“¡Hola, familia!” he sang out. “GSA doesn’t meet for another fifteen minutes, so I wanted to show you all some stuff I’ve been working on.”
Who was holding the phone? Was it Ruth? I thought jealously. The phone kept moving, which meant someone was helping Fabián film. He pressed play on the music and began dancing to a slow R & B song. It was amazing how his body moved like liquid, and he unrolled his arms and legs so gracefully it was easy to forget you were watching a fourteen-year-old and not a dance master.
The slow song matched Fabián’s syrupy moves, and I could see the number of viewers jump from hundreds to a thousand. Luckily, Fabián never shared his location or anything like that, but still. He was famous enough now to have rabid fans, and I could see them comment things like “MARRY ME, Fabián!” or “Ughhh, I luv u so much xx” in the live feed. But Fabián couldn’t see them as he slowly spun around, finishing with his hands on his hips.
“Thanks for watching, familia! Chau!” He blew a kiss to the camera, and the stream ended.
“Parvin?” a voice called out. Dear god, what now?
I turned. Or rather, I waddled around. This bassoon case was no joke—it was a big, flat rectangle that was not very aerodynamic. Should a gust of wind blow, it was definitely taking me down with it.
It was Wesley. I wished my heart didn’t race every time I saw him. It made getting over him much, much harder. Didn’t he live a good twenty minutes away by car? Oh, wait . . . he was probably visiting Teighan, his new, perfect girlfriend.
“Hi, Wesley.” My voice cracked.
My hair was straight, my outfit was an inoffensive jeans and black blouse combo, and I’d waxed my mustache last night, making the skin there so red I had to wear concealer on my top lip. But still, I felt vulnerable. I walked a little faster toward the creek path, hoping that was all he had to say to me. Besides, I had to go home and learn how to assemble my bassoon and potentially figure out how to sit on it again.
But Wesley hurried to catch up to me, which made me happy, even though I knew it shouldn’t. Curse you, feelings!
“So . . . ,” he began. He wore another polo shirt and khakis, the spitting image of a youth group leader. After seeing him run rampant at the beach, he looked completely unlike himself. Where were his cutoff shorts and cartoon tees? This new Wesley was bewildering. “How are your classes?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied.
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of a real conversation. I knew that the less I said, the less I would seem like that girl on the beach who he talked to for hours on end, the one he’d decided wasn’t good enough. Besides, this bas-soon was very heavy, and I didn’t have a lot of words to spare.
“Cool,” Wesley said, undeterred. “I replaced the saltshakers at our lunch table with sugar.”
I didn’t say anything. I just raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah . . . That was an easy one. But Teighan wasn’t exactly thrilled when she poured sugar all over her fries.”
What was this, a confessional? That prank was pretty tame, all things considered. Still, I would have loved to see Teighan try to eat French fries with sugar on top. I remained strong, keeping my chuckles to myself. I could still smell his intox-icating brand of soap wafting over, though. Stay firm, Parvin.
We were at Teighan’s street now.
“Well, it was good to talk to you, Parvin,” Wesley said quietly, looking into my eyes for once. I am an ice queen, I repeated to myself. I don’t melt for any man.
“Tell Teighan I say hi.” I smiled back. I’d said two sentences this entire conversation, and I could tell it made Wesley feel uncomfortable.
He winced, then stalked off.
I headed toward my house, bassoon in tow. What the heck had just happened? Why was Wesley trying to talk to me after he blasted my heart to smithereens? The worst part was that Ruth and Fabián weren’t here to tell me what they thought about the whole thing. I was the only one who could dissect our conversation, which would probably make me feel even more miserable.
But what did I care? I had moved on, hadn’t I?
My plan to get Matty to ask me to Homecoming was just getting started.
■ ■ ■ MY ROOM 9:30 P.M.
It was late enough for me to Skype Ameh Sara over in Tehran. She’d been sending me WhatsApp messages asking how school was going, but it wasn’t the same as talking face-to-face. Her screen popped up, and this time she was fully dressed in a bright yellow chador and a long-sleeved black shirt. Even though it was still Thursday night in my bedroom, it was already Friday morning in Iran.
“Sob bekheir, Ameh,” I said, wishing her a good morning.
“Sob bekheir, Parvin joon. How are you? You look better.”
I felt better, too. Having a plan was a good feeling. “Thanks, Ameh. How’s school?”
Sara shrugged. “It’s okay. The sanctions make it hard to buy art supplies.”
I had heard about the US putting up sanctions against Iran, saying that Iran was a threat to democracy or whatever.
“My maman is having a hard time getting her insulin shots, for her diabetes . . .” Sara trailed off.
“Oh no.” I grimaced. “She needs those, right? Otherwise . . .” I didn’t know what else to say. Not having insulin shots meant you could lose a limb or go blind. It was really, really serious.
“It’s okay, azizam.” Sara waved it away. “When I come visit you, I can stock up on medication for my mom and my friends. I’ve already got an extra suitcase that I’ll bring and fill up there.”
“What other stuff do you need, Ameh? Maybe I can get it for you?”
“Oh, Parvin joonam. You don’t need to do that. But maybe when I’m there you
