I nodded.
“Okay, well, wanna meet after school this week? I could meet you on the bleachers.” He looked at his phone, checking his calendar. “How about Wednesday?”
Who were we? Stockbrokers? Who used a calendar in high school?
“I’ll pencil you in,” I responded, equally serious. Amir laughed.
We were walking through the hallway now, following the rest of our class toward the main exit. “What’s your last name?” Amir asked.
“Mohammadi,” I said. “What’s yours?”
“Shirazi.” We were quiet then, walking up the stairs. It wasn’t awkward, though.
“You’re half,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yep.” A lot of Iranians could tell straight off the bat that I was half. Aside from my skin color, I looked pretty much the same as them. There were plenty of Iranians who were fairer than me, though. I didn’t know how they could always tell I was half. They just knew.
We were in the parking lot now. I spied Dad drinking tea from a thermos with another parent. I bet he hadn’t moved since we started class.
“You should leave now,” I warned Amir. “If you meet my dad, he’ll want to know who your parents are and whether we’re related, and then we’ll be stuck in this parking lot forever.”
“Wait, are we related?” asked Amir.
I shrugged. “Probably.” He laughed again.
“You’re funny, you know that?” Amir said.
I crossed my arms defensively. Was he going to call me loud and too much, too? But instead he waved and walked away, the scent of rosewater following in his wake.
Tuesday HOMEROOM 7:30 A.M.
The first day of school was always so depressing. It was too hot, nobody wanted to be there, and the teachers all had this sad optimism as if they were telling themselves This year is gonna be different. I could already feel my summer freedom slipping away as I sat next to Ruth in homeroom. Unfortunately, Fabián was in another class. At least Wesley was nowhere to be seen.
I’d worn my least “loud” first-day-of-school outfit and had on jeans and a plain T-shirt. Gone was the sparkly silver eyeshadow Ameh Sara had taught me how to apply; I exchanged it for a “natural” look (that somehow still took as much time as my sparkly makeup routine). Not only that, but I’d shaved my arms, plucked my eyebrows, and straightened my huge curls that were “loud” in their own way. My hair had so little volume I actually looked related to Mom, who complained about her lank blond hair all the time.
“Partin . . . Mohammad . . . ?” Ms. Payne struggled to pronounce my name for roll call. Here it was: my first challenge as the Non-Loud Parvin from the movies. How would she handle this situation?
“Er, it’s pronounced PAR-veen. And my last name is Mo-HAM-mad-i. With an i at the end,” I said politely. See? I didn’t have to give a lecture on how all names from the Middle East were spelled to be as phonetic as possible. Why she had thrown a hidden t in there, I would never know. But I stood firm, stated my case, and got to slip into the background again. Perfect first test as a quiet woman.
Ms. Payne made a note and smiled. “Where is your name from?”
Good grief, what was this? An interrogation? If I told her my name was Iranian, she’d probably make some bizarre comment about how she loved hummus or something, which wasn’t even from there. Oh no, I was snowballing, but Ms. Payne kept staring at me expectantly.
“Well,” I began, my mouth suddenly dry, trying to figure out how to not make this weird. “I was born in America. So, I guess it’s an American name.”
Ms. Payne’s lips went very thin, but she didn’t say anything before moving on to Teddy Nelson. Phew. Dodged a bullet.
“Parvin.” Ruth tugged on my arm. “Is your shirt inside out?”
I looked down. Oh no. Being two different Parvins had me so turned around I couldn’t even put on a shirt properly. There was no way I could just raise my hand and say, Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom because I put my clothes on wrong.
Panicking, I did the old tilt-your-head-back-and-pinch-your-nose-like-it’s-bleeding pantomime that lets you slip out of class with the teacher giving you an understanding nod. Ms. Payne waved me on, probably relieved she wouldn’t have to deal with me for ten minutes.
■ ■ ■ BATHROOM 7:45 A.M.
Egad. A girl in one of the stalls just unwrapped what sounded like a massive tampon, and the sisterhood code required that I pretend not to notice. In middle school, periods were so embarrassing you straight-up acted like you couldn’t hear someone crumple a pad into the tiny trash can in the stall. I bet the same rules applied in high school.
Hmm. There was smoke coming out of her stall now. It smelled like cotton candy.
Oh, wait. She was unwrapping a vape pen, not a tampon.
Her stall banged open. It was Becca, the scary girl from orientation. Too late, we’d made eye contact. Quick, say something!
“I thought you were unwrapping a tampon,” I said nervously, pretending to wash my hands. WHY DID I SAY THAT?
She remained silent. She had on enough black eyeliner to outfit an entire Intro to Theater class.
“They should sell vape pens like tampons,” I went on, the word diarrhea just tumbling out of my mouth. “You know, like light, regular, super—”
“What?” she snarled, drying her hands by shaking water onto the floor. Upon closer inspection, she looked old enough to be a senior. I gulped.
“Um, your tampon,” I said weakly, my heart forgetting to pump blood to my brain. “I thought you were smoking it?”
She flicked water into my eyes before stomping away.
Why had I opened my mouth? Why did I let those words spill from my brain without invitation? I’d barely been in school for an hour and had already failed my Quiet Parvin mission.
I flipped my shirt right side out in silence.
■ ■ ■ ENGLISH CLASS 9:00 A.M.
Our required reading list this year was so thick
