This high school was already robbing me of a real education.
■ ■ ■ INTRODUCTION TO VIDEO 10:00 A.M.
I signed up for Intro to Video because I thought I’d learn how to make cool eyeshadow tutorials and help Fabián with his own videos. Instead, I was learning I was the only girl in this class.
At least Wesley didn’t take this elective. That meant I’d never have to see him in class, which was a relief. He probably signed up for Technical Drawing, or whatever stupid people did. Why didn’t I sign up for Technical Drawing? I suddenly thought, panicking. Snap out of it, Parvin! You’ve got a new plan now. Besides, I could barely draw, much less technically.
Our teacher, Mr. Clarke, had already assigned us a project: Make a one-minute video introducing yourself. We had to check out cameras from school and then edit the videos together in class next week.
Part of me wanted to just get the one-minute video over with, but a smaller, tinier part of me was actually excited about the assignment. Like, maybe I could even learn enough to help Fabián light his videos so they’d look super professional, since he only used the overhead lights in his basement. Or maybe I could even learn enough to teach Ameh Sara when she came to visit, so she could add another skill to her résumé. But it was probably safer to just be Non-Loud Parvin and record something boring.
Unfortunately, my desk mate was a guy who insisted we call him “Sir,” like a knight. I could barely get people to pronounce my real name correctly, but here I had to deal with this dude who thought he was actually royalty or something. Not that you’d mistake him for someone with noble blood. Sir had stringy brown hair and greasy pale skin. He also had a deep obsession with his floor-length trench coat, as he refused to take it off even though he was clearly sweating.
“Hey,” he said, looking at the Vampire Weekend sticker on my laptop. “That’s cool.”
What was I supposed to say? Thanks for validating my music choices? Or Do you even know who Vampire Weekend is?
Instead I gave a chilly thanks.
He nodded back at me, as if waiting for me to provide more conversation. I could feel Mr. Clarke walking our way to make sure we’d finished our list of favorite movies for our in-class assignment. I didn’t need both Ms. Kaiser and Mr. Clarke thinking I was a complete failure. I turned back to my work.
“Hey,” Sir said again, poking me with a pencil. Oh my god. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? I bet Ruth didn’t have to deal with this kind of harassment in Creative Writing. To top it off, Fabián was in theater with Matty right now. I tried not to think of the great time they were probably having.
I turned toward Sir, attempting to look polite, but I had to work extra hard since my eyebrows were so thick they made me look angry all the time.
“Where are you from?” Sir asked.
“What?” I was clearly from the DC-Maryland-Virginia region, aka the DMV, like everyone else in this godforsaken place.
“Like . . . where were you born?” Oh no. I knew what was happening. It was the dreaded why-aren’t-you-as-white-as-me? question.
“I was born at Washington Hospital Center.” I smiled. It wasn’t like I was embarrassed of being Iranian, but it wasn’t great having to explain why your eyelashes were twelve feet long or why your last name was hard to spell. Besides, Wesley wasn’t in this class, so I decided to have a little fun and go back to my mischievous ways.
“No, like, where are your parents from?” Sir pressed.
“Ohhh,” I replied, pretending to understand. “My mom’s from Colorado. And my dad grew up here—he went to Polk, actually.”
I struggled not to laugh. I knew Sir wanted me to explain how my dad was originally from Iran, but why did I have to be a mind reader? I was 100 percent American. I was allowed to act like it.
Sir grimaced, frustrated. “That’s not what I—”
“Sir, Parvin, please focus on the assignment,” Mr. Clarke called out. Time to really mess with Sir.
“Mr. Clarke, what’s the name of that movie that won the Oscar? With that guy doing the play about a salesman? It’s one of my favorites, but I can’t remember the name.” That was a lie. My favorite movies were rom-coms or animated films. The movie I was thinking of had neither romance nor cartoons, but it hadn’t stopped me from sneaking downstairs to watch it through our staircase during one of Mom and Dad’s date nights (blergh).
“Oh! The Salesman,” Mr. Clarke replied. “That movie’s from Iran—yes, I believe it won the Foreign Film Oscar. Great choice, Parvin. Albeit . . . a little mature for you,” he said, frowning. “Are you Iranian?”
“Yes.” I beamed. “I am.”
Mr. Clarke just smiled, then turned to help Emerson Cheng with his own favorite films (anything with The Rock in it, as it turned out). Sir gaped at me.
“Why didn’t you just say you were Iranian?” he whispered, clearly annoyed. You’d think someone who’d written the Lord of the Rings trilogy as one of their favorite movies would be a little more patient with getting to know someone.
I shrugged. “You never asked.” And then I hid my face in my arm so that I wouldn’t cackle.
■ ■ ■ LUNCH 12:00 P.M.
“I always just tell people I’m Korean.” Ruth shrugged after I told her about the Sir incident in Intro to Video.
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to, right?” I asked. “It’s not really any of their business.”
Ruth nodded, sitting across from me. “True. But I look Korean. You look . . . er . . . well, you could be from anywhere,” she added. Sigh.
Ruth stared off to the other side of the courtyard as I ate bits of kimbap from her lunch box. Ruth was also not thrilled with her new elective. “Mr. Simmons wants us to expand on our four goals for Creative Writing,” she said anxiously.
“That should
