My door opened a crack. Ruth stood in the doorway, looking as miserable as I felt.
“Hey,” Ruth sniffed.
“Hi.” She gave me a big hug. I could feel her trembling.
“I’m so sorry,” Ruth said, wiping at tears. “That’s so awful that your aunt wasn’t allowed in.”
I didn’t even know how to respond. Ruth’s eyes looked even puffier than mine from crying. Why was that?
“Ruth,” I said, patting the bed next to me. “What’s wrong?”
As Ruth took off her shoes and climbed onto my quilt, she sniffled. “Parvin! It’s been so awful. Last night, Naomi asked me to Homecoming—”
“But that’s great,” I interrupted. Ruth nodded, the first smile of our conversation peeking out. “Yeah, it was really romantic. She had planned a picnic at the observatory and everything.”
That was just the kind of thing Ruth would appreciate.
“But when I asked my mom if I could go with her, she flipped out. She said I was too young to be dating, and that I can’t have a girlfriend at this age.”
“Wait—you came out to your mom?” I asked.
Ruth grimaced. “Yeah. I did.”
“But . . . so . . . wait . . . What did she say about you being pan?”
Ruth shrugged. “She said it didn’t matter if I was going out with a guy, girl, nonbinary person, or anyone else. I just can’t date until I’m sixteen.”
She burrowed into the covers. I patted her back.
“At least your mom was cool with you being into a girl, right?” I said. “That was one of your four goals for the year, wasn’t it? To come out?”
Ruth nodded. “I know . . . but I never thought someone like Naomi would ever like me. And now that I finally find an amazing person, I can’t go out with them.”
“I’m sorry you can’t date yet, Ruthie”—I hugged her again—“but at least your mom is just really strict . . . and not close-minded?” It was a small win. But after today, I’d take any wins we could get.
Ruth flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “She said that God doesn’t make mistakes, so me not being straight is a sign of God’s love. But she says I’m still too young to date. She wants me to take my PSATs first before I ‘get serious,’” she said, using air quotes.
That made sense. After all, Mrs. Song had gone to college her junior year of high school. The PSATs were a big deal for the Song family.
“I just wish I could go with Naomi. She showed me her dress. It’s so pretty . . .” She trailed off. “I’m glad my mom’s okay with me being pan. It just really sucks that I can’t date.”
“Did you get a dress yet?”
Ruth’s eyes lit up a tiny bit. “I made it.” She showed me a picture on her phone, the skirt full of pink tulle and topped with a shiny pink crop top. It was perfect.
“But now my aunt can’t do the makeup,” I croaked. It still hurt so much that I wasn’t going to see her. That I didn’t even know when I could see her again.
“You’re already good at doing your own makeup. It’ll be great,” Ruth insisted, not knowing Ameh Sara had been planning to do hers, too.
“Thanks, Ruth,” I said, forcing a smile. But then the tears burst through when I realized Sara wouldn’t be here to see me off before the dance. I’d have no one to help me find a dress or figure out how to style my hair.
Ruth handed me a tissue. “I guess there’s nothing I can say right now that’s going to make you feel better,” she said slowly. “But I love you a lot. And I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“Thanks, Ruth. I love you, too.”
Then she handed me a peanut butter cup she’d squirreled away in her dress pocket.
And that was why Ruth Song was the absolute best.
■ ■ ■ DINNER 7:00 P.M.
We all sat on the couch, eating pizza and watching The Great British Baking Show. Dad hadn’t spoken that much today. His face was still purple from all the crying. Mom’s nose was pink from where she’d been blowing into tissues.
“Ms. Jordan texted me just now,” Mom said between episodes. “She said Sara was deported because she told the immigration officials she’d be learning 3D graphics from me. They asked her if she was learning at an accredited university, and she said no, that I was just going to teach her in my spare time. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, since Immigration said her visa wasn’t a student visa, even though Sara never said she’d be a student or anything like that. They blew it all out of proportion.”
Dad nodded, his pizza untouched.
“Why did they give her a visa in the first place, then?” I asked, confused.
Mom shrugged. “Because Sara coming to visit us is one hundred percent legal. Ms. Jordan says they made up a reason to deport her at the airport, something ICE has done in the past for other Iranians who also had valid visas. We had hoped they were done with lying, though. It’s stricter for Muslim-ban countries.”
I took a bite of my pizza. It tasted like cardboard in my mouth.
“This is bullshit,” I said to no one in particular.
Usually Mom and Dad didn’t like it when I cursed, but this time neither of them scolded me.
“Yeah,” Dad said weakly. “It is.”
■ ■ ■ MY ROOM 8:00 P.M.
It was too depressing hanging out downstairs. Dad was so sad he didn’t even touch the cup of black tea I’d made him. Ameh Sara’s flight wouldn’t arrive in Iran until after midnight, which was when we could finally talk to her. I couldn’t believe we had to wait that long just to make sure she was okay.
“Baba jaan?” Mom and Dad stood at my door. Mom was wringing her hands.
“Come in,” I said. I was lying on the floor, listening to Rostam Batmanglij. He was a member of Vampire Weekend and was one of the most famous Iranian American musicians in the US, next to the guy who made the Game of Thrones theme
