Mom and Dad sat down on my bed.
“We know how hard this is for you,” Mom said. “We know how close you are to your aunt.”
Dad nodded, his skin dull like copper that hadn’t been polished in a while. It was as if weeks had passed since the awful news this morning and he hadn’t slept since.
“Baba jaan, we wanted your ameh to come because we love her and miss her, of course, but . . .” Dad trailed off awkwardly.
“But there are things she can teach you that we can’t. That I can’t, really.” Mom gave a hollow laugh.
“You’re becoming a young woman now,” Dad continued. “You’re growing up . . . and your ameh was going to help with some of that.”
Mom smiled sadly at me. Was this because of the eyebrow fiasco?
I turned off the music. “I didn’t realize that was why she was coming.”
“Well, it was one of the reasons. And so I could teach her some graphic design programs. Waxing, dressing for your skin color, styling your hair . . . those are just some of the things I have no clue how to help you with,” Mom said, biting her lip. She looked like she was going to tear up all over again.
I stared at Mom. It was wild how little we resembled each other. Her skin was so pale I could see the blue veins underneath. Once, in elementary school, a teacher had asked to see her driver’s license before she picked me up, not believing we were related. I didn’t realize how much it bothered her. Her blue eyes blinked back at my brown ones, searching for a reaction.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said with a shrug. “I have YouTube.”
They laughed.
“That’s true,” she said, looking thoughtful. “But you still need female role models who look like you. And I can’t be that for you.”
Dad nodded. “We’re going to figure something out, okay? You’ll get to see her again, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Mom crouched down and gripped my shoulders.
“I’m so proud of you, you know that? You’re dealing with things I couldn’t have fathomed when I was your age.” She started sniffing again.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She got up to leave. “Mahmoud, you coming?”
He waved her on. “I’ll be there in a second.”
Mom nodded and closed the door. Dad played with a loose thread on my quilt.
“Dad?” I asked. He took a shaky breath.
“I just want to say one thing, okay? And then you can say whatever you want.” He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Whatever he had to say, it seemed to make him incredibly uncomfortable.
“You had asked me about not marrying an Iranian woman, and I think I missed the point of why you were asking that question.”
I looked up at him. I remembered that conversation.
“I married your mother because I love her. But it’s not because I thought she was more beautiful because she’s white, or because she looks the way women do in magazines here. I married her because she has the same kind of soul as me, even though we were born on opposite sides of the planet.”
Dad’s lips trembled, like he was going to start crying again. “Your full name is Sa’adateh Parvin Veronica Mohammadi. You are Sa’adateh Parvin, a descendant of the third Imam of Shiites. You come from the empire that invented math, astronomy, and poetry while the people who decided that your aunt can’t come to the United States were still living in caves.” Dad’s face was wet now, his skin stained with tears.
“We named you Parvin after the brightest stars in our sky. After the most beautiful constellation in the galaxy. Never forget that you are beautiful, too, baba jaan. And that the things people try to shame you for are what make you stronger.”
I gulped. My mind flickered back to that moment when Wesley had called me “too much” and “loud”; how he’d tried to shame me for who I was. There would be more Wesleys in my life, for sure. The next time I watched a movie or opened a magazine, there would be superstars who’d make me feel ugly or obnoxious, and I had to be prepared. But I came from a long line of people who had stood strong. For the first time in a while, I felt proud of who I was. I just wished Ameh Sara were here to share this moment with me.
Dad gave me a hug. I didn’t know which of us needed it more.
“I’m sorry, baba jaan,” he said into my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
■ ■ ■ PLAYGROUND 9:30 P.M.
The air in the house felt too heavy to breathe. Everything seemed harder than normal, even drinking water or chewing food. Just looking at my phone made my eyes swim. Mom and Dad were on the phone with relatives in Iran to tell them what had happened, and it felt too raw and real. I missed when the biggest problem I had was trying to make a boy like me. It seemed so silly now.
The swing sets by our house were perfect for moping. My feet had already made deep trenches in the mulch where I pushed back and forth in the seat. The swinging motion helped me calm down.
Someone’s feet crunched in the wood chips behind me. I turned around.
“Hey,” Amir said. “Your dad said you were out here.” He wore a Team Melli hoodie and clutched an envelope in his hand.
“Hi.” I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop tearing up at the thought of Ameh Sara scared and helpless in a detention center. Just the idea of it made my eyes swell up again.
“Aghayeh Khosrowshahi told us what happened in class,” Amir explained, sitting down on the swing next to me. He kicked a piece of mulch. “We were all pretty upset, so we made you this.”
He handed me the envelope. It was bright red, with an angry emoji cut out and pasted to the front.
I flipped
