If You Could Be Mine

by Sara Farizan

  “You’re getting married. What did you think was going to happen?” I ask.

  “I didn’t think you’d leave! That’s not the plan!” There is a plan? The only plan ever mentioned was my scheme to run away to some remote village.

  “But you’re going to be his wife.”

  “So?”

  “So, kissing me—that’s cheating, isn’t it?”

  Nasrin looks at me like I am the biggest fool in the universe. She puts her hand over mine and grips it. “I don’t care about him. I need him, but I want you.”

  I have to remind myself to breathe, because it isn’t often that Nasrin voices her feelings. Especially concerning me. Nasrin takes her other hand and wraps it in my hair, tugging me toward her lips, and I hungrily accept. It means so much just to hear her say what I never expected her to.

  Only, she’s choosing him anyway.

  I stop responding to her kiss and she looks at me in confusion.

  “Nasrin, this isn’t normal.”

  “I know it isn’t. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have these feelings for you.”

  “No. I mean, doing this when you are engaged to someone else.”

  “He doesn’t ever have to know! Why are you making this an ordeal?”

  I always knew she was selfish. At birthday parties she always got the biggest icing flower on the cake. When we went to the movies, the popcorn was always in her lap. We always listened to the music she liked. We would spend only half an hour at the museum I wanted to go to before she complained about being tired.

  “You want me to continue this?” I ask her, not sure what I want her answer to be.

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  This has been the plan all along. Her plan. Have her perfect marriage and string me along for the ride. I rip my hand away from hers and touch my bruised lips.

  “What about me? Did you ever think about me?” Of course she didn’t.

  She folds her arms in front of her and quirks an eyebrow.

  “Come on, Sahar. We can be just as we’ve always been.”

  A secret. I’m supposed to wait for her in the shadows. When she’s done feeding him dinner and performed her marital duties in their bed, I’m supposed to come over and comfort her. Tell her how beautiful she is. Worship her in private when he gets her all the time. I’m a lap dog. How long has she seen me this way?

  “You’re cruel, Nasrin.” I stand up and walk to the door, but she yells out my name.

  “Sahar! What did you expect? I’m not going to be anything other than someone’s wife! It’s what my mother has been grooming me for. How was I supposed to be anything other than what she wants me to be?”

  “We could have talked about it before you decided to go through with it!”

  “This was always going to happen, Sahar. What could you have done to change it?”

  What could I have done to change it? There’s nothing I can do. I have no resources, no plan of attack. I’m just a girl. A girl. If only I were a man. A man with a hairy face who could slouch his shoulders if he wanted to and walk around with short sleeves in the hot sun. If only . . .

  “How many months until the wedding?” I ask her.

  “Three. Why?” I kiss her with ferocity, and this time it is she who is struck dumb.

  “I’m going to find a way.” I make sure she understands that I am serious. I can tell that I am scaring her a little bit, but she kisses me and it is all the confirmation I need.

  6

  I DON’T KNOW IF Parveen will come to see me today. My text message to her was sincere, and she agreed to meet me, but there’s always the possibility she won’t come. I haven’t planned everything out, but if there’s any way I can be with Nasrin, I will do whatever it takes. I sip from my soda cup. I couldn’t think of a place to meet other than Max Burger. I’m sitting in the upstairs area with the kids’ playroom. Two small boys play in the ball pit, and I hope they don’t suffocate in red plastic.

  At a nearby table two little girls are showing their mother the DVD that came with their kid’s meals. It’s usually a high-quality cartoon bootleg. Nasrin sometimes orders the kid’s meal just for the movie. Her favorite is Toy Story. The movies are in English, so I do my best to translate for Nasrin. She never wears her glasses to read the subtitles, but it hardly matters. My English isn’t the best, but Nasrin knows about as much English as she does Japanese.

  “Salam, Sahar joon,” Parveen says just as a red ball flies from the pit to hit me in the head. One of the small boys looks apologetic while the other one laughs. Parveen smiles, but more at my expression than because the ball hit me. She takes a seat across from me. She looks gorgeous, but I still feel embarrassed and have trouble looking her in the eye.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I say. Parveen keeps her hands under the table, and for that I am grateful, though she doesn’t do it for my benefit.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Sahar. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk at the party.” There’s a silence, and since I am the one who initiated our meeting, I really should speak. I rehearsed what I wanted to say, but now that I’m facing her, the words aren’t coming.

  “Would you like a hamburger?” I ask, and she looks amused.

  “I have to watch my girlish figure. And for some reason I don’t think you came here to eat,” she says. I avoid eye contact and look back to the two girls and their mother, eating their hamburgers.

  “Well, Ali told me that, um . . . that you, uh, were at one time . . . What I mean to say is that it’s really cool about . . . you know, things that have taken place and that you are . . . um, that you—”

  “That I’m transsexual.” I gape at her and how easily she says it. What if someone heard us? Isn’t she afraid?

  “Yes. That.”

  “I assumed you found out. You were distant toward me at the end of the party.”

  I feel terrible.

  “Ali told me.”

  She nods and looks a little deflated. “He shouldn’t have done that. It’s private. I mean, I’m proud of who I am, but I don’t announce it to everyone I meet.” I sense that she is as disappointed it was Ali who thoughtlessly shared her secret as she is that I found out. I should ruin another one of his shirts just to teach him a lesson. Parveen adjusts her head scarf, even though it hasn’t shifted since she sat down. It’s as though she is reminding everyone around her that she is indeed supposed to be wearing one. She’s a woman, and so she is entitled to the same oppressive dress code as the rest of us.

  “I’m sorry if I reacted poorly. You’re just the first person I met who, um, well . . . you know,” I say, now working hard to maintain eye contact. I need her to trust me if I am going to ask for her help.

  “You’re not the first person to react the way you did. Some people have reacted much worse,” she says as she discreetly raises one of her sleeves. I see two circular scars, the diameter of a cigarette on her arms. “I made the mistake of not being up front with a boyfriend. He wasn’t the gentleman I thought he was.”

  Before I can stop myself I rub two fingers over one of the scars. I know it was the right thing to do because her arm relaxes. I meet her gaze, and she leans her head to one side, assessing my intentions.

  “He was stupid.” It isn’t the most articulate thing I could say, and it probably shows I am very much seventeen, but she smiles, and I think maybe this whole thing might not turn out as badly as I feared. I withdraw my hand from her arm and she pulls down her sleeve.

  “It’s fine. He has a very fat and ugly wife now.”

  I laugh and she chuckles lightly. I hope we can be friends. It feels nice to laugh again. I sense that it may be too soon, though, to start throwing questions at her about her change from male to female.

  “That party was crazy,” I say sheepishly. I am sure she is used to crazier nights, especially if she is close with Ali.

  “I usually don’t go,” she says. “I’m not crazy about associating with those kinds of people.” I suppose she means
the party animal, druggie types.

  “Ali had these two women drive me home. A mother and daughter.”

  Her eyes widen in horror.

  “He didn’t! Oh, those two—they are always so careless about everything.” She explains that they aren’t actually mother and daughter, but it’s easier to conceal their business if they pretend to be.

  I nod as though I knew that already, but only because I don’t want to seem naive about absolutely everything. Since the night the supposed mother-daughter duo dropped me off, I look for their car everywhere I go. I just want to make sure the daughter is okay. I didn’t even learn her name, but something about her has stayed with me. I’ve even been carrying a little book of Persian poetry in my bag to give to her if our paths cross again.

  Parveen and I discuss everyday things. She works at a bank but didn’t let them know that she is trans because she is afraid the bank might fire her. She explains she is lucky that she passes. She asks about school and what I plan to study. When I talk about our dissection lab in biology, she looks squeamish, so I cut it short and explain that I am interested in being a surgeon. She says she owes her life to her surgeon because she was desperately tired of being trapped in the wrong body.

  “How long did you feel that way?”

  “Since I was very little. I always felt uncomfortable. I used to dress in girls’ clothes and then I felt at ease. My parents didn’t mind in the beginning. They found it funny. It was only when I wanted to leave the house in girls’ clothes that they got nervous.” It reminds me of when I told Maman I wanted to marry Nasrin when I was six. After Maman told me to never bring it up again, I buried the thought deep in my mind, but that never felt right. I wanted to be with Nasrin all the time.

  “Did you try to be, like, um . . . I mean, couldn’t you just stop?” I know it’s a stupid question. I wish I could stop loving Nasrin, but I can’t. It must be sort of the same thing for Parveen.

  “I had a beard when I was a teenager,” she says. “It was so scratchy and terrible.”

  The mother sitting near us with her daughters abruptly stands, telling her children to get ready to go. She rushes them and doesn’t put away their trays. She takes the two girls by the hand and sneers as she makes a hasty exit. My face feels hot, and Parveen shrugs.

  “Eavesdropping is unbecoming,” Parveen says, loud enough for the woman to hear her. She doesn’t seem upset by the woman’s reaction. I wonder how often she finds herself in these situations. I wouldn’t be so brave, I think. Then again, if I had the girl of my dreams with me, maybe I wouldn’t care what anyone said. I finally own up to being hungry, and Parveen laughs and says she has a bit of an appetite, too. We order two combo meals.

  Sometimes when I eat hamburgers I pretend I am living in the West. I heard that Europeans treat fast food like gourmet, and Americans just keep getting fatter and fatter. That’s probably why Americans always seem so happy. I sometimes pretend I live in Los Angeles. Nasrin’s aunt and uncle live there, and they send pictures. They have three cars and it’s always sunny. Where they live almost everyone speaks Farsi, and they celebrate New Year’s with great pomp and circumstance, like in Tehran. They see American movie stars in supermarkets and get their gas pumped by our exiled pop singers. Nasrin eats that stuff up. It must be nice living somewhere that has all different kinds of people. How do they manage all that diversity?

  Parveen takes ladylike bites into her hamburger, and I feel like an impolite buffoon. I am sure I have ketchup all over my mouth. She wipes her mouth with a paper napkin, and her large hand is front and center in my view again, reminding me why I’m here.

  “I guess I was curious because I think I’m different,” I say, and her eyebrows arch in interest. I’m still not sure I can tell my secret, but I can allude to it. “I feel uncomfortable in my body, too.” This isn’t untrue. It’s just not for the reasons she might assume. Parveen seems to recognize something in me as she again leans her head to one side. I know what it is to be different. And she knows I know.

  “Does Ali know about how you feel?” He knows I’m in love with Nasrin. He doesn’t know that I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be with her.

  “No. I haven’t told him,” I say. Lying by omission isn’t so hard. I should go into politics. “I guess I just want to learn more about—well, about stuff. You know, make informed decisions and things.” There is so little time before the wedding. I don’t really have time to decide whether I am making the right decision. Parveen considers me, scrutinizing me to see if I’m being honest. I had better sell this. “I’m desperate. I know, you don’t really know me, but I don’t know where else to go.” My voice wavers and I’m trembling a bit. Parveen’s face softens.

  “There’s a group meeting in three days, if you would like to come. You can see if their stories speak to you.” She pulls a pen from her red clutch purse and writes the address and the time of the meeting on a paper napkin. I have to keep reminding myself to be brave. I can do this for Nasrin. I can do this for us. Parveen takes one last bite from her burger, and then plops more than half of it back on her tray. She shoves the tray away in disgust, and her lack of appetite makes me feel fat since I ate all of mine in record time.

  “The sacrifices we make to be beautiful.” Parveen sighs.

  Sacrifices. How many before you get what you want? I should probably go on a diet. Then again, if I go through with this I will probably need to bulk up. I won’t be as tall as Nasrin’s groom-to-be, but if I gain some muscle maybe I could take him in a fight. Unlikely, but it’s a nice dream. Before Parveen and I leave the restaurant, I buy a burger to take home to Baba. I have bigger things on my mind than cooking.

  7

  I RUN ALL THE way from my school to Nasrin’s and stop to catch my breath in front of the gated building. I haven’t seen her in a few days. Her house is a zoo, with all the preparations her mother continues to make and Dariush’s habitual lounging about the house. He occasionally fixes a car, though it is always for someone who can’t afford to pay him on time. Cyrus is usually wearing a suit and follows Mr. Mehdi around like a clueless chicken, pecking at his father’s heels when they go to the pistachio factory. I don’t want to run into Reza. I may throw up on his shoes. Or confess that I get in heated kissing sessions with his bride-to-be.

  I see Nasrin come out of the building with a swarm of girls. She is the only one who has changed out of her school uniform into a casually draped head scarf and a stylish manteau. I’m shocked there are no teachers around to stop her. The other girls surround her like she is royalty, and it is easy to see why. That damn giant diamond on her finger. She never wears it when I come over. All the girls chatter around her, but she doesn’t look at any of them. She looks only at me. It is in these moments that all the heartache seems worth it. She smirks and I duck my head, trying to hide my blushing cheeks from her friends.

  As soon as her friends see me, they treat me like I am the German ambassador able to give them a visa. Nasrin has informed them how important I am, though without giving them the real reason why. We walk along the sidewalks that line the busy street, and I listen to the girls chatter about bouquets, caterers, and hotel reception halls. Nasrin, in their eyes, has “made” it. Nasrin and I walk in sync with each other, holding hands. It is not uncommon for women to hold hands or for men to hold hands—it’s all seen as innocent. Holding someone of the other gender’s hand? . . . Well you’d better be married. Two of Nasrin’s flock leave, and two more are left with us. These two girls are new to me, and I assume they are fascinated with Nasrin’s pending nuptials or just with Nasrin in general. I notice one of them eying her with a look that is a little more than friendly. She’s lovesick, poor dear. Do I look like that when I’m around Nasrin? Allah forbid, I hope not.

  Because I’m in a Nasrin haze, I don’t notice the police car. Two officers get out of the car and head straight for Nasrin.

  “Is there a reason your elbows are showing?” the first officer asks, and my hear
t momentarily stops. It isn’t the first time I have seen these confrontations. I don’t want them to hurt Nasrin. Her two remaining admirers have run away, and I stand next to Nasrin, looking at her forearms that have three-quarters sleeves. I wish she wasn’t such a slave to fashion. Her dark green coat is tight fitting, and she’s carelessly let the three-quarter sleeves slip above her elbows. As usual her loose scarf barely covers the back of her head. I would rather her wear an Afghani burqa slathered in garlic juice than be put in danger.

  The thing I don’t understand about Nasrin is her disregard for consequence. She looks the first officer in the eye, meeting his brooding, predatory gaze, and she plays the complete innocent.

  “My clothes shrank in the wash!” she lies. “I didn’t have time to change.”

  I notice the policeman’s gun in his holster. He reaches for his baton and thumps it in his hands. I inch myself in front of Nasrin.

  “Sir, her mother is sick, and my friend is terrible when it comes to domestic tasks. She put the dryer on too high,” I say in the most desperate of tones. The policeman sneers, clutching his baton in his meaty hand. The larger policeman behind him looks at me. I don’t recognize him at first. He is wearing sunglasses and a military hat. But when he folds his arms in front of his chest, I recognize him as Farshad, the bouncer at Ali’s party. He recognizes me, too, and his mouth twitches.

  “Your friend looks like a whore,” he says. It’s not uncommon for a policeman to say something like this. I want to rip his eyeballs out of their sockets with my fingernails. The worst scenario would be if Nasrin is arrested. Girls have gone into prison virgins and come out broken. I will be damned if I let that happen to her.