Wesley grinned. “So, is this our first date?” he asked, inching so close I could see the freckles on his face. I felt like I was seeing a different side of Wesley—someone who was more confident than the boy I’d dragged around the beach all summer.
I laughed. “Is this a normal first date? Is this what people usually do?”
But Wesley just smiled even wider. “Normal is overrated, Parvin.” And then he kissed me again, lip gloss and all.
Friday JAMES K. POLK HIGH ORIENTATION 5:00 P.M.
To say I had anxiety about starting high school was an understatement, but freshman orientation night was supposed to help with that. Right when it felt like we’d gotten the hang of middle school, we were punted off to a building five times its size and made to start all over again.
At least Fabián and Ruth were starting with me, and I’d get to see Wesley after being apart for a couple of days. Just the thought of starting high school with a boyfriend made me giddy. I was a girl with a boy who liked her. That fact alone was enough to get me through tonight.
My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from my aunt in Iran, followed by a picture of flowers. Why did Iranians always message each other bouquets of flowers?
5:05 PM SARA MOHAMMADI: Good luck at orientation, azizam! You’re gonna be great!
My whole body vibrated with happiness. Everything was coming up Parvin.
“So, where’s this boyfriend of yours?” Fabián asked, grabbing a seat next to mine in the auditorium. I scanned the crowded theater for Wesley but didn’t see him yet. I’d worn my favorite floral T-shirt, and Ameh Sara had helped me with a special silver eyeshadow tutorial earlier today. My outfit was perfect for my Wesley reunion.
“He’ll be here.”
I’d told Fabián and Ruth everything the second I came home that night from the beach, my lips still tingling. Fabián had kissed plenty of boys and was not impressed. Ruth, however, was in shock that I had somehow landed a kiss at all.
Fabián just chuckled, his brown skin more tanned since the last time I’d seen him. “Remember when you told everyone you had a boyfriend in fifth grade? And it turned out he was a cartoon?”
“He was very lifelike!” I elbowed him, mussing up his perfectly styled outfit. Fabián put a lot of effort into looking sophisticated but also liked to pretend he didn’t care.
“Go easy, Fabián,” Ruth piped up, her straight black hair in two high buns for her “special occasion” hairdo. Thank you, Ruth. At least someone was a true friend around here. “Let her be delusional if she wants to be.”
“Yeah!” I said, sticking my chin out defensively. “Wait . . .”
“Parvin, can you blame us for thinking this guy sounds too good to be true? You do tend to exaggerate.” Fabián patted my arm kindly.
“I never exaggerate!” I cried.
Just then, the lights in the auditorium dimmed, and the whole theater fell silent.
“Welcome, freshman class!” a voice called out. Electronic music blasted from the speakers and lights flashed. We watched as a bunch of teachers entered from stage left and began to dance very, very badly.
“I think I’m gonna have a seizure.” Fabián shuddered as our eyes were massacred by the faculty’s terrible (but enthusiastic) dance moves. Then he began streaming it on his phone, for posterity. Teachers waved their arms, inviting us to dance with them as Ruth sank lower into her chair. Nobody joined them.
“WHOOOO!” I shouted, just because I felt a little bad for the grown-ups who were dancing so hard up there. One of them gave a pained smile, like she knew how embarrassing this whole thing was.
“GET IT!” Fabián shouted, still filming from his phone.
The music suddenly stopped, and microphone feedback echoed throughout the auditorium.
“Generation Z? Meet Generation WE!” a man shouted. He wore a brown suit that looked two sizes too small, and had the kind of expression that can only be described as “desperate.” He stepped into the spotlight, clutching his chest as he tried to catch his breath, his round baby face so red it looked like a cherry.
“Let’s give it up for our amazing teachers!” He gestured toward the staff who’d been awkwardly swaying around him. A teacher took a puff of his inhaler.
“My name’s Principal Saulk, and welcome to James K. Polk High School freshman orientation!” he shouted, spittle flying from the patchy beard he was trying to grow. “And here are your student ambassadors who came to share their high school experiences!”
Principal Saulk gestured to a group of students standing on the side of the stage, and one of them quickly grabbed the mic. She wore head-to-toe black and had pale skin and dark purple hair. She looked cool, in a terrifying way.
“High school,” she whispered into the microphone, “is a prison.”
“Becca!” Principal Saulk shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here!” He chased Becca offstage, but not before she bowed to the rest of us.
“That was amazing,” Fabián said into his phone. He had shared the performance with his followers, and I could see comments like “BECCA4EVA” and “We love you Fabián!!111” fill his livestream feed as he pointed the camera at the stage. Being a dancing sensation on Instagram meant Fabián had thousands of fans. But I could barely get him to be a fan of believing I had a real, flesh-and-blood boyfriend.
“High school’s not actually a prison, though, right?” Ruth twitched, looking upset despite her sunny-yellow K-pop T-shirt. “Making high school a prison would be illegal, right?”
I shrugged. Middle school hadn’t been a prison, per se, but it hadn’t been a walk in the park, either. Who knew what high school would be like? My dad had gone to James K. Polk High decades ago, back when he was fresh off the boat from Iran. His advice was zero percent helpful.
My heart sank as every student ambassador following Becca gushed about high school, almost as if to make
