“It’s okay,” he said for the millionth time as I flubbed a line of poetry from our spot on the bleachers. “Just try again.”
We’d gone way past the half-hour mark on our study session this Wednesday. Because that’s how much I sucked at Farsi.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “We can stop now, if you want. I don’t mind.” Please let this be over, I shouted in my head. LET THE TORTURE STOP.
“I’m good. So, whenever there’s a mark above an alif, or A, it means you pronounce it like an O. But only at the start of a word, though.”
“Okay,” I replied. Amir hunched over the poetry book with me, our knees almost touching. Layla and Majnun was one of Nizami’s most famous poems about two star-crossed lovers, and I read a couple of lines out loud in slow Farsi:
“While all their friends were toiling at their books
These two were trying other ways of learning.
Reading love’s grammar in each other’s looks.
Glances to them were marks which they were earning.”
Amir nodded along. We’d finished our translation homework a while ago, but he still insisted on making sure I got better at reading out loud for when it was my turn again in class this Sunday.
“Nice, Parvin,” he said. I grinned back at him, proud that I hadn’t flubbed a line. He pronounced my name the traditional way, with the hard A. I’d never had a friend say it like that. Even Ruth and Fabián said it “Pahr-VEEN,” with the soft A.
“Thanks.”
Amir jiggled his leg on the bleacher. “So . . . ,” he started. “Want to do the next stanzas?”
Egad. No!
“Don’t you have better things to do than tutor a freshman?” I asked. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything,” I added. “It’s just . . .”
I let the sentence hang there.
“It’s just that we’ve been doing this for an hour already?” He laughed, finishing my sentence. “Sorry, I forgot we only said half an hour. I just don’t want to go home yet.”
I nodded. Talking to Amir was easy, like talking to Ruth and Fabián. I didn’t have to worry about trying to be Quiet Parvin around him.
We sat there for a bit. It was starting to get chilly, one of those summer days when you could smell fall close behind it. I shivered.
“Why don’t you want to go home?” I asked.
Amir shrugged. “My dad wants me to help him with patients, refill sterilized trays, schedule appointments—anything to keep me in his office. Whenever I have stuff after school, it means that I don’t have to go. Like tutoring you, or track.”
“You don’t want to be a dentist?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer already.
“No.” It was his turn to shiver. Even though we were done reading, we were still sitting pretty close. His dark brown eyes looked over the football field, his shaggy hair flopping over his forehead.
“What do you want to be, then?”
“I want to be a writer,” Amir answered firmly. “I want to tell amazing stories. Or, put them to paper.” He turned to me, eyes blazing. I wondered if my eyes ever blazed. I liked the way his eyes looked when they were almost on fire, I decided.
“That’s awesome.” I nodded. “I have no idea what I want to be. That’s cool that you do.” I figured Amir would want to become an engineer or a lawyer, something that all the Iranian moms and dads begged their kids to become. Amir saying he wanted to be a writer surprised me.
He sighed. “Sometimes it’s cool. I wish we had more than one creative writing class, though, which I already took freshman year. Then I could show my parents what I can really do.”
“Right,” I said, chewing a nail. Ruth was in that class. “Don’t we have a school journal or something?” Our middle school had one, where students could submit their poetry and short stories.
“Nah.” Amir sighed. Dressed in another soccer jersey and gold chain, he definitely did not look like a writer. But then again, I’m not what people thought of when they pictured what an Iranian girl should look like. Maybe it was okay to not look the part sometimes.
“You should start your own journal,” I suddenly blurted out. “You could be the first to make one at Polk.”
Since school began, I’d been trying hard not to talk too much around boys, or exclaim things out loud before thinking about what I was going to say. But I could tell Amir wouldn’t mind if I did. It was a huge relief, to be honest.
He laughed. “Maybe. I’m on yearbook for now. It’s okay.”
“Well, thanks for being my study buddy,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“Khahesh mikonam,” Amir replied, using the Farsi phrase for you’re welcome.
“Your pronunciation is so good.”
He waggled his eyebrows and waved his hands in the air, doing a perfect imitation of Aghayeh Khosrowshahi, “If you peh-rac-ticed FAR-see, then you could eh-sound good, too.”
I snorted. Amir continued waggling his eyebrows at me. It really was uncanny.
Just then, my phone rang. “Hey.” As I picked up, Amir quieted down.
“Parvin!” Mom cried into the telephone. “Sara’s visa was approved.”
“Really?” I squealed. “Okay, I’m coming home.” I hung up, grinning like an idiot.
“Everything okay?” Amir asked.
“My ameh’s visa was approved. I’ll get to see her soon.”
Amir grinned. “Nice.”
“Thanks for helping me today,” I said, hugging him. I was so happy I probably crushed him, but I didn’t care. I was going to see Sara.
“Khodafez!” he shouted at me as I ran down the bleachers.
“Bye!” I shouted back.
■ ■ ■ HOME 5:30 P.M.
Mom and Dad were so ecstatic about Sara’s visa that they made dinner while the sun was still out. My body didn’t even know what to do with food that early. I just stared at it as they told me how Sara got a call from the US Interests Office (the US doesn’t have an embassy in Iran, because . . . well . . . I don’t actually know) and
