I nodded. “Of course.” This would be her first time in the US. It would probably be really disorienting. I could be her tour guide, for sure.
“How is school for you?” she asked. I had almost forgotten why I’d Skyped her in the first place, but now it felt small in comparison to her hunting down insulin in Tehran.
“Well,” I began. “Like I texted earlier, I’ve come up with a plan.”
“Yes, the plan.” She clapped her hands. “Go on.”
“So, unfortunately I told Wesley I had a date to Homecoming, even though I don’t.” Sara was already frowning. “But it’s okay,” I backtracked. “Because I’ve figured out how to get a date.”
“How?” she asked, brows narrowing. Our eyebrows were probably the most expressive parts of our face, they were so thick. It was nice seeing mine mirrored in her delicate features and not Dad’s furious ones.
“I’m setting my sights on someone better than Wesley. His name is Matty Fumero, and he’s really nice and cool. Plus, he’s a sophomore.”
Sara said nothing, her face in full-on frown mode. “Why you are rushing to get another date?” she demanded. “Why do you need one at all?”
“Well . . . because . . .” There was no way to explain this without sounding stupid. “Wesley was my first boyfriend. Nobody ever liked me before that. And I want to prove to him that I can be liked again, you know?”
“People already like you, though,” Sara pressed. “I don’t know if I like this plan.”
“It’ll be great, Ameh! You’ll see.”
“You are perfect the way you are, azizam! Without anyone else.” Sara gestured emphatically through the computer screen, but I wasn’t about to fall for her same pep talk again. Last time she told me how great I was, I felt good for maybe a couple hours before realizing that friends and family complimenting you meant nothing if you didn’t have a boyfriend to back up their claims.
Just smile and nod. “Thanks, Ameh.”
“I love you, azizam.”
“Man dustet daram, Ameh.”
Sunday FARSI SCHOOL 10:55 A.M.
“Dad, what do you do while I’m in Farsi class?” I asked as we pulled up to the church that Sunday. I’d spent most of Friday and Saturday night trying to record my intro video and failing. Making videos was harder than I’d thought. It made me appreciate Fabián’s social media skills even more.
Dad put the car in park and shrugged. “I just talk to the other parents, that’s all. It’s nice.”
“Do you miss speaking in Farsi all the time?”
He laughed. “Where is this coming from?”
It was my turn to shrug. “I’m just curious. It must be weird speaking one language and then switching to another for the rest of your life.”
He looked out the windshield, searching for an answer. “Speaking Farsi reminds me that I was born somewhere else, that I come from Iran. Sometimes I can go for days or weeks forgetting that I’ve got this whole other piece of me. And then I come here, and I get to remember again. It’s hard without my dad here anymore. He kept that part alive.”
He turned to face me, his eyes sad. I could tell he missed his dad a lot.
“When Ameh Sara comes, you’ll get to speak to her in Farsi, right?”
His face brightened. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to that. She should be here in a couple weeks. Now hurry or you’ll be late, and you won’t be able to speak to your ameh in Farsi.”
“Khodafez,” I mumbled.
He kissed my forehead, and I shuffled out of the car.
• • •
“Everyone,” Aghayeh Khosrowshahi began from the head of the classroom, “today we have a new student.”
I looked up from the poetry Amir and I had been reading to see a girl standing near the classroom door, one who looked even less Iranian than I did. Yes! I silently screamed. I wasn’t the least Iranian person here anymore. Now, there was somebody even more watered-down than I was. Ha-ha-ha-haaa!
“Please welcome Azar Rossi. Khosh amadi!” Welcome! “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” he prodded Azar. She had curly hair like me, but light sunflower eyes and skin with pink undertones, unlike my olive ones. Everyone in class had olive skin except Hanna, who was Black Iranian.
Azar took a breath and then began spouting off a bunch of stuff in rapid-fire Farsi. She had a husky voice, like she was getting over a cold, but her pronunciation was perfect. You could tell she wasn’t translating words in her head, either. She spoke fluidly. Amir leaned in, trying to catch up.
When Azar finished, Hanna gave a stunned, slow clap. I still had no idea what the girl had said. I looked to Amir for help, but he was equally dazzled.
“Barikalla!” Aghayeh Khosrowshahi cried. Well done! “I meant you could say a bit about yourself in English, but this is better.”
What gives?! I wanted to scream. I finally got a classmate who looked less Iranian than I did, but she was a professional linguist or something. Even Laleh looked impressed. Laleh, who was nine years old and in Advanced Farsi.
“She said she loves music and writing song lyrics, and that she goes to James K. Polk. She also said she’s taking this class because she never learned to read or write in Farsi,” Amir finally whispered back.
“Thanks,” I replied as Azar took a seat toward the back. Hah! She’s illiterate in Farsi. At least I could read and write. The thought cheered me up as I opened the new workbook I got so I wouldn’t have to share with Amir anymore.
“Out of curiosity”—Aghayeh Khosrowshahi turned toward Azar—“do you speak any other languages?”
Azar cleared her throat. “Um. Spanish. And Italian.”
God help us all.
Monday BAND 2:00 P.M.
By Monday afternoon I was getting the hang of this bassoon thing. I could sit on the strap—no problem now—and all the little keys were slightly less intimidating.
Luckily, the bassoon parts were way easier than the clarinet parts. I just made long,
