by E. Lily Yu
I tried to tell my wife. She wouldn’t listen.
How long until your renewal date?
Two years.
Two years! Two years is forever. Anything might happen in that time. Listen, Omid, don’t worry about it. Get another plate. Eat and enjoy the day.
Firuzeh cradled her head in her hands and contemplated the breadth and length of forever. A fleece-white cloud blew over the sun, and the whole day dimmed. Brief, passing, soon gone.
Chapter Nine
Precisely when life began to feel manageable, even routine, Firuzeh moved to secondary school. Everything was instantly ten times harder. Over the summer, Mia, Shirin, and Gulalai had transformed into otherworldly creatures. They walked differently, blooming into hips; held themselves differently, throwing their shoulders back; spoke of the boys they derided a year ago with sudden gleams of avarice; and laughed high, brittle, glassy laughs.
Firuzeh observed all of this in bafflement. She had missed something critical; some class, rite, or spell.
That one over there, Mia said, pointing. Liam.
Their biology teacher had brought their class to the aquarium, and now the students trickled between the tanks, clutching blank dichotomous keys.
Shirin said: He’s not that cute.
You have terrible taste. Firuzeh, what about you?
Liam might as well have been transparent. He stood in front of a Pacific octopus, whose arms coiled and uncoiled against the glass.
I like the octopus.
Mia said: Oh Firuzeh. What are we going to do with you?
Have you ever worn lipstick? Shirin demanded. Your own, not your mum’s.
I bet she hasn’t.
Have you?
No.
Shirin said, Mia—
A tragedy. Firuzeh, makeup is the unalienable right of every blotchy teenage girl.
I’m twelve.
Mia said: It’s okay. That’s not your fault. Point is, you’re horribly overdue. Femininely challenged. Educationally delayed.
Can’t blame your parents either, Shirin said. They don’t know better. Lucky you’ve got us.
We’ll fix this. I mean, would this parrotfish look as good as it does without makeup?
Firuzeh squinted. Yes?
No. It would not. Observe the bold choice of eyeshadow palette. Plus that orange lip gloss. Without those? Psh. Dead.
Dead?
Fish swim in schools, Firuzeh.
Eh—what?
Wear makeup in school, or you don’t survive. It’s what my older sister says. A law of physics, like gravity.
Shirin said: Get some lippy on her and she’ll understand the point of boys.
Mia said: She might, or she might not. But she’ll be less embarrassing.
Then that’s the plan.
Don’t I get a vote?
Don’t be ridiculous, Shirin said.
Anemones fluttered their shy, pale locks. The cilia of a jellyfish drifted by.
Seeing her face darkly in the aquarium glass, Firuzeh imagined her lips an anemone red, her eyelids dusted with parrotfish blue. Rich and strange, like Nasima. A seawater change, to a body better suited for the crushing abyss that was secondary school. Mouth like nightmares. Eyes lamped with hunger. She studied herself so closely, she could almost discern the ridges of bone beneath the skin of her face.
Then the bone stood clear. She turned left and saw Shirin’s skull. Turned right and saw Mia’s. On the ground, a bright toy detonated. All their skin flew off, pulped like newspaper in rain. So much red. Red to daub the mouth with. A pressurized, pulsing, undersea silence.
Then her ears filled with screams.
Earth to Firuzeh. Hello-o-o, are you there?
Firuzeh blinked. The anemones waved.
I said, Mia continued, her voice aggrieved, we’ll have you looking like a bombshell in no time flat.
That’s right, Shirin said, you space cadet.
I hope you’re nearly done, Ms Brown sang. Two more minutes, then it’s time to hand in your work.
Shit.
Crap.
The girls plastered their dichotomous keys against the glass of the tank, pencils reeling.
Firuzeh stared at the forest of blanks on her sheet.
8a, a damp voice whispered to her. Sea dragons. 8b, seahorses.
Thanks, Nasima, Firuzeh said.
Chapter Ten
Because the proper application of makeup, meaning full battle colours, required time—much more time than the early-morning slick of camouflage designed to avoid teacher detection—it was determined that Firuzeh’s remedial education would take place after the last bell in the second-floor girls’ toilet. And because there was no point in doing up their faces and not going anywhere, they would head to the cinema and watch a film afterwards. Mia and Shirin shook hands on this arrangement without paying the slightest heed to Firuzeh’s objections.
The cinema’s in the shopping centre, Shirin said. And it’s just us three and Gulalai. No boys. Even your parents should be fine with that.
But if they aren’t, Mia said, don’t tell them you’re going.
Gulalai’s coming?
Shirin said, I’ll ask her tomorrow. She looks more grown-up these days, doesn’t she? I’d kill for those moonstone studs she’s wearing.
I don’t think she likes me, Firuzeh said.
Does that matter? Mia said.
Let’s be real, Firuzeh, you’re not exactly the most likeable person.
But we’ll fix that, Mia said.
Right. So next Thursday, second-floor girls’, after school. Got that? I’ll bring everything I’ve got—Mia, you too.
Mia said: Don’t forget money for the movie ticket.
That afternoon, while her teacher attempted to demystify quadratic equations, Firuzeh wrote and directed her own movie script in her head.
INT. HOME — DAY
She’d have tidied up more than usual, the shoes in neat battalions, the floors swept without asking, the garbage emptied, her homework done.
FIRUZEH
Abay, can I go to the movies with my friends from school?
ABAY
(wrinkling brow)
Who’ll be watching you?
FIRUZEH
Shirin’s parents will be there. You met them at our parents’ night.
ABAY
The Iranians? They seemed like proper people. How are you getting home, in that case?
FIRUZEH
Oh, her parents will drive us back.
No. She rewrote the line, redid the shot. A car pulling up in front of her house was not in the budget for special effects.
FIRUZEH
We’ll walk home together in a group.
ABAY
What is the movie about?
FIRUZEH
A girl growing up and fitting in. There aren’t even boys in the movie, Abay. Anyway, I don’t ask you for much. Not like Nour. So this once, please, Abay, can I go?
ABAY
Hmph.
ABAY fusses, as a mother ought to, then says:
ABAY
It sounds harmless. Here’s six dollars. You can go.
Firuzeh rewound her imagination and watched the scene raptly, again and again, until Mr Williams tapped on her desk. She jumped.
Firuzeh, would you show us how to solve for x?
Ehm—
I can, Gulalai said, waving her arm.
When Firuzeh threw her a grateful look, she glared.
Go ahead, Gulalai.
Gulalai took the marker and worked the problem on the board. A moonstone glimmered in each perfect ear.
So x equals 6.
That’s correct.
Gloating, Gulalai sat down.
I hope you paid attention that time, Firuzeh. I need your mind here, not in dreamland.
Firuzeh nodded, her face a hot crimson. Okay.
The bell rang. They all rose, stacking notebooks together.
You’re stupid as hammers, Gulalai said as the
y reached the classroom door. I don’t know why Mia and Shirin picked you.
Because I have guts and brains, Firuzeh said.
Guts? Brains? As if.
That’s what they said.
They’ll say anything to get what they want. I’ve seen your marks. And you flinch when Mr Williams calls on you. But why they want you—
Shirin’s going to ask you to a movie, Firuzeh said.
What, they’re tired of you already?
No, I’m going too.
If this is a trick, I’m not falling for it.
It’s not.
Gulalai sniffed. We’ll see, queue jumper.
Now that they no longer attended the same school, Nour usually got home before Firuzeh. She had not accounted for this in her strategy. By the time Firuzeh set down her schoolbag, Nour was buzzing around Abay like a wasp after jam, pausing only for bites from a banana.
It’s only a couple of dollars, he said. Twenty cents per. Please?
Where would you even get these sweets?
Caramello Koalas. They’re in Woolworths, mum. Or any milk bar. It’s only fair, Charlie’s parents got the team pizza last week.
You let Charlie’s parents pay for you?
Her knife smacked through an onion, dripping outrage.
Relax, mum. It’s what you do on a team.
Then I will take you off that team. No son of mine—
It’s actually the polite thing to do here, mum. Treating everyone when it’s your turn.
And why can’t you speak Dari?
You’ll never learn English if you don’t practice. Come on, madaram. Abay jan. Lotfan. A dollar forty cents. We have that, right? We’re not so poor that I can’t buy seven lollies, are we?
Abay rinsed her hands, scowling, and reached for her purse. She counted out a scatter of coins, the last few of which had to be hunted for in crevices and corners; tidied them into a column; then caught Nour’s wrist as he reached for them.
He squirmed.
This once.
Right, mum. He wiggled his fingers.
Do not let anyone pay for you again.
Course not. Thanks, mum.
He scooped the coins up and fled. Abay turned to Firuzeh, shoulders slumping.
Don’t tell me you’re asking for money, too.
I—
You know how things are. Nour doesn’t understand. We barely have enough for rent this month. It’s that fucking car.
Firuzeh swallowed. I don’t want any money.
Good. I’m glad to have such a good daughter.
Abay resumed her stance at the cutting board. A line of heart-red tomatoes fell bleeding into slices.
I don’t know what I’ll tell your father about that money when he asks.
Firuzeh sat down, unzipped her schoolbag, and worked on her algebra problems in silence.
I saw that, Nasima said. Nour gets everything. I heard what Gulalai said at school. But you’re good, isn’t that right? A good daughter.
Nasima was sitting on top of the television, saltwater trailing from her heels in two lines down the glass.
Oh, don’t ignore me, Firuzeh. I’m trying to help. You didn’t have nightmares last night, did you? That’s because of me.
x2 − 7x + 20 = 8
Firuzeh concentrated on the formula so intently that her pencil lead furrowed the page and snapped. She pushed the pencil into a sharpener.
No, I didn’t have any nightmares last night.
That’s good, Abay said as tomatoes crackled in the pan, oblivious to the dead girl atop the TV.
That’s because I tore them to pieces with my teeth. Do you know how to fight a nightmare? Do you even know how a nightmare’s made?
No.
You put bits of stories together to make a home or a family. Some you’re given, and some you make by living. A nightmare is when the ugliest, most ferocious pieces clump together and go hunting for other stories to eat.
Firuzeh said: You can’t fight a story.
You can. Break a nightmare into its little bits of story, and, bam, no more nightmare.
So?
You’re living in a nightmare. You should take it apart.
You’re nuts.
Be nice to me, Firuzeh, or I’ll let the nightmares eat you.
She hopped down from the television with a squelch and leaned over Firuzeh’s shoulder, dripping onto the page.
Go away.
x equals four and three, Nasima said. I always was excellent at maths.
Atay, Firuzeh said, I need six dollars.
Atay was watching an Afghan channel on TV. The pale light flickered over his face.
You should have asked Abay.
I forgot. She was so busy today.
What do you need the money for?
Poster board. Glue. Scissors. We’re doing a group project—a history presentation. Did you know about the Afghan cameleers, Atay? Afghans were here one hundred fifty years ago. Before trains. Before cranes. Or Prime Ministers.
That’s interesting. Let me see.
He opened his wallet and shook out three two-dollar coins and a scattering of change.
And I have to stay late at school on Thursday, to prepare—
Tell your Abay tomorrow.
I will, Atay. Thanks.
Thursday after school, the girls’ toilet glittered with Shirin’s and Mia’s mirth. They brushed shimmering colours on their eyelids and brow bones and rose-pink balms onto their chapped lips. Vinyl pouches on the sink bulged with powder cakes, eyeliner, foundation.
Gulalai uncapped a black tube and sleeked her mouth with lipstick in one elegant stroke, then crossed her arms and leaned against the wall.
You’re so slow, Gulalai said.
Mia said, Not everyone is as good at this as you.
One of Shirin’s eyelids glimmered rich purple, the other deep blue. Here, Firuzeh, she said. Let’s do you.
You don’t have to—
It’s no problem at all. Hold still.
Gulalai said: Mascara, seriously? Firuzeh’s going to give you a sty.
Don’t be mean, Gulalai. Mia, pass me the blush.
Gold eyeshadow, Shirin?
Nah, darker. Copper and brown. Don’t you think?
Hm, yeah.
Gulalai said: You look hideous.
No, don’t open your eyes, I’ve got to—there.
Firuzeh blinked. The face in the mirror was not quite hers, not quite Abay’s. There was a touch or a trace or a thought in it of an old photograph of a maternal aunt, who was either dead now, or in Iran. The face in the mirror was sophisticated. Pretty, even though the fluorescent lights were unkind.
Mia said, We’re geniuses, Shirin.
I know.
Are we going to hurry up, Gulalai said with a yawn, or are we going to miss the start of the film?
They skipped down the steps. Liam was waiting at the bottom.
Oh hi, Mia said, linking arms with him, her smile as wide as melon slices.
Not too bad, he said. You girls clean up good.
Firuzeh focused on the footpath, counting the freckles of chewing gum. The afternoon light exposed her lie. Each car on the road was a mirrored threat. She prayed for luck. For Nour to have gone straight home from school. For Abay not to be out.
When they reached the anonymous muddle of the shopping centre, she exhaled in relief.
Students chattered over fried chicken, blotting their mouths. Some sucked helium from balloons with giggles and squeaks. A salesgirl sprayed perfume on a slip of paper and held it out to them. Firuzeh rubbed the paper idly between finger and thumb. It smelled of wealth and carelessness.
They walked past whirring plastic planes and wire cages of soccer balls that would have driven Nour wild; past light-up shoes and mannequins in fresh shirts and dresses, fabrics whispering desire; past bubbling infants in polka-dot strollers who sucked on their fingers and knew nothing but want.
At the cinema, they paid for student tickets, then
sank into plush, popcorn-scented seats.
Shirin said: I’m happy you could come.
Me too, Firuzeh said, glad for the theatre’s gloom.
I bet her parents don’t know, Gulalai said. I bet you didn’t tell them.
Shut up, Gulalai, Shirin said.
She looks scared.
I said shut up.
Down the row, Mia laced her fingers through Liam’s. She sipped the tall cup of cola he had bought through his straw.
Shameless, Gulalai hissed into Firuzeh’s ear. And that bossy Shirin! None of them care about you, you know—
Nasima, soaking a seat one row behind them, silver-white in the light from the screen, leaned forward and murmured: You could end this, you know. All you have to do is say—
Do your parents hate you, Gulalai? Did they want you at all? Is that why you’re so hateful? Or do you drink poison for breakfast? Snake poison, yum. That reminds me. Like Shirin said: shut up. I wish you’d go back to Afghanistan.
Firuzeh clamped a hand over her mouth.
The three girls stared at her, eyes wide, breaths sucked up into collarbones. Liam, oblivious, continued watching the previews playing on the screen.
That was a funny one, he said. They make better movies every year.
Yes— Mia managed.
A soft shining began in Gulalai’s eyes. They filled like moons, then overflowed.
The movie began.
Nasima said: That’s all unravelled. Well done.
I didn’t mean to—
Oh no. You did. Girl was telling a story of her own. One where you jumped a queue, swam to Australia, killed her aunt, stole her friends—
I didn’t, Firuzeh whispered, do any of that.
No, but that’s her story. And you sliced it apart. With a fistful of broken glass, I saw. Where did you get that? A dream? It doesn’t matter. You cut her kite. She has no story now.
Gulalai sniffed fast and hard, then breathed slow, with the wet noises of somebody stifling sobs. The movie unrolled onscreen, indifferent to its audience. Once upon a time a girl went to a school where no one was kind and no one cared. She kissed people she didn’t like and lied to her parents, and eventually she ran away.
Firuzeh tasted sickly sweet guilt on her lips.