Hoshang sat down and filled my fancy crystal glass with water.
“So, Parvin—what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Oh god. Classic immigrant parent question. I was lucky Dad rarely asked me. So far the only things I had an aptitude for were being dumped, contouring my face, and cackling so loudly an usher once asked me to leave a movie theater. “Umm . . .” I fished around, hoping a brilliant answer would come to me, “I’m not sure yet.”
Hoshang laughed. “That’s okay. You’re a year younger than Amir, yes? He only just figured out what he wants to be.”
I smiled at Amir, remembering how he wanted to be a writer, but he looked incredibly uncomfortable.
Hoshang filled the rest of the water glasses. “Yes, after Amir goes to dental school he can take over the family dental practice. And we can call it ‘Shirazi and Sons.’ Like the Americans!”
Wait . . . did Amir’s parents not know about his dream of being a writer? I opened my mouth, but Amir suddenly shouted, “Aaaand here’s the abgoosht.”
Farah held a big bowl of orange-and-brown stew and placed it on the table. “It’s nothing fancy,” she explained. “This is very simple Persian food.” Her accent made it sound like eh-simple.
Amir ladled some of the stew on top of a bowl of basmati rice for me and passed me a spoon. It smelled delicious and tangy, the dried lemon smell cutting through the meatiness of the lamb. There was no way my parents could pull this off.
I smiled at Amir, glad he’d invited me even though I’d almost outed his writing goals. He took a bite of stew and grinned back.
“Bokhor!” Farah commanded, waving at the food. Eat!
I stuck my spoon in, scooping up a bit of potato, lamb, and broth. The tomato and potato dissolved deliciously the second they hit my mouth. It was so good I wanted to shout WHERE HAS THIS BEEN ALL MY LIFE?
I didn’t realize everyone was staring at me until I finished the first bite.
“So?” Amir prodded. “What do you think?”
I swallowed my stew, trying to downplay how jealous I was that Amir got to eat this kind of food every day. “This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“I knew it,” Amir shouted. “I knew she’d love it!”
Farah looked near tears. “She likes my abgoosht!” she shouted to no one in particular, followed by some lightning-fast Farsi. “She likes my abgoosht!”
Hoshang just smiled. “We’re glad you enjoy it.”
I turned back to my bowl of abgoosht and began to attack it for real.
■ ■ ■ AMIR’S ROOM 3:00 P.M.
“I think my parents are obsessed with you now,” he said from his desk. I had flopped onto his bed, too full of abgoosht to even sit up straight.
“I’m going to burst,” I moaned. “Why did they make me eat so much pistachio ice cream?”
Amir laughed. “You’ve never had to deal with a Persian mom shoving food down your throat before, huh?”
I shook my head gently. If I moved too much, I’d pop a rib. “Thanks for inviting me.” I’d never eaten home-cooked Iranian food, since all the New Year parties we went to were catered. Not only that, but I’d been able to shut off my brain from dissecting how my interactions with Matty had gone yesterday. I’d forgotten how nice it was to not be obsessed with getting a Homecoming date. The past couple of hours at Amir’s house had felt like a vacation.
“Thanks for coming,” Amir replied. He looked at me, holding my gaze.
“What? Do I still have ice cream on my face?” I shot up, wiping my hand across my mouth.
“No, no, you’re fine.” Amir swiveled around in his chair, turning back toward his desk. He was quiet for a moment. The silence suddenly felt heavy.
“Why didn’t you tell your dad about your writing, Amir?”
“Oh. Um . . . I guess I don’t want to disappoint him. He asked me to help out at the dental office this year, and I said I would. I think he assumed that meant I wanted to be a dentist, too. He worked really hard to build his business, and I don’t think he wants me to struggle like they did. It was really hard for a while.”
I looked around Amir’s giant bedroom, with its big mahogany desk, full-size bed, and bookshelf stuffed with track trophies. If they had been struggling before, they definitely weren’t now.
“I think he’d be okay with it,” I replied. Hoshang had been so nice and welcoming at dinner. I couldn’t imagine him flipping out at his son for wanting to become a writer. But then again, he wasn’t my dad. “Maybe he won’t be thrilled, but you shouldn’t lie to him, either. He seriously thinks you’re going to become a dentist.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that he’ll want me to have a plan. A plan for how to make money as a writer so I don’t struggle. But I don’t have one yet.”
I looked away, relieved I didn’t have to decide my own career path for a while. Amir looked so tortured at the thought of telling his dad that it made me grateful my parents would probably support whatever random thing I wanted to do with my life. They might not be great cooks, but they would be encouraging with whatever I chose.
“That’s tough.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Amir sighed. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.” I rubbed my belly. It gurgled painfully. “Amir?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have any ginger ale?”
■ ■ ■ MY ROOM 10:00 P.M.
10:03 PM SARA MOHAMMADI: So? How did the party go?
10:05 PM PARVIN MOHAMMADI: Matty talked to me! I got a bloody nose, and I was worried he’d be with Yessenia because he was in her quince court, but he wanted to drink horchata with me instead!
10:06 PM SARA MOHAMMADI: What??
10:06 PM PARVIN MOHAMMADI: I’ll video chat you tomorrow.
10:07 PM SARA MOHAMMADI:
Tuesday LUNCH 12:00 P.M.
“Naomi texted me!” Ruth squealed for the zillionth time in the courtyard on Tuesday. “She says she wants
