THINGS ALL SUCCESSFUL LEADING LADIES HAVE IN COMMON:
They don’t cackle; they giggle and cover their mouths with their hands.
They are somehow completely hairless from the eyelashes down.
None of them eat Hot Cheetos.
Instead of blurting out what they’re thinking, they wait until the guy in the movie asks “What are you thinking?”
They smile 80 percent of the time instead of talking.
All of the men in the movie lead the conversation (key observation).
I stared at the page, trying to turn the list into a plan that would get me a date. All the women in these movies were so normal. They didn’t snort or shout or gasp or prank people like I did. How could I be like them and, instead of being too much, become just right?
HOW TO BE LESS “LOUD”:
Talk at a minimum around people you have to impress (maybe limit to two comments each interaction, just to be safe).
No more crazy outfits or garish makeup looks.
Same for my wild hair (and body hair).
Don’t snort or cackle—even if it’s really funny.
Keep Cheeto consumption limited to emergencies.
Instead of replying to questions, smile, but in a mysterious and alluring way.
Stop gasping so much (tough, but necessary).
No more pranks. Full stop.
I looked at the list, feeling proud. I had finally done it: I had pinpointed all the things that were wrong with me, which meant I was on the path to fixing them. It felt good putting them all in this one place, and it made the feat of becoming Quiet Parvin for high school seem way less intimidating.
If only I’d made this list earlier, I’d probably still have a boyfriend.
I settled back into my bed, feeling in control for the first time since being dumped.
And then I put Fabián’s hand in a cup of warm water, because it was a sleepover, and he’d eaten all our candy.
SEPTEMBER
THINGS I HAVE GOING FOR ME:
• A plan to get a boy to like me
• The single-minded determination to make it happen
• Hours of research via movies, TV shows, and books
• Friends, family, good health, etc., etc.
• Surprisingly moisturized skin that smells like peaches
Sunday MOHAMMADI ADVERTISING STUDIO 10:00 A.M.
Sunday, the first day of September, which meant I had less than five weeks to find a Homecoming date. The second Ruth and Fabián left, I began making lists and researching How to get a guy to ask you out in my room.
Unfortunately, none of the articles had any advice on how to find someone to have a crush on. I had no idea who would be a good Homecoming date, much less one who would make Wesley feel bad. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” one of the articles quoted wisely. But it seemed that nobody had the decency to tell me what my heart wanted in the first place.
“Knock-knock,” I said, going downstairs. Technically, I was supposed to use the separate entrance to the basement, but Mom and Dad usually didn’t have clients over on Sundays. My parents were in the middle of a big campaign for an ad agency and had a tight deadline. They must have been so busy they’d forgotten I was even home. Or to feed me.
“Come on down,” Mom shouted from her computer. Her desk was a mess, with printouts, storyboards, and her giant tablet taking up the entire thing. Dad sat across from her, emailing someone at light speed from his pristine workstation. He was typing so fast his mustache was quivering.
The whole studio was painted white, with triangles of color that Mom had added when they refinished the basement, back when they decided to start their own company. A huge bookshelf covered the entire back wall and was chock-full of design books. I used to spend a lot of time down here, picking books at random and looking at the pictures.
“How you feeling?” Mom asked, her eyes not leaving her tablet. She was drawing a tree, and the roots spelled out the name of a company. She tweaked one of the letters.
“Meh,” I said, plopping down into one of the swivel chairs.
Only Mom and Dad worked here, but sometimes they had freelancers come in when they were really busy. I sidled up to Mom’s desk, flipping through one of her design books. She put her tablet pencil down and finally looked up, running her hands through her pale hair. I hoped they would hire another freelancer soon.
“Just okay?” she asked, scooting over.
“Why aren’t you dressed, baba jaan?” Dad finally came out from behind his huge monitor. “I’m supposed to take you to Farsi school in half an hour.”
“Dad!” I recoiled. “Farsi school? Really? I thought I was done with Farsi school.” Farsi school was a two-hour class held every Sunday in the basement of a Lutheran church in downtown DC. It smelled funny, and the teachers always forgot where we were in our workbooks. Farsi is a super confusing language, not to mention the class was a major time suck since it met on the weekend. Besides—Farsi school was closed all summer, and my parents had never mentioned me starting it back up in the fall. This was the first I was hearing about it.
“Parvin,” Mom said, using the super-Iranian pronun-ciation of my name as ammunition, “it’s your heritage. It’s important to your family.”
“Maybe if you spoke Farsi to me, I wouldn’t need to go to Farsi school!” I pointed accusingly at Dad.
“You know that’s not fair,” Dad started. “Your mother doesn’t speak Farsi. It’s rude.”
“That makes zero sense, Dad. When am I supposed to speak it then?”
“Parvin—” Mom began again, but I was too angry to listen.
“Nemikhaam!” I said back to her in a flawless accent.
“What’d she say?” Mom turned to Dad.
“She says she doesn’t want to,” Dad said, giving me the angry eye.
“I just had my heart broken, and now you’re telling me I have to go to school on a Sunday?” I replied, using my most Reasonable Adult Voice. Only it came out as a wail.
“Yes,”
