“Sure, that sounds fun,” he finally said.
“Okay, great. I’ll see you Saturday.” I smiled. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.”
“No problem.” Amir grinned.
He leaped off the bleachers and jogged away, waving goodbye. I sat for a while, thinking about apple picking this weekend. Amir had left his Farsi notebook with me, this week’s Nizami poetry already translated to English. I read through.
Layla was a lute, Majnun a viola.
All the radiance of this morning was Layla,
yet a candle was burning in front of her,
consuming itself with desire.
She was the most beautiful garden
and Majnun was a torch of longing.
She planted the rose-bush;
he watered it with his tears.
I closed the book. Were women lutes, and men violas? What was a lute?
I googled a lute. It looked like a baby guitar. I was definitely not a lute. I was a bassoon, and nobody wrote poems about us.
Friday BAND ROOM 3:15 P.M.
After band, I hovered around the classroom, returning to my please-talk-to-me strategy with Matty. I hadn’t seen him in the hallways so I could bump into him, and I was growing desperate. After all, I still needed to compliment him. And somehow stare at him long enough to indicate that I wanted him to ask me out.
“What are you doing?” Ruth asked suspiciously as I pretended to read my sheet music.
“I’m just studying my parts.”
“Uh-huh,” Ruth said, unconvinced.
Just then, Matty walked up with his trumpet case. PLEASE LOOK AT ME! I screamed inside my heart.
“Hey, y’all,” he said. “It was cool seeing you two at Yessenia’s last weekend.”
“Hey, Matty,” I said calmly as Ruth looked on. “Yeah, that was cool.” Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
“Are you reading the concert piece?” he asked. I almost blurted out that, yes, I was reading it, and that I was nervous about the bassoon solo in it, but I held back. I simply nodded.
“I love the trumpet parts,” Matty said. “They’re so, like, raw, you know?”
“Totally.” I had no clue what he meant. “So raw.”
He laughed. Had I even made a joke? Every time I talked to Matty I never knew why we were laughing. But still, he looked super cute in his green sweater and jeans today. Perfect Homecoming material, for sure.
I gave Ruth my nonverbal signal to leave so Matty could ask me out, but she just mouthed, What?
Ugh, Ruth! A boy who thinks I’m cute is talking to me! I gave her my furious eyes, but she just shrugged.
I turned back to Matty. “I like your . . . um . . .” I cast around, quickly looking for something to compliment him on. “Your shoes,” I finally said.
Matty looked down. They were plain white sneakers that, if anything, looked a little worse for wear. He laughed, holding my gaze. “Thanks, Parvin. Gotta find beauty in the unexpected, right?”
I nodded, though I had no idea what he was talking about. But who cared? The compliment seemed to have worked. I stared deep into his eyes, hoping my dateability would come across. It was uncomfortable, and all I wanted to do was blink.
“See ya later,” he said, breaking our eye contact with a smile. He headed toward the exit.
“See ya.” Ruth waved goodbye, and Matty walked out the door, clutching his trumpet case. How I wished my bassoon were as small and as light as that case.
“Ruth! Why did you stand there like a gaping fish? I was hoping he’d ask me out.”
Ruth rolled her eyes. But who cared what she thought? Matty just went out of his way to speak to me. Soon he’d be asking me to hang out. Ha-ha-ha-ha!
Whether Ruth wanted to admit it or not, my plan was working.
“Parvin?” she said with a smirk.
“What, Ruth? Are you going to tell me what a bad idea this whole plan is again?”
“Your sheet music is upside down.”
Dang it.
■ ■ ■ PRACTICE ROOMS LATER
Ruth left to go to her church group, and Fabián wasn’t replying to any of my texts. He must be at practice, or talking to his zillion fans online. I headed to one of the practice rooms to figure out how I was going to play a bassoon solo in front of a whole auditorium in three months. The solo was only two notes, but still.
I opened the door to what was really just a glorified closet, but someone was already in there.
“Oh, sorry.” It was Azar, the girl from Farsi school who spoke twelve languages.
“No worries,” she replied, her voice still husky. She turned back to her guitar. I didn’t know she played an instrument, and I hadn’t seen her around in band. There were a few students who rented instruments and practiced for fun. I guess Azar was one of them.
“See you in Farsi class?” I asked.
She nodded, giving me a small smile.
I grabbed the next room over, and I could still hear Azar practicing her guitar through the thin walls. I began running through my solo piece. My fingers were starting to automatically go to the right keys without having to look down now, which felt like a big step, and I could sit on the instrument easily. I ran through the solo a couple times, the long, sustained notes making it boring but at least easy. I’d been playing for only three weeks, but the bassoon was finally starting to feel familiar.
“Knock-knock,” a voice said before the door opened. It was Ms. Kaiser, her hard-to-read face smiling for once. “That’s sounding pretty good, Parvin.”
“Really?” I’d been practicing at home and watching the tutorial videos she gave me the login for. I was relieved I sounded okay.
She nodded, her huge eyes blinking back at mine through circular glasses. “You’ll be ready for our concert in no time.” She gave me a small wave, her straight black hair swishing as she closed the door.
“Yessss!” I said to myself. “You are a bassoon queen, Parvin!” which rhymed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I continued pumping my fists until a voice interrupted my solo celebration.
“Um, congratulations?” Azar’s voice called out through the wall.
Oh my god. “Please tell me you didn’t just hear me do that,” I
