The group started breaking up. I hadn’t noticed the tour end. Fabián leaned over and whispered kindly, “You look devastated.”
“It was nice meeting you, Parvin,” Matty said, shaking my hand. Fabián opted to say goodbye with a hug, and Matty just laughed as he squeezed Fabián back.
“Parvin, come on,” Ruth whined from below the bleachers. “My mom’s driving us home.”
I walked down the empty steps in a daze, still remembering how Wesley could barely look me in the eye when he made it clear he didn’t want to hang out, much less have anything to do with me.
“You gonna be okay?” Ruth bit her lip.
I wished she hadn’t asked. I could feel my throat spasm from holding back a sob. I clenched my jaw and tossed the hair I’d styled perfectly for orientation behind my shoulder.
“I’m fine, Ruth. Dwen jang-a,” I repeated in Korean, having picked up the phrase from Ruth and her mom. Being half Iranian meant languages came easily to me.
Ruth frowned. “You just called yourself a soybean.”
■ ■ ■ HOME 8:00 P.M.
By the time Mrs. Song dropped me off at home, the sun had set, just like my love life.
“How was orientation?” Dad asked. He was putting together dinner at the kitchen counter. By “dinner” I mean a bunch of sliced cheese, lavash, and olives. He made his cheese boards whenever he and Mom had a long day and were too tired to make anything else. It was best if Mom didn’t cook at all.
Dad turned around just as tears began to stream down my face. They felt hot and itchy and paired perfectly with my overwhelming sense of humiliation.
“Parvin joonam, what’s wrong?” Dad hugged me tight, his bristly mustache tickling my forehead. He smelled like black tea and pumpkin seeds: classic Dad smell. “Daph?” he shouted. “Could you come here?”
Mom raced up from the office in our basement, her blond bun filled with markers and pens. She and Dad owned an advertising studio in the lower floor of the house, where Mom did most of the visuals and Dad wrote the words and copy for each advertisement. Now that we were back from the beach, they were working longer hours.
“I . . . got . . . dumped!” I wailed into Dad’s button-down shirt.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, embracing us both. “I didn’t realize you were dating someone?”
“I mean, we were only together a couple of days . . .” I trailed off. Explaining how you got dumped to your parents was almost as embarrassing as having the Sex Talk.
“Wait, was it that boy you were playing with at the beach? Winston?” Dad asked, his thick eyebrows bunching in concern.
“Wesley.” I nodded. Oh no. I could feel more sobs coming on.
“But . . . you’re too young to date! How did I not know you had a boyfriend?” Dad seethed, looking at Mom. “Daphne, did you know?”
Mom threw her hands into the air, shaking her head in response. She peered down at me, her blue eyes turning serious. “Did you go on any dates? Like to the movies and stuff?”
“No, we just hung out at the beach.” I looked between the two of them. Oh, crap. They’d never specifically said I couldn’t date. But I didn’t exactly ask them for permission, either. Was I about to get in trouble? Another drop of shame slid into my belly. I was boyfriendless and probably grounded.
But instead of getting mad, Mom stroked my hair. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“H-he said that I was too loud!”
Dad’s face went from seething to bewildered. “He said what?” His eyebrows were so big and bushy that he could never have a poker face. Meanwhile, Mom had to fill hers in with something called brow pencil every day.
“That’s what he said? And that’s why he dumped you?” She asked this at a normal, less ear-splitting volume than Dad.
I remembered the way Wesley had gestured to all of me, as if I were one big problem.
“He said I was ‘too much’ in general!” I sobbed. “What does that even mean?”
“I’m going to kill him,” Dad growled, taking off his nice watch like he was getting ready to punch someone.
Mom put a pale hand over his. “Mahmoud, leave it.”
She turned toward me, resting a cool palm against my warm face. “Listen to me. Sometimes people—mostly men—call women ‘too loud’ when they have a lot of opinions, or they have a lot to say. Guys at work used to call me ‘bossy’ for the same reasons.”
Dad nodded furiously. “Besides, who wants some boring girl who never speaks up?”
This day felt like a bad dream. Freshman orientation was supposed to prepare me for the first day of school. Instead, it had just made me feel a zillion times worse. How could I start high school now? I could barely wrap my head around what Wesley said to me, much less remember my locker combination. I’d gone from angry to sad to confused in the span of two hours. All I felt now was leg-meltingly tired.
“Is it too early to call Ameh Sara?” I asked.
Dad looked at his watch. “She should be up in a few hours. You can call her then.”
Mom must have noticed me fading fast. “It’s all right, sweetie. Just go upstairs and I’ll bring you some food later.”
Dad kissed my forehead, brushing my curly baby hairs back. “It’s gonna be okay, baba jaan. Go rest.”
I nodded and trudged up the stairs to my room, but I could already hear their argument begin.
“Mahmoud, it wasn’t like he was taking her out and driving her anywhere, they were just horsing around on the beach!” Mom said.
“Still,” Dad growled. “I am going to gut that boy like
