“But you’re not going with Matty,” Fabián clarified.
I nodded.
“So he’s solo,” Fabián stated, as if just adding it up.
“I guess?” I replied. “Why do you care? I thought you were thinking of going to Homecoming with Austin?”
“Do you even like Matty anymore?” Fabián wheedled.
I shrugged. “Nah.”
“Excellent,” he said. Suddenly he got up, his lunch half finished.
“Where are you going?” Ruth asked.
Fabián smiled. “I have some business to take care of.”
“Like what? You don’t even have a bank account yet!” I retorted. Which was true—all the money from his influencer gigs went straight to his parents.
Fabián just gave me a sly grin and walked away, whistling.
■ ■ ■ AFTER CLASS 3:00 P.M.
I’d never seen Amir at school unless we were meeting at the bleachers. James K. Polk High was just too big to randomly run into people unless you memorized their class schedule. But I knew he was leaving English at the end of the day.
I waited for him outside his classroom, and he looked surprised to see me.
“Hey, Amir, can we talk?” I asked as his class spilled into the hallway.
“What’s up?”
“Let’s go someplace quiet,” I said, pushing the door open to head outside. I sat down on the low brick wall, scooching over so he could sit next to me.
“This isn’t going to be a fun conversation, is it?” Amir sighed.
I winced. I’d thought a lot about Amir this week. And Matty. And Wesley. And how I had been relying on guys to build my self-esteem. But that wasn’t how self-esteem worked. Only you could decide how high or low an opinion you held of yourself.
“The truth is,” I began, awkwardly kicking the wall beneath me, “I like you, too. But I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship right now, and I think I need to be boy-free for a while.”
I exhaled. I got it out all in one go—like I’d practiced in the mirror last night—and it had paid off. Even though it was fun to just blurt things out, it also felt good to think things through before you said them sometimes. I wasn’t Loud Parvin right now, but I wasn’t Quiet Parvin, either. I was someone more thoughtful. Someone who was trying to be better.
I couldn’t just brush off my feelings anymore or bury them deep down. I had to give them space and share them clearly if I wanted people to get to know the real me. The Real Parvin.
The fact was, I felt closer to Amir than anyone I’d ever had a crush on. But I’d jumped from Wesley to Matty to Amir so fast, it was hard to even remember what life was like before I let boys rule my brain. I was still scared of doing something wrong with Amir, or getting hurt again.
He ran his hands through his hair, the curls flopping back into his eyes. “I don’t understand. You like me, but you don’t want to go out with me?”
I shook my head. “It’s not just that. There’s stuff I need to work on. Like being a better friend. And a better me, actually. Because I’ve been pretty crappy to myself lately.”
Amir sighed. “So, you’re saying you just want to be friends?”
I nodded, my face set. “That’s what I want.”
Amir held out his hand. I shook it.
“For the record, I still want to be friends, too.” Amir tried to smile, but faltered. God, he was so cute. “But I think it might be best if we change Farsi partners for a while.”
“That makes sense.” My heart tanked. I’d finally gotten the hang of Farsi school, thanks to Amir’s help. I didn’t know how it would be without him as my study buddy.
“Also, I forgot to tell you—we have to write our own poem for Sunday’s class. Aghayeh Khosrowshahi says you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, since . . . well . . .”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Amir nodded and stayed there, our legs kicking back and forth against the brick wall.
“The student journal starts up next week,” Amir said into the silence. “Finally.”
“That’s so great!” I knew Amir had worked really hard to make that happen. Now he’d get to show his parents what he could do.
“Yeah,” he said. “We still need more content, though. It’s tough starting without a full club roster.”
“Well, let me know if you need any help with it,” I offered. I doubted he’d take me up on it, though. Writing was not my strong suit.
“Actually, do you think you could write an article for the first issue?”
“About what?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Like a restaurant review or something?”
Amir laughed. “No, like . . . a piece about immigration?”
I thought for a minute. I hadn’t really considered sharing our family’s story beyond telling my friends. But then I thought of how we were in the museum yesterday, surrounded by people who had no idea what had happened to Ameh Sara. People should know. They needed to know how people were treated at our borders.
“Okay,” I said. “Deal.” It was my turn to hold my hand out. Amir shook it.
■ ■ ■ HOME 7:00 P.M.
Mom was actually making dinner tonight. I think it was lasagna. Or some kind of pasta served in a casserole dish. It was best not to look too closely.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, pulling a piece of melted cheese from the top of the pan. Mom shooed me away from the kitchen island.
“Actually, we have company tonight.”
My eyes narrowed. “Who?”
And then, the doorbell rang. “Salaam, bitches!” I heard someone exclaim in the hallway, letting themselves in.
“Hanna!” Mom chided.
Wait, Hanna? From Farsi school?
“Sorry, Mrs. Mohammadi. ’Sup, Parvin,” Hanna said, waltzing into our kitchen with a makeup case in each hand.
“Hey,” I said. What was she doing here? Hanna was a senior in the next county over. Was she teaching my mom Farsi basics or something?
“Your ameh enlisted my help,” Hanna explained. “Our mamans knew each other, back in Iran.”
“Oh,” I replied. That was cool. What did that have to do with her being
