Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel (5 page)

Sunday at lunch, Dad continues to compliment Nahal on her day at the hospital, especially how attentive she was during the surgery when she observed him in the operating room. I keep pushing all the saffron-coated rice around the chicken and dried barberries to one side of my plate, saving the best for last.

“Nahal was so observant!” Dad exclaims. “All the nurses and residents were so impressed!”

Mom is smiling giddily, no doubt envisioning her daughter in scrubs, rushing around performing complicated, miraculous surgeries and still being home at night to see the perfect kids she’ll have with her perfect husband. They’ll all play board games together on weekends, set up low-key barbecues, maybe have golden retrievers named Rusty and Scout. Whenever I go over to visit my sister and her dashingly handsome and successful husband, they’ll ask me what I’m up to, and I’ll tell them I’m feeling pretty good since I moved into a bigger box off the side of the highway. Much better digs than that dump in the Store 24 parking lot. They’ll offer me something to eat and I will hoard things, stuffing bread and raw hot dogs in my pockets for later, frightening my nephews and nieces.

The dogs will growl and try to scare me off, but they won’t know the things I’ve seen, won’t know what scrapes I’ve gotten into. That’s when I’ll realize I’m allergic to dogs. My eyes will water, turn fiery red, and my face will break out in hives, blinding me in a puffy, dirty, homeless, lesbionic state. Cowering in the grass of their beautiful backyard, my mother will cry out:
“Oh, if only she were good at science like you, Nahal! If only she dated Greg back in high school! My poor, poor Leila!”

“Leila,” Nahal says.

I twitch as if I’ve been hit by lightning. “I don’t want to be homeless!” I shout.

“Jeez. Leila, what’s your problem?” Nahal and our parents stare at me.

“Nothing. Sorry.” I slump in my chair.

“What are you talking about, Leila
joon
?” Dad begins to laugh and everyone else joins in, my spontaneous outburst diverting some attention from Nahal at least, though not for the right reasons.

“I guess I was just rehearsing for the play. If I get a part,” I say.

“What play? What about soccer?” Mom is clearly concerned that I will no longer be forced to work out, and will gain weight.

“I quit soccer and auditioned for the school play instead. I’ll find out this week if I made it.”

“So you might not even have a part?” says Nahal.

Why are you even here, Nahal?
I think.
Don’t you have any friends?

“No. I just said I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’ll find out this week.”

“What will you do if you don’t get a part?” Mom chimes in, hoping there will be some other masochistic physical activity after school.

“I guess I’ll help behind the scenes or something. I thought it might be fun to do something different. Why is everyone giving me a hard time?”

“Leila, calm down. We just want to know what’s going on in your life,” says Nahal like she’s my mother.
Nahal, shut up, and stop condescending to me just because you don’t have a social life.

“The play is
Twelfth Night,
” I say. “It’s Shakespeare. So really, it’s educational—and you’re always saying how education is the most important thing,” Hopefully this will shut everybody up.

“If it’s something you like, Leila
joon,
then we will support you no matter what. We will sit in the front row every night with flowers.” Mom smiles and puts more salad on my plate.

“
If
she gets a part,” my premenstrual sister says. I can’t believe Nahal and I are even related. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t commented on the situation. He usually chimes in about how important school is and how he hopes other activities won’t get in the way of my already mediocre science grades. But he just frowns and chows down more saffron chicken and barberries. Dad and I don’t have much in common, but our few similarities are strong. You can read exactly how we’re feeling from our facial expressions and we can’t hide our emotions at all. Nahal, of course, is the first to mention it.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Why does she even call him “Daddy” anymore? She’s not four.

“I just don’t see why Leila would seriously consider theater. Is this a career path for you?” Dad asks.

“Uh . . . I don’t know, Dad. It’s just a school play,” I say.

“I mean, do you want to be an actor? That’s not a real job,” he says with a chuckle.

“I wasn’t planning on becoming a professional soccer player but no one complained about that. And if I were considering acting as a job, so what? What’s wrong with that?” I could be a great character actor. Bag lady with crazy hair, Latina maid, terrorist, I could do it all.

“Only drug addicts and gays are actors. You don’t want to hang out with those people, do you?” the good doctor asks.

That knocks the wind out of me. I understand it’s a cultural thing, and my father is a traditional, conservative Iranian man, but I’ve never heard him explicitly say something like that. I don’t want to hang out with those people. Imagine if he knew I
am
one of those people.

“Daddy, not all actors are gays or drug addicts! What about Clint Eastwood? You love his movies,” Nahal says.

“That was a different time, and you want to see your sister in a cowboy outfit shooting people? Medicine is a consistent profession. No matter what the economy is like, there is always work. How else do you think I could afford to keep all you women in such comfort?”

“You’re right, Daddy,” Nahal says with a smile, and sips from her glass of water.

“I have homework to do. May I be excused?” I ask Mom, who nods. I walk upstairs and lie on my bed, playing a few mind-numbing rounds of Tetris on my laptop, trying to make the pieces fit. I’m always trying to make the pieces fit.

Mom comes up later with a plate of cut-up watermelon and pears. I don’t pretend that I’m working. I’m just in front of the computer, looking at past high scores.

“Eat this fruit. It’s good for your skin.” She puts the plate on the table and sits next to me on the bed. “I’m sure you will get a part. I think it’s good for you to try new things. It shows character, and maybe you’ll really learn more about yourself.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Mom takes a slice of pear from the plate and hands it over to me. I chew on it slowly, and I wish this heavy feeling in my stomach would go away.

“Your father works hard for a living,” Mom says. “He just wants to make sure you have a good life and can support yourself.” I smile a little and take another bite of pear. “I wish you would talk to me more, Leila. These days I feel like you don’t share as much with me as you used to.”

I’m afraid you and Dad are going to hate me.

I’m afraid everyone will hate me.

“If something’s bothering me, I’ll let you know, Mom,” I say.

“I hope so.” She smiles sadly before walking away, and I start a new game.

I’m an understudy in the play. Fair enough. I didn’t even finish my audition. But I have to learn all of the main characters’ lines
and
act as stage manager because I need something to do while the regular cast is rehearsing. Not only does Tess have the lead role of Viola/Cesario, but Saskia is playing Olivia, the character who moons over Cesario. In other words, Saskia has to act like she’s in love with Tess Carr in drag, while I wait in the wings. How could this happen? I should be comforted that I am not the only one who wasn’t cast in the play. Tomas Calvin, who poured his heart into his audition, is also an understudy/stage manager. Of course that means we have to work together. Great.

Tomas devotes most of our first rehearsal to complaints. “I can’t believe I didn’t get a part. I mean
you
I can understand, because, well, that was just embarrassing. But me, I have so much talent!” I half listen to him as I look over the binder full of notes and stage-blocking diagrams. I can’t believe I signed on for this.

“I would be a perfect Sebastian,” Tomas continues. “It doesn’t make sense that they cast Nick Fullerton instead of me! He breathes through his mouth and always scratches his balls like no one will notice. Not that I’ve noticed. Well, okay, maybe I have, but he brings that attention on himself.”

Having to work with Tomas must be some sort of punishment for my recent negative energy. Now I have all the proof I need that my entire life is a sitcom designed by God for His personal enjoyment. Tomas and I sit in the midsection of the empty auditorium, watching Mr. Kessler get the actors organized in a circle for some stupid bonding activity. Saskia walks in at the last minute and glides over to the stage as though she isn’t late at all, smiling at everyone. As Mr. Kessler leads the group in activity, Tomas continues to whisper to me.

“I heard the new girl’s parents are loaded.”

“So what if they are?” I whisper back. “It’s none of our business.”

It’s the first sentence I’ve said in about half an hour of Tomas’s whining, and of course it’s in defense of Saskia.

Tomas is ready to move on anyway. “I was thinking there’s going to have to be one stage manager behind stage with props and things, and one in the tech booth. And since I am clearly more of a conversationalist, I think it’s only appropriate that I work with the actors and you work with the techies.”

“No,” I say emphatically.

“Why not? Chicken?”

“Yes. I am. You guessed it.”

“Leila, don’t be unreasonable. I mean, you know gay men and hard-core lesbians like the tech girls don’t get along.”

Tomas and I glance behind us where the tech girls are looking over plans for constructing the sets. Simone is knitting absurdly long stockings while Taryn goes over diagrams and Christina bares her fake set of vampire fangs. Christina glances in our direction and bites harshly into her apple. Tomas and I turn back around quickly and in sync.

“They’ll kill me, Leila! You’re a woman. They’ll take pity on you! Maybe even hit on you!”

“Shut up, Tomas.”

Saskia is making the other actors laugh. I wish I could hear what she’s saying.

“I so want to be friends with her!” Tomas is giddy to a stereotypical T.

“What happened to Ashley and all of them?”

“They’re boring. This new girl is so . . . exotic and traveled. Plus she dresses so cosmopolitan chic.” Saskia does a dramatic twirl for her part in the bonding exercise and everyone else in the group has to do the same motion. “What do you think of her?” asks Tomas.

What a loaded question. I think she’s gorgeous, enigmatic, and unlike anyone I will ever meet, unlike anyone I will inquire or dream about, unlike anyone worth mentioning in magazines and literature.

“She’s nice,” I murmur.

“Well, I’m going to be friends with her.” As irritating as I find Tomas, there is one thing that I really admire about him. He is sincerely sure about everything.

After rehearsal Tomas and I are left to clean up the stage and put the props back in their places, that sort of thing. The role we share is about as important as a calculator during a history exam. Though I will admit this: It’s better than soccer.

Tomas has wandered off and I’m onstage sweeping up when Saskia walks toward me. My breath quickens.

“Hi! You look like a Middle Eastern Cinderella!”

“Hi, Saskia.”

“I’m sorry we won’t get to act together.”

“It’s okay. I think I’m doing a good job at this sweeping thing, don’t you?” I smirk and she grins back. I could play this game for years.

“It’s too bad really. You did have a tremendous audition.”

“Please, I’m embarrassed enough as it is. There’s no reason for you to rub salt in the wound.”

“Oh please, everybody farts. The stuff before that was absolutely brilliant.”

“You think so?”

“Of course! I don’t say something unless I mean it.” That’s a philosophy I could stand to live by. “What are you doing this weekend?” she asks out of the blue.

“I have a family thing I have to do.” I really don’t want to go to the Zamanfars’. But I suppose if I don’t, I’ll be home watching a Lifetime movie marathon and fantasizing about my first date with Saskia.

“Are you free next weekend?” she asks casually. “I was wondering if you’d like to come by my place. My parents are hardly ever in town and I could use some company.” My stomach takes the express elevator from the basement to the penthouse.

“I’d love to.”

“So would I!” Tomas says as he comes bounding toward us.

“Tomas gave me the idea for all of us to hang out!” Saskia exclaims. “I’m so looking forward to it.”

I don’t believe it—he’s actually achieving his goal!

“Well, I better go. See you!” Saskia waves and runs down the ramp, out of the auditorium.

“We are going to have so much fun, Leila!” says Tomas. “I’m going to bring my cocktail book and everything.” He drops a boxful of props by my feet and smiles. “Would you mind putting these away tonight? I’m just going to go chat with Saskia before she leaves. Bye!”

“I know. I can’t stand that guy, either,” Taryn says from behind me. I swear she just appeared. She pops out of places like a phantom. She picks up the box of props and puts it in the cabinet backstage while I pretend to sweep some more. “You like her, don’t you?”

“What?”

“New girl. You have a crush on her.”

“I . . . I’m not like that.”

Taryn’s cold look doesn’t change during all this, but she nods in understanding.

“Guess I’m just seeing things. My bad.”

She skulks away and leaves me alone in the auditorium.

I keep fidgeting with my dress and wish I could just wear pants to this thing. Mom insisted I should wear a purple bebe she found on sale. She doesn’t play around when it’s Persian Party Time, and a Persian designer is a nice plus.

Dad drives and Mom sits up front while Nahal and I sit in the back. “Zohreh says Farzaneh met her fiancé in dental school.” Mom is gushing as she relays what her friend Zohreh has told her about her future son-in law. “He comes from a good family in Los Angeles. His father is a professor at UC Riverside, and his mother is an electrical engineer.”

“You know why people become dentists? They can’t get high enough marks to become real doctors—right, Nahal?” Dad says it with fresh conviction, like we haven’t been hearing this joke for years.

“Don’t say that at the party!” Mom commands, and Dad just nods. “Anyway, he’s supposed to be handsome.”

“I bet he’s gross like her last boyfriend.” Nahal’s not wrong, that guy was gross.

“Nahal, that’s not nice,” Mom reprimands her. The last boyfriend always left his top shirt buttons undone to show his flowing chest hair. He also fancied himself an “entrepreneur,” though no one actually knew what he did for a living. Farzaneh has always dated Persian guys. Whether it’s because she’s truly attracted to them or because her parents expect her to marry a Persian man, I haven’t a clue. Mom and Dad have never imposed upon Nahal and me that we should have only Persian significant others. But I’m sure they assume someone of the opposite sex, at least, is a given.

“What’s Farzaneh’s fiancé’s name?” I ask.

“Oh, um . . . It’s uh . . . hmmm, I forget!” Mom says. She knows all his accolades have been rattled off but doesn’t know his name, which is less important. I’m sure he has two names, the Persian name that his parents bestowed upon him and his day-to-day American name. A lot of Iranians have names that are difficult for some people to pronounce, like Khosro, so they’ll go by something like “Kevin” at their jobs or among friends. The best is when the Persian name has nothing to do with the Western name. When Parviz becomes Mark, I’m not really sure where that comes from.

We drive up to the massive McMansion that is the Zamanfars’ home, and Dad parks the car. “Everybody ready?” Mom asks with a wide smile.

When we enter everyone stands up and we greet each other individually. There is a lot of kissing on both cheeks; you can’t overlook anyone. So anytime someone enters a party, there’s more standing and kissing.

“
Salam, Leila joon! Che bozorg shodi!
You’re growing up so fast,” says a lady whose name I don’t remember, though I know she has a son my age, which she mentions to my mom
all
the time. I might as well wear a beauty pageant sash that says
Prospective Bride.
I would
die
.

Mom has me sit next to her while she speaks to some ladies whose names I kind of remember but not really. They’re all speaking in Farsi about the usual—their families, the health of their family members, any future marriages in the community, births of acquaintances’ adult children, etc.

I end up nodding and smiling a lot. I’m embarrassed by how rudimentary my Farsi is and how long it takes me to come up with certain words. Not to mention my horrendous American accent, which leaves me unable to pronounce guttural
g
sounds. At least I understand everything people say, so I can be on alert if they are saying anything about me.

“
Kodoum daneshgah mikhai bereed?”
asks a friendly old lady. Which college do I want to go to? I haven’t thought about college yet, though I am sure everyone expects me to be as ambitious as Nahal. I’m ambitious enough to put hair gel in my curls each morning and that’s about it.

“
Insha’ Allah een tabestoon fehkreh daneshgah mikonam,
” I say.
God willing, this summer I will think about colleges
is what I think I said. Definitely not Nahal’s alma mater, but the way Dad talks to his friends you’d think I was a genius.

The men usually all sit together and talk about work, the news, and—mostly—stories of the old days in Iran or people they knew from back then. Most of them didn’t even grow up in the same parts of Iran or know one another there. Dad is from Tehran, but his best friend here in the United States, Dr. Kotoyan, is Armenian Iranian, and they met at the hospital where they work. The doctors humor and are willing to speak with the lawyers, accountants, small business owners, and finance barons. Some drink alcohol, others don’t. Some are Muslim, some are Christian, some are Jewish, and a few families are Baha’i. They all have just one thing in common, the country they are from.

The men are engrossed in conversation, and Dad is playing a rousing game of backgammon with Dr. Kotoyan, cheering and laughing at every roll of the dice. It’s nice getting to see him let loose a little. He works long hours, not that I mind—it’s been like that since always. When he gets called to the emergency room late at night or has to work really long hours, I always think of him as Bruce Wayne looking out into the night sky and seeing the Bat-Signal. Only if Bruce Wayne were five nine, older, had a darker complexion, and was always cracking jokes about dentists.

I try to stay engaged in the conversation with the women. Nahal speaks in her almost perfect Farsi to Zohreh, Farzaneh’s and Sepideh’s mom. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Nahal is making Zohreh laugh. Every time we come to one of these things, Nahal is just so good at saying all the right things and being the proper young woman. She never slouches, is well dressed, and is studying just the right thing at the best university in the world. All the women at these events eat that stuff up like it was
tadig,
the crispy rice dripping with oil that tastes so good.

Nahal always obliged when Mom and Dad signed her up for Saturday-morning Farsi classes, and I always hated going because they interrupted Saturday-morning cartoons. I eventually quit, but Nahal went all through elementary school, middle school, and high school. I could never tell if she did it because she enjoyed it or because it delighted Mom and Dad.

“Leila, why don’t you go see what the other kids are up to?” Mom asks, sensing my boredom. By
kids
she means the children of the older people here; we range in age from thirty-four to sixteen. Then there are the
little kids,
whose parents are second-generation Iranian American. Zohreh shows Nahal and me into the den, where some of the
kids
have found sanctuary from the plethora of questions.

“Hey, guys,” I say to familiar faces I see every couple of months when we make the rounds to all the parties.

“Hi, ladies!” Sepideh says, oozing faux cheeriness. She air-kisses me on both cheeks and then flits over to Nahal to do the same.

“Hi, Sepideh! It’s so nice to see you again,” Nahal says so warmly that you would never know that the two are sworn enemies who have hated each other since childhood. Zohreh tells us all to have a great time and leaves the motley crew to hang out.

“Did you meet Farzaneh’s fiancé yet?” Sepideh asks Nahal as they sit down next to each other on a leather couch. “He’s so wonderful.”

“No! Not yet, but I’ve heard so many wonderful things. Are you excited for the wedding?” I don’t know why they do this. Pretend to like each other. As soon as we get in the car to go home Nahal is just going to complain about how fake Sepideh is and all the things she can’t stand about her.

“So excited!” Sepideh coos. “I have the most
beautiful
dress. I was telling Shahram that I can’t wait for
our
wedding. Once he’s finished business school and I’ve finished law school. Did I tell you I’m going to law school at Brown?” I can see Nahal wince only slightly, but that’s because I know her facial expressions so well. It kills Nahal that Sepideh has a Persian boyfriend, not because Nahal wants one, but because it will trump almost everything Nahal does. Well, all except for . . .

“Congratulations! I still have a year of pre-med, but hopefully I’ll figure out where I’ll go for medical school soon. I’d like to continue studying medicine at Harvard, but you know, med school competition being so stiff and everything . . . ,” Nahal says, a genuine smile on her face. Medical school will always trump law school. Period.

Sepideh’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be just fine, Nahal. But with all that studying, will you ever find time to meet guys?” This is getting really uncomfortable. I leave them to it and walk over to Parsa, a college freshman, and his brother, Arsalan, who’s my age. They’re arguing about whether LeBron James is the greatest basketball player to ever play the game.

“If LeBron played one-on-one with Kobe, LeBron would win. One hundred percent,” Arsalan says with finality.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You know how many championship rings Kobe Bryant has? Five! You know who has one more than Kobe? Do you?” Parsa goads his brother, because he knows that Arsalan knows the answer.

“Michael Jordan,” Arsalan mutters under his breath.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you?” Parsa yells. This is my Saturday night. I could be hanging out with Saskia.
Saskia!
We’d be having lots of intelligent conversation about film and music, maybe accidentally brush arms again . . .

I mosey over to the little kids watching a Pixar movie. Roksana, who goes by Roxy, is ten and the ringleader of eight-year-old twin girls and a five-year-old boy who at the moment are entranced by racing cars rounding a track.

“Hi, Roxy,” I venture.

“Hi,” she says, but her eyes never leave the screen. I watch the movie silently with them until dinner is announced.

The dinner spread on the dining table is massive as usual. Giant platters heaped with basmati rice with saffron, more rice with raisins and lentils, and
lubia polo—
rice with ground beef and green beans in a sauce made of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, onion, and tomato paste. Then there are skewers and skewers of
koobideh kabob, kabob barg,
and chicken
kabob
as well as and three different stews.

“Do you think this will be enough food for everyone?” Zohreh asks my mother as they bring out the
mast-o-khiar
and the
kashk-e-bademjan
from the kitchen. Is she kidding? There’s enough food for Fenway Park. Hospitality is never in short supply in Persian homes. Among Persians, the more a person loves you, the more they want to shove food down your throat.

I
tarof
with an older gentleman in front of me waiting to fill his plate with grub.

“After you,” I insist to the man.

“No! I wouldn’t dream of it,” the man says, and this goes on for about two minutes.
Tarof
is when you offer something out of respect, even if you don’t really mean it. Like when my mom goes to lunch with Zohreh and they both insist on paying the bill. It takes about twenty minutes before one of them steals the bill and runs to the server with a credit card. I didn’t get that
tarof
was a Persian thing as a little kid—so when I offered other kids my toys to play with, I thought they’d decline the offer and offer their toys as well. That never happened, and I always ended up playing with some toy I didn’t really want to or giving away toys I loved.

The older man finally concedes and goes ahead of me, and we all mill about the table, loading the goodies onto our plates. I reach for a set of silverware and my hand brushes with an older woman’s hand.

“Oh,
bebakshid,
” I say, excusing myself and looking up to see Mrs. Madani, who appears much older than the last time I saw her, three years ago.

“Salam, Leila joon,”
she says, and hands me a fork and knife rolled up in a paper napkin. Her wrinkles are deeper, especially around her mouth, and even though she is wearing a lot of eye makeup, she doesn’t have on enough foundation to hide her dark circles.

“How are you?” I almost ask her how her son Kayvon is doing, but I am quick to catch myself. She studies my face for a moment and smiles sadly.

“Okay, thank you,” she says. The “thank” sounds like
“tank”
because of her heavy accent. She used to brag about her son all the time; you couldn’t get her to shut up about him. Same for Mr. Madani. Now he sits near the other men, his hair thinning, his eyes sunken, and his posture rigid, like he’s ready to fight if provoked.

Mr. Madani used to talk about how good a tennis player Kayvon was, how he was an excellent student. “My son is going to be the next Agassi,” he would say, and Kayvon would shake his head in embarrassment and ask me if I wanted to play video games. I liked Kayvon well enough. He always seemed interested in things I had to say and didn’t treat me like a little kid. It was nice watching Nahal and Sepideh have their brag-offs, and then going off together to mimic them in private.

“Did I tell you? I’m going to the moon for NASA next week!” Kayvon would say in a falsetto voice.

“The moon is so yesterday. I’m going to be orbiting Jupiter next month,” I would reply, flipping my hair the way Nahal does. Kayvon is Nahal’s age. Three years ago he started going to Tufts, still living at home. Then suddenly we didn’t hear about him anymore.

We found out through the Persian rumor mill that someone saw Kayvon kissing another guy at a college party. I don’t know who started the rumor or if there was a photo online or something, but he had to come out to his parents. They didn’t take it well.

I overheard Mom talking on the phone a couple of years ago about how she couldn’t believe the Madanis kicked Kayvon out of the house. That gave me a bit of hope, but she never said a word to Nahal or me. For a while I kept hoping someone would mention it—maybe talk about how much they liked Kayvon, or how much they missed him, but the Madanis still come to all the parties, and it’s like Kayvon never existed. No one mentions him, because they don’t want to upset the Madanis.

As we all eat, Farzaneh, the bride, sits next to her fiancé on a couch, answering questions from the throngs of older women about their wedding and marriage.

“When are you two going to start having babies?” an old lady asks Farzaneh.