the beep, debating on whether to leave a message. "Hi, Luz. It's uh, it's me, November. Uh. I was just wondering, um, my house is being fumigated and I can't stay with my parents while that's happening, and I, uh, can I stay with you and your parents? I don't know how long it's going to take. Uh. Anyway, I should go, probably. It's November, by the way. Bye, Luz."

She hangs up.

A few minutes later, after she's gotten out of her pyjamas and managed to identify the box of cereal that isn't stale (it's the Honey Nut Cheerios—go figure), Luz calls back.

Actually, she doesn't say anything. When she answers, the voice on the other end is simply heavy breathing.

"Hello?" November questions nervously.

There is no response.

"If-if this is a butt dial, or a serial killer, my parents will not be happy with their phone plan charges."

Still nothing.

"Okay, I'm hanging up now."

"No, wait!" Luz all but screams into her phone's sound system. "I'm home alone again. I just asked my parents if you could stay over."

"And you hesitated to tell me this for reasons," she says, lip half-curled.

"I'm waiting for a response. Hold on." She clicks a button (speakerphone, November presumes), and reads the responses under her breath. November strains to hear, but can't make anything out beyond a few curse words. "Yeah, so, the general consensus appears to be no. Have you tried Max? He can take people at short notice."

Something Luz would know all too well. "He's up next."

"Well, let me know. I'll see if I can sort something out if you can't find a place."

"Sure."

Option 4: Max Bauer

"Hey, November," Max says, chirping way too loud for eight on a Monday morning. "What's up?"

"The condo's being fumigated for, like, rats or bugs or something? I don't really know. Anyway, I need a place to stay for an unknown amount of time, and before you ask, the people my parents are staying with are out of the question."

There's dead silence on the other end of the line. She opts not to fill it, instead putting the Cheerios box back on the cereal shelf and going to put a hot chocolate pod into the coffee maker that will hopefully end up with drinkable hot chocolate and not the powder that's still making its way down her throat.

"Fun fact," Max eventually replies, chewing something; a loud pop on his end startles her. "Whoops. Sorry about that."

Yeah, whatever. "Go on."

"Fun fact," he starts over, "I'm grounded."

"What," she responds flatly.

"I, me, the lovely Maxwell Bauer—"

"Max isn't a nickname for anything and you know that."

"Maxwell Bauer," he interrupts, getting louder, "has made the unfortunate mistake of inviting a friend home while my parental units were out and has appropriately been grounded. He cannot grant any more of his wonderful friends asylum for another two weeks."

"Asylum's not the right word for that. But thanks anyway, Max."

Option 5: Jessie Reynolds-Somber('s Residence)

November stares at the number like it's going to help with anything. Cameron's cell phone number isn't saved with a name, unless you count Jessie's Mom to be a name. There's no reason for her to be hesitating. Her mom was right; Cameron is a very forgiving person.

She sits on the kitchen counter and sips her hot chocolate, hesitating.

The decision is finally made by her mother, who dials Cameron (aptly named Cameron) on her own phone, and while it rings, offers it to her.

Her nostrils flare as she grabs the phone. "Cameron?"

"November?" She sounds genuinely surprised. "What's going on?"

'Mom,' she mouths, shooing her out of the kitchen. She chuckles and slowly heads back into the living room, dragging her dark red socks against the beige carpet the whole way.

"November?" She repeats.

"Yeah, I-um, I wanted to apologize for the way I acted last night. I didn't know Jessie was sick. Definitely not sick enough to land in the hospital."

There's a pair of sharp, surprised gasps from the living room.

"It's okay, November." She laughs nervously, like she's trying to smooth over any upcoming awkwardness.

"No, it's not. And I'm sorry."

A silence ensues. "Thank you. Is there anything else?"

"No?"

"Are you sure?"

She switches the phone to her other hand and gazes at the fridge. It's not an unusual fridge. Tall, white. Magnetic. Littered in baby and childhood pictures, ones her parents couldn't fit over the couch. There aren't many since she started high school almost four years ago.

Come on. Just ask her. You've done so much for her. Can't she do this one thing?

Don't be like that. You did those things because you care. She would do this for the same reason. And she's trying to get you to ask. So ask, idiot. Ask.

"I'm sure," she chirps.

Cameron releases what may very well be the longest sigh she's ever heard. "Yes, November, you can stay at my house until the pest control technicians are gone."

There. "Thank you."

"Alright. Bye, November."

She pours the not-stale Cheerios into a bowl, and carries both the bowl, the mug, and her and her mom's phone into the living room, meeting the eyes of her bewildered parents. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't know anyone was in the ambulance," her mom says.

Why would it be going to the hospital with sirens and lights, then?

"That is because I didn't tell you," she deadpans.

"We thought you were so upset because of the accident," her father replies. "And because Jessie didn't show."

November shrugs and goes to sit back down on her pillow when something atop the broken CD player catches her eye. "You found my tablet?"

Her father, grateful for the subject change, stands up and looks it over. "Still works. I'm not sure how."

She walks over and enters her password (13-43-40, obviously) and sees if anything's still working. Spotify's still stuck on Lindsey Stirling's Shatter Me album, with the last eight seconds of the title song left to hear. It never had the capacity to download any games, but she managed to get all the Google apps she needed before the App Store mysteriously vanished.

She lies sprawled out on the couch and checks her email. It's her personal one—not the one she'll use to apply for colleges, whenever that may be.

At least, it should be. One check shows that Jessie Reynolds-Somber is logged in.

"Huh."

Her parents don't respond. They have moved to the kitchen and are talking in low voices, likely trying to figure out how to afford therapy for her.

Jessie, it seems, is very punctual in regards to responding to emails. Many job offers that end with the potential employer not hiring her because of their 'fears of her relapsing so soon after being in the clear' (read: they're desperate for workers and don't want to do the work of replacing her once she quits and/or dies.)

Jessie has one unsent email.

And because November has already opened her emails and read through her emails (and because it's addressed to November), she opens the email.

(Draft) November Adams ([email protected])

subject line: to: November (re: bucket list)

Hi, November,

If you're reading this, I'm probably still alive.

"Holy shit."

word count: 2134 (wattpad) / 2264 (google docs)

total word count: 4627 (wattpad) / 4977 (google docs)