Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel (17 page)

“There is no LeBron James without Dwyane Wade. Without Wade, he would never have won a championship.”

I can’t believe I have to be at this table with the basketball brothers. There is no bigger or brighter function among Persians than a wedding, and Farzaneh’s is turning out to be so opulent it borders on ostentatious. The hotel ballroom is packed with at least thirty tables, filled with mostly Persian people. There are a couple of tables filled with
khareeji,
or foreign, friends.

My parents are sitting at a table on the other side of the ballroom, close to the bride and groom. Farzaneh smiles when people start clinking their glasses for the couple to kiss. She kisses her husband at the long table in the front of the ballroom. The female guests let out a series of high-pitched yells. Us young’uns are in the back, waiting for this whole thing to be over. I stare at the large centerpiece made of white roses and white lilies, wondering if I should buy Lisa flowers. Would she think that’s too cheesy? Is it too soon for that kind of thing? I wish there were a teenage lesbian dating manual.

“She’s coming over here,” Nahal whispers to me as Sepideh drags her boyfriend, Shahram, by the hand, beelining it for Nahal. Sepideh is wearing a beige asymmetrical bridesmaid dress that accentuates her figure but makes her look older.

“Aren’t weddings the best?” Sepideh asks. Her boyfriend, however, looks like he’d rather be having a colonoscopy.

“It’s such a beautiful wedding, Sepideh,” Nahal says sincerely. It is. Fancy chandeliers, excellent mood lighting, and open-bar beautiful.

“I can’t wait for my wedding someday,” Sepideh says, batting her eyes at her sheepish boyfriend. “There are some guys here, Nahal, if you want me to introduce you,” she offers in faux friendliness.

“Actually I’m seeing someone,” Nahal says, and I stare at her wide-eyed. She’s must be lying to one-up Sepideh.

“Oh? Did you meet him at Harvard?” Sepideh asks, tucking all this information into her big hair to save for later gossip with her mother.

“No, at a party in Cambridge,” Nahal says. “He’s sweet.” Maybe she isn’t lying!

“What does he do?” Sepideh asks, and her boyfriend winces and tries to twist his hand away as she squeezes it even tighter.

“He’s a puppeteer. He works at kids’ birthday parties, schools—that kind of thing.” Dad would have a heart attack. I think Sepideh is having one right now, because this is really not their dynamic. She has no idea how to respond to this curveball.

“That’s so . . . nice,” she manages.

Nahal fishes her phone out of her purse and finds a photo to show Sepideh. “His name’s Jeff.” Sepideh takes in the pixels and her fake smile falters. She passes the phone back to Nahal.

“Can I see?” I ask, and Nahal hands me her phone. Jeff looks like he’s around Nahal’s age, disheveled in a T-shirt with paint splattered on it. He’s rugged and a little pudgy but cute, and he’s carrying a laughing Nahal in his arms. It’s weird, but they look really good together, like they fit.

“Your parents must be so thrilled,” Sepideh drawls out in a syrupy voice that seems to put Shahram on high alert.

“I haven’t introduced him to Dad yet, since he doesn’t have his PhD in puppetry,” Nahal jokes. “But Mom’s met him and thinks he’s a doll.” Huh. You think you know a person. I feel my face contort into what I’m pretty sure is a smile.

Thankfully, the band starts playing Persian music, and all the guests rush the dance floor, Sepideh included, dragging Shahram behind her. The men outstretch their arms while quickly moving their feet, as though they are about to be met with a hug. The women sway their hips back and forth in time with the percussion and shimmy their shoulders flirtatiously.

“So, Jeff?” I ask Nahal, cocking an eyebrow.

Nahal shrugs. “I figured you had enough going on at home. But if you ever want to double-date?”

The bride and groom are now dancing in the center of the floor, and the clapping guests surround them. Mom and Dad are among them. I don’t know if it’s the beat of the music, or that Dad is with his people, speaking Farsi and reminiscing about the old days, but he’s always happiest at these things.

Mom and Dad have begun speaking again, but Dad has been retreating to the guest room after dinner. I don’t know if he’s tired or if he just doesn’t want to confront the giant, hairy Mr. Snuffleupagus in the room.

When the song finishes, Dad walks over to our table. “Girls, come dance!”

Nahal rolls her eyes but doesn’t have the patience to argue and moseys over to Mom on the dance floor. Dad takes Nahal’s seat next to me.

“Isn’t this great, Leila?” he asks, and I nod. Together we watch the bride and groom dancing as the MC on stage says, “
Khanoum ha raghs, Agayoon dast,
” or “Ladies dance, gentlemen applaud.” The men clap alone while the women continue to move their arms in fluid waves. “Don’t you want this, too, Leila? A nice big wedding? A nice husband?” Now he stares at me with his hopeful, wide eyes. My shoulders crumple, and I can’t look at him.

He knows.

Dad looks at Parsa and Arsalan, who are so bored they might fall asleep at the table. “What’s wrong with you guys? Why don’t you ask my beautiful daughter to dance?” Dad asks jovially, and the boys laugh politely. I slump lower in my seat and want to slide under the table and hide.

I want to believe my dad thinks I am beautiful, but I know my having a girlfriend must make me ugly in his eyes.

“I don’t feel much like dancing,” I say. Dad looks at me with a sad pout, and I feel like a failure.

“Are you sure?” he asks nervously. He’s not talking about dancing any longer. It really pains me to see him on the brink of heartbreak like this. I could lie and maybe spare his feelings. I could tell him the truth and try to prove to him that I’m just as good a person as I was before he found out I was gay. And I’m happier. And I’m doing better at science.

But I don’t say anything. I don’t answer him, and he quietly walks away from the table, leaving me with the basketball brothers, who resume debating LeBron’s defensive skills while I do my best not to cry.

I wake up to the sound of Cat Power’s “Silver Stallion,” which is my ringtone for Saskia. It is 3:20 a.m., and we only got home from the wedding around 1:00 a.m. I hit “ignore.”

She calls again. I hit ignore.

She calls me once more and I turn off my phone.

When I wake up for real in the morning, I turn on my phone again. I have fifty-six text messages and thirty-two missed calls from Saskia.

At first the text messages are sweet. Sickeningly so.

Hey gorgeous! Don’t be mad at me, I just got jealous. Forgive me? Xo

I miss you!

I wish you were here with me.

Then she talks about her life, like I care.

My family is moving again. I thought you would want to know.

I came, I saw, I got bored, and it’s time to move on.

For what it’s worth, you made the year interesting. So thank you.

Then the messages are about sex.

Robert is a terrible lover
.

I know I’m a better kisser than your sad sack girlfriend.

I bet you haven’t slept with her yet. You know I’d be better.

And then the messages just get vicious.

Why aren’t you answering, you stupid dyke?

I never even liked you. I just liked how pathetic you were and that you followed me around.

I was being charitable letting your disgusting tongue in my mouth.

Your ugly girlfriend is going to grow tired of you just like I did.

I don’t read any more of them. I drop the phone to the floor and rush to the toilet, crouch above it, and dry heave.

I let Lisa talk about the squash tournament on our drive to school because I don’t want to talk about my own weekend of disappointing my dad and being abused by text.

I observe Lisa as she speaks, studying how long her eyelashes are, how her mouth naturally curves downward, making her look like she’s always about to frown.

“How do you do it?” I ask, and Lisa briefly glances at me, not wanting to lose sight of the road. “How are you so . . . brave?” And why is she with someone who is so afraid of everything?

“Xanax,” she says, and I almost believe her until she sticks her tongue out. “I don’t know. Being alone and smoking wasn’t really helping much.” I think of my Sunday spent cowering in a bathroom, trying to expel thoughts of a horrible girl by vomiting her away. “And I’m not that brave. I haven’t visited Steve’s grave since the funeral a year and a half ago.”

“When you go, if you do, I’d like to go with you,” I say as Lisa pulls onto the Armstead campus. She takes her eyes off the road long enough to snap her head in my direction. “If you want.” Lisa turns her attention back to driving and parks her car in the junior lot. She unbuckles her seat belt and kisses me, hard and urgently, like I have just asked her to marry me. For a moment I feel lighter, and the pain of the weekend melts away.

•••

I knock on the office that Ms. Taylor shares with two other English teachers. I’ve checked all schedules to make sure her colleagues are teaching.

Ms. Taylor looks up from her laptop and starts to smile, until she sees that I am crying. “Leila? What’s wrong?” she asks. She stands up from her chair and pulls me into a hug. Every student should have a Ms. Taylor. I wipe away my tears and try to breathe deeply and compose myself. Ms. Taylor sits me down in her office chair and locks the door. She sits in the visitor’s chair in front of me and offers me a box of tissues.

I cradle my face in my hands for a few minutes while she asks what she can do for me. I can hear in her voice that she really means it. I take my cell phone out of my pocket and find the text messages. I slide it over to Ms. Taylor and watch her read the texts, her expression going from confused to embarrassed and finally to bewildered. I’ve stopped crying, but breathing is still something I have to remind myself to do.

“Do your parents know about this?” Ms. Taylor asks, and I shake my head. Dad doesn’t want to know I’m gay; I don’t want him to think I have terrible taste in girls to boot. “She’s been expelled because of what happened at the dance. I was in the headmaster’s office with her parents, and they seemed at a loss as to what to do with her. She’s had . . . problems at other schools.” Well, at least it’s a comfort to know I am not her only victim.

“This year has been . . . a lot, and I really feel like I’m . . . like I don’t want to feel guilty or worried about who I am anymore. And I don’t know how to do that.”

“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” Ms. Taylor says. I
want
to believe that. I
should
believe that. “I’m going to make an appointment with the school counselor for you. Do you think you could do that for me? Go see her?” I’m not so sure about counseling. I don’t think I’m depressed or crazy. Then I think of Lisa, who seems to be getting better and happier every day. She’s in therapy. If she hadn’t gone to therapy, maybe we wouldn’t be together now.

“I’ll try anything. Really.” Ms. Taylor nods and dials an extension on her phone. She makes an appointment for me with Ms. Patel. While Ms. Taylor is on the phone, I look at the photographs on her desk. There’s a small photo of her and Mr. Harris wearing lobster bibs at some outdoor pier. I guess lots of people have a hard time letting go.

The night of the middle school play is at last upon us. We’re performing before the freshman play as a doubleheader. The kids are all pretty nervous. Tomas has rounded them up for a pep talk before the audience takes their seats.

“This is not just some trivial middle-school farce. This is drama, people. Theater! You are embarking on a journey that may one day lead to the bright lights of Broadway, or Hollywood, or public speaking at some convention. It’s evenings like this one that separate the true performers from the rabble.” I am glad he left his whistle at home.

“I think what Tomas wants to say is, we’re both so very proud of you. You’ve spent a lot of time working together and listening to us when it wasn’t always easy.” I notice Thurston glaring at Tomas. “We know how hard you worked,
you
know how hard you worked, so let’s show them what you’re made of!”

“Yeah! Let’s kick some ass!” Thurston yells, and his seventh- and eighth-grade friends cheer.

Tomas stays backstage to make sure the kids all have their costumes and props. I’m in charge of lighting and music cues in the tech booth. But first I open the auditorium doors with Mr. Kessler, and we hand out programs to our audience, mostly parents, because, well, it’s middle school drama and not Eugene O’Neill. It’s nice seeing some teachers and older siblings take interest, too.

Ms. Taylor shows up accompanied by a tall, handsome guy who definitely doesn’t teach at Armstead.

“Hi, superstar,” Ms. Taylor says as she gives me a hug. “I brought my friend Sanjay.”

He shakes my hand and smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Leila. I’ve heard all about you.” He’s a stand up guy to come sit through a middle school play for a date.

“Good luck,” Ms. Taylor says. Sanjay takes her hand as she leads him to a frontrow seat. It’s almost time for the curtain, so I give the rest of the programs to Mr. Kessler. I rush up to the tech booth, where Christina is already inside, amped and ready to go, and put on my headset.

“How’s it looking in this light?” Christina asks. I am beyond impressed with her handiwork. The backdrop on the stage looks like the inside of a ballroom.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her, and she smiles a toothy grin, complete with a lot of fang.

“I know! Taryn and Simone were freaking out in the back row a little while ago.”

The house lights are still on as I wait for Tomas’s signals that all are ready backstage. Mom, Dad, and Nahal walk in, and I can see them clearly from above. Nahal is wearing her eyebrow ring, which is kind of spectacular. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be wearing it tonight if I hadn’t come out.

I look back to my notes and make sure I have all the appropriate cues.

“Hey, look who showed up,” Christina says, and I glance down at the auditorium doorway. Tess is holding Greg’s hand and doesn’t appear to be dragging him anywhere. I don’t think he’s here because he loves middle school theater, so maybe it’s a start to, I don’t know, rebuilding the bromance?

“It’s time to play the music / It’s time to light the lights.” Tomas sings
The Muppet Show
theme. That means it’s go time. I flicker the lights to let stragglers know that the show is about to begin. Mr. Kessler begins to shut the double doors when someone stops them and they swing open again. There is the loveliest girl in the world, clutching a pale pink rose in her hand. Lisa looks up at the booth and gives me a small wave.

I’m pretty sure I am in love with her. I should let her know after the show.

“Romeo?” Christina’s nudge to my arm breaks me from my reverie.“It’s showtime.” I lower the lights and wait for the kids to take their places.

When they are all at their marks, I turn on cue one, which shines a single light on Libby in wing tips, an overcoat, and a fedora.

“This is the story of Cinderella,” Libby says with perfect projection. At the beginning of rehearsals, Libby’s lisp made her self-conscious and reluctant to speak up, but Tomas insisted on working with her, with surprising patience, until she owned the part of the narrator. “A story we all know by heart. She’s poor, she overcomes obstacles with the help of magic, and she gets the prince. Well, that version is
borrring
.” The audience laughs right on cue. “So this is our retelling.”

The light hits the stage with Thurston in a dirty dress and messy blond wig, mopping the floor.

“Cinderella was an orphan,” Libby says. “A cute, lovable, darling orphan.” Thurston curtsies while batting his eyelashes.

Two seventh-grade girls enter dressed in blazers, their hair pulled back in ponytails. They are wearing pencil mustaches and biting on plastic pipes.

“Her only family was her snooty stepbrothers,” Libby says as the two seventh graders, Stepbrother #1 and Stepbrother #2, stand on either side of Cinderella.

“Ah, what a fine day to be a man,” says Stepbrother #1, and the audience laughs.

“Yes, it is wonderful to be able to do as we please. Say, brother, I’ve heard there is going to be a ball with plenty of eligible bachelorettes. Shall we go?” Stepbrother #2 says, tugging on his blazer sleeves.

“Cinderella, who was taught to put her stepbrothers’ needs before her own, was always curious why they could do as they pleased and she could not,” Libby says.

Thurston stands up straight, brushes himself off, and speaks in a falsetto, made funnier because his voice is already cracking. “Do you think maybe I could go to the ball?” he asks, and the stepbrothers do their best country-club laugh with their heads thrown back.

“Ba ha ha. Oh, you silly girl, you know it’s only for the well-to-do,” Stepbrother #2 says, smoothing “his” ponytail to make sure not a hair is out of place.

“The ball is for a
select
few,” Stepbrother #1 says with a chortle. “And men of a certain . . . character, at that.” “He means
with money,
” Libby stage-whispers.

“Well, we’re off to the ball. Ta,” says Stepbrother #1, tugging his lapels and pursing his lips. The stepbrothers exit, muttering about the help, and ham up their snob walk, backs rigid and backsides stuck out just a little. I dim the lights except for the one on Thurston and Libby.

“Cinderella was filled with rage,” Libby says.

Thurston screams like he’s the Hulk.

“Cinderella was filled with sorrow.”

Thurston sobs hysterically.

“Cinderella was exhausted.”

Thurston falls to the ground and fans himself.

“So many feelings. So many.”

“Cinderella was visited by a kindly spirit,” Libby says. I hit the cue for flashing colored lights. Molly, a tiny girl dressed in a mobster’s suit with a pair of wings on her back, enters from stage right.

“Who are you?” Cinderella asks in wonderment.

“It was Cinderella’s fairy godmother,” Libby says while Cassie scratches her chin with her fingers, like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
.

“I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Godmother says to a stunned Cinderella. The audience chuckles. Good, there are plenty of
Godfather
fans in the house.

“The fairy godmother explained she could give Cinderella one wish,” Libby says.

“As today is the day of my daughter’s wedding,” the fairy
Godfather
says.

“I can have any wish?” Thurston asks.

“Anything you like,” the narrator says, and the fairy godmother nods.

The play continues with all the things the fairy godmother is willing to offer, giving every actor a moment in the spotlight. She offers the chance to be an Olympic gymnast and snaps her fingers. One of the stepbrothers does two backflips. The kids act out all the various opportunities that are offered to Cinderella, which she turns down one by one, from wealthy banker to president to pop star. Finally, after several skits, Thurston interrupts.

“You know what I want?” he asks. The stepbrothers, the fairy godmother, and the narrator together yell “WHAT?” exasperated by all the fabulous possibilities Thurston has passed on.

“I’d like a friend.”

“That can be arranged,” the fairy godmother says, and points to a pumpkin near Thurston’s feet. I cut the lights. When I bring them back up, the pumpkin has turned into Jennifer, an eighth-grade girl wearing a pumpkin costume.

“Wanna crash the ball together?” the pumpkin asks. Cinderella and the pumpkin hold hands and the lights go out.

I turn off the lights and wait for the cast to assemble onstage. As soon as they all line up, I turn on the lights and the audience applauds. My cast is beaming, holding hands and bowing like they’re in the Royal Shakespeare Company.

When the ninth-grade performance of
The Lottery
is over, the middle school kids meet up with their parents in the lobby and receive their congratulations.

“Much better than
Glengarry Glen Ross,
” Mr. Kessler says with a grin.

Tomas puffs out his chest. “We are artists.”

Mr. Kessler hugs both of us and goes to talk with the ninth graders and their parents.

Tomas turns to me and extends his hand. “Madame director, it was a pleasure.”

I shake his hand firmly while looking him in the eye. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Tomas spots Thurston, who is now in jeans and a T-shirt, and goes to high-five him. They yell in each other’s faces like they have just won the Super Bowl.

My family walks toward me and Dad gives me a hug. “Well, that certainly was . . . interesting,” Dad says.“Are you indoctrinating kids with your liberal views?” The twinkle in his eye lets me know that he’s joking, or trying to. At least he’s not being as critical as I anticipated.

“These are for you, sweetheart,” Mom says, handing me a huge bouquet of tulips with a card attached. Mom kisses my cheek; Nahal stands behind her and grins.

“Read the card later,” Nahal says, and winks at me. I still can’t get over that eyebrow ring.

“Thank you for coming. It means a lot.”

“Of course, honey,” Mom says. She gives me a big hug, almost crushing the flowers in my arms. I look over Mom’s shoulder and see Tess, Greg, and Lisa standing together. Mom backs away to follow my line of vision. “Let’s let Leila be with her friends. Is . . . are your friends driving you home?” We both know she means Lisa.

Dad doesn’t know yet that Lisa’s my girlfriend, which for now is fine by me. He’s still adjusting to my being gay the best way he can, not talking about it, but also not condemning me or loving me less. It’s a good a start.

“Yeah, I’m all set,” I say, and Mom nods.

“Before you go, could you persuade your sister to take that thing off of her face?” Dad asks me with a grimace, which gets a big eye roll from Nahal.

“We’ll see you at home,” Nahal says before walking away with Mom in tow. Dad lingers for just a minute.

“I . . . well, I don’t understand all the things you do, but I am proud of you. You know that, right?” he says, and he begins to get misty-eyed. I’ve never seen him cry! I smile and he takes a deep breath. “Okay, good. Don’t get home too late.” He gives me a hug before walking briskly out of the performance center. My traditional, Iranian, conservative father, a teddy bear in a suit.

I head with my flowers over to Greg, Tess, and Lisa. I hug Lisa and when we release she hands me my rose. I’m going to make a giant poster to hold up when I cheer for her at the squash match next weekend.

I look over at Greg. I don’t know if he’s still angry, but his being here is a good sign. He folds his arms in front of him and quirks an eyebrow. “So when are we hitting the strip club together?” he asks, and Tess punches him in the shoulder. Greg just laughs and looks at Tess adoringly then asks her, “Can you give Leila and me a second?”

Tess gives me a hug and Lisa kisses me on the cheek before they walk over to Tomas and the tech girls. Greg looks at me intently, his brow furrowed, like he wants to form words but is somehow unable to.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I begin. “I wasn’t really telling anyone, if it makes you feel better. I got figured out
plenty
of times by people who have better gaydar than I do, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Greg stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks down at his shoes, like an adorable little boy. “Leila, listen. I’m sorry if I was a jerk. I didn’t know. I didn’t know—you and Saskia.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t tell you, so how would you know?”

“I don’t care if you like girls. I do, too, so now we have more to talk about.”

“I’ve always had a huge crush on the actress in
Zombie Killers Part II,
” I confess. “You know, before she gets decapitated.” He looks impressed and then nods slowly, as though he’s finally putting together all the pieces of our previous conversations about her.

“No more lies?” he asks,

I shake my head. “No more lies.” It’s such a relief to have no reason to deceive him anymore. I’ve missed him. We pound it out with our fists, and I look forward to the time when we’ll talk in complete detail about how Megan Fox was the only redeeming thing about
Transformers
.

When I get into the passenger side of Lisa’s car, I open the card that was attached to the flowers from my family. It reads in big, bold letters:
We Love You Unconditionally! Mom, Dad, and Nahal.
I show the card to Lisa and she starts to cry for me. After a few moments she takes deep breaths and wipes away her tears.

“I don’t know where those sudden allergies came from,” Lisa jokes. I kiss her on the cheek.

“Lots of pollen in the winter. Totally understandable.”

Lisa laughs and starts the car. It sounds like horses neighing, carrying us off to a long overdue ball.