“Hey, Dad?” I asked him again.
“Yeah?”
“What if I dated someone who was Iranian? Would that be weird?”
Dad gave me another look. What did all these looks mean? I needed to know.
“Nope.” Dad smiled. “Not weird at all.”
He gently closed the door.
■ ■ ■ GUEST ROOM 6:00 P.M.
By the end of the day, I was feeling a lot better. My voice even sounded normal again. And, to top it off, Mom had made me chicken soup. And it was edible.
It was a miracle.
I was helping Mom get Sara’s room ready, making sure we had all the right sheets and linens and stuff since she was going to be here next week.
“Hand towel?” Mom called to me from the guest bathroom. I dug through the clean laundry hamper until I found it.
“Comin’ in hot!” I shouted, throwing the towel to her. Mom folded it the special way, like we were in the Hotel Mohammadi.
“Fancy soap?” she asked. I dug around in the dresser where Mom also stored our bougie soap and extra sheets. It helped make the linens smell really good.
“Honeysuckle,” I said, tossing the soap to her. She put it in the soap dish. “And a bath towel.”
I threw her an extra fluffy one. Hopefully, Ameh Sara would like the honeysuckle smell.
“I think this looks pretty good, wouldn’t you say?” Mom put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. It was definitely the cleanest room in our house now.
“We should buy fresh flowers when she comes,” I said, pointing to an empty vase on the nightstand.
“Great idea.” Mom was the super creative one in the family, but it felt nice to come up with a good idea for once.
“Now, Parvin, there’s something I want to show you.”
Oh no. Was she going to try to make me use organic tampons again? Was nothing sacred?
Mom laughed at my expression. “It’s not bad. I just think you’re old enough to handle this now.” She motioned for me to follow her. She was leading me to the basement.
Oh god.
■ ■ ■ BASEMENT 7:00 P.M.
Mom stood next to the washing machine, tapping the lid. My stomach growled. Normal families would be eating dinner now.
“When was the last time I washed that shirt for you?” Mom asked, pointing at my favorite long-sleeved pajama top. It was flannel and made me feel like it was really autumn.
“Umm?” I couldn’t remember the last time it had been washed. Usually, Mom and Dad switched off doing the laundry, but they haven’t had time to lately. Why were we having this conversation in the basement? Was Mom going to give me a talk about boys or birth control or something?
“We’re getting so busy with work, I want to make sure you can do your own laundry if we can’t, okay?” Mom said.
“You want me to do my own laundry?” I repeated, horrified.
Mom pursed her lips. “You’re a big girl now. You can handle it.”
I nodded. But what if I messed it up? What if I turned everything pink? Or accidentally bleached something?
Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Parvin. It’s just clothing.”
Monday HOMEROOM 7:30 A.M.
I was wearing my only clean T-shirt to school this morning. Which also happened to be stained pink.
The laundry lesson did not go well.
Amir texted me a zillion times already asking me how I was feeling, whether I wanted to meet up, or if I was okay.
I had no idea what to say.
10:00 PM AMIR: Parvin? You there? I’m starting to get worried.
7:42 AM PARVIN: Sorry! I was super sick yesterday and am just catching up now.
Ruth shot me a dirty look for sending a text during class, but it promptly morphed back to the dumb grin she’s had pasted on her face all day. I wondered why I didn’t look like that. If I liked Amir, I should have been floating on cloud nine, like Ruth was at the thought of Naomi. Instead, I just felt anxious and a little queasy.
I needed to snap out of it. I didn’t get upset with myself for not jumping for joy over Emerson, even though he had asked me out. So why was Amir making me feel so strange?
7:43 AM AMIR: That’s OK. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’ll see you on Wednesday? I can catch you up on everything you missed in class?
7:50 AM PARVIN: 10-4.
There. I sent the least sexy reply known to man so I wouldn’t confuse things even more.
■ ■ ■ LUNCH 12:00 P.M.
I was surrounded by smiling idiots in the courtyard today. Fabián couldn’t stop recounting his epic audition and how he nailed his monologue as he inhaled another plate of fries. Ruth was just grinning and nodding along on her own daydream of bliss. Good god, was I the only one steering this ship? It was like that book we were reading in English, about the Greek dude and the sirens who kept tempting him to make out with them on dangerous rocks or something. Was I the only one who remembered to put wax in my ears and not succumb to love?
■ ■ ■ FABIÁN’S ROOM 3:00 P.M.
Fabián wanted us to come over and help him film another video after school. His parents were home for once—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them.
“Fabián!” Señora Castor called out from downstairs, pronouncing it Fa-vyán. “Could you come here a minute?”
Ruth and I turned back to Fabián’s laptop, where we answered social media questions pretending to be him. “Don’t use so many exclamation points,” he said to Ruth.
He headed downstairs, but we could still hear them talking.
“Again?” Fabián cried, his voice echoing up the stairs. “But you’ve been gone all month.”
“I know, mi amor, but things are getting worse. Children are in the camps at the Mexican border. We have to help them.”
“I know, but . . . I can’t just wave at you through the living room cam and pretend like we’re one big happy family,” Fabián said, sounding upset.
“Maybe we should close the door,” Ruth said, clearly feeling awkward for eavesdropping.
I tried not to listen, but
