He placed the macaron on a plate and handed it to me. “I insist.” What a gentleman! He gave me a small wave, then went to fill his own plate. I chewed the macaron slowly. There was no denying it: Pistachio tasted like success.
“Parvin? Did you listen to anything I said?” Ruth huffed behind me.
“Huh?”
■ ■ ■ MY BEDROOM 11:00 P.M.
11:03 PM FABIÁN: matty thinks you’re cute
11:03 PM PARVIN: !!!!! Really?
11:03 PM RUTH: Wait, really??
11:05 PM FABIÁN: yeah, I was texting him about play tryouts and he asked if we were friends.
11:05 PM PARVIN: And???
11:07 PM FABIÁN: and I said yes and he said he thought you were cute
11:07 PM PARVIN: OH MY GOD. IT’S REALLY WORKING!
11:08 PM RUTH: Just to clarify, he was referring to Parvin, right?
11:09 PM FABIÁN: maybe you can sabotage his audition for me? put chili powder down his codpiece?
I shrieked into my phone. Matty thought I was cute! It was too late to grill Fabián on the specifics, but it was never too late for me to do some more social media stalking.
Matty hadn’t posted anything useful to Instagram in a while, though, as he only had pictures of random stuff, like a guitar in its case, or a sunset. There were barely any new photos of him at all.
Still . . . Matty thought I was cute. Visions of the two of us at Homecoming flooded my brain. Matty could wear that gray suit he had on today at the party while I appeared in a tame dress and nude lip and we danced all night. Wesley’s jaw would drop at how gorgeous I looked, and he’d feel like a complete idiot for dumping me at orientation. Meanwhile, Matty and I would probably be voted Homecoming royalty. But most important: A boy liked me. One who didn’t make my nose bleed.
I finished scrolling through all of Matty’s socials, but I was too awake to go to sleep now. I typed in another name instead, just to have something to do: Amir Shirazi. I scrolled through his profile—most of his feed was pictures of him with friends, although there were a couple with his family. I wondered what he was doing tonight.
I went deeper into his grid. It looked like in the summer between middle school and high school he went on a family trip to Iran. It was amazing to see him next to his mom and dad, how you could place every feature on Amir’s face with a corresponding one from his parents’. Looking at them, he made sense. I stared at that photo for a while.
What did people think when they looked at my family?
Sunday FARSI SCHOOL 11:00 A.M.
I did it! When it came time for me to read a verse of poetry out loud in Farsi class this morning, I actually did it without stumbling over every word. Sure, there was the odd flub or two, but I read pretty well if I do say so myself.
“Nice,” Amir whispered to me afterward.
He looked so happy for me I couldn’t help giving him a high five. I’d washed the “No Talking” NT off after yesterday’s success at Yessenia’s quince. I didn’t need it for Farsi class.
After we read poetry, Aghayeh Khosrowshahi gave us classwork to do with our partners, and I used it as an opportunity to catch up with Amir.
“Were you at Yessenia López’s party?” I asked. “I didn’t see you there.”
Amir laughed. “No, I was definitely not invited to Yessenia’s party.”
I frowned. “But aren’t you a sophomore?”
“Yep. Guess I’m not cool enough to go to a quince,” Amir said sarcastically.
“I’m not cool enough. I probably only got invited because of my friend,” I replied, thinking of Fabián. “Is Yessenia cool?”
Amir shrugged. “She’s fine—she’s just a little stuck-up. She must like you because you’re in band.”
I nodded. Sometimes it felt like Ruth and I were insulated from everything because of Fabián, who was so hip no one dared mess with us. I didn’t realize Amir and Yessenia weren’t in the same sophomore social level.
“Well, what did you do this weekend?” I asked him. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so desperate to find a topic we both wanted to talk about. I guess I wanted it to feel like we were on the bleachers again.
“I had a track meet,” Amir said.
My eyes went wide. “Like . . . throwing javelins and sprinting and stuff?”
He nodded. I had never met someone who ran around voluntarily. I was impressed.
■ ■ ■ CANTEEN 1:00 P.M.
After class, we went to the little café in the basement where they served food, tea, and pastries. I got a bowl of asheh reshteh, which was a soup of herbs, lentils, and noodles that was somehow creamy yet healthy tasting at the same time. Amir got a tea and baklava.
“Soup? It’s eighty degrees!” Amir exclaimed.
I shoved the soup in his face. “Hello? Don’t you smell this delicious smell? I only get to eat ash if I make it myself. Which means never. This is my only chance.”
Amir was shocked. “What? That’s awful! You have to come over—my mom makes the best ash.” He looked so serious about me having proper ash that I just nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “That would be cool.”
Dad was waiting for me at the parking lot, as usual. Amir walked up with me this time, sipping his tea. Allah help me.
“Hey, Dad, this is Amir,” I said. “And this is my dad.” Please don’t embarrass me in front of a sophomore, Dad! I shouted telepathically.
“Hi, Mr. Mohammadi.” Amir extended his hand and gave my dad a firm handshake. I could see Dad’s mustache twitch in approval.
“What’s your last name?” Dad asked, cutting to the chase.
“Shirazi,” Amir replied.
Dad nodded, looking thoughtful. “The dentist?”
“Yep.”
It was like all Iranians in the DC area knew each other, and my dad had a mental database.
We stood around in the parking lot—me sipping my soup, Amir nibbling his baklava—as Dad peppered him with the routine questions all
