by Sara Farizan
“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 un
der 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.
“Hopefully, you’ll have boys. Boys are princes,” old lady number two says, eyeing Farzaneh’s general uterus area like she is willing a boy to show up in there.
After I finish the food piled on my plate, I walk back into the den and plop myself next to Roxy in front of the TV. She absently shoves rice in her mouth, spilling a few grains on the rug beneath her.
“Are they still humble-bragging?” I whisper, and Roxy turns her head to observe Sepideh and Nahal not touching their food and speaking with their hands about God knows what. I know it is killing Nahal, because she loves lubia polo, and the only thing keeping her from devouring it is she that she’s waiting for Sepideh to take a bite first.
Roxy turns her attention back to the television. “Yeah. When the movie’s over, you want to play hide-and-seek?” The other little kids look at me eagerly, and I know how I’ll spend the rest of the evening.
Thirteen
Monday morning in study hall I can’t focus because Tess keeps asking about Lisa’s party. “Do you think Ashley likes Greg?” she says as she continues to not so subtly inquire about her crush while we sit at our worktable in the library. She stares off at Greg, who is studying nearby. It’s a gaze out of a Jane Austen novel, full of yearning and patience. Yuck.
“I don’t know, Tess. Maybe you should ask him out already,” I say.
“What? I was just curious.” Tess is a great actress onstage, but her acting here is as convincing as an infomercial.
“Tess, you so obviously do. Just go for it!”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Probably not to anyone but me. You really have nothing to lose.”
She doesn’t say anything. I sigh like Charlie Brown. “There is honestly nothing going on between me and Greg. You have my blessing to suck his face.” Tess blushes profusely and I chuckle.
“What if he doesn’t like me?”
“What are you really scared of? You’re a catch!”
“I don’t know. It’s just that I know he was so into you, and I don’t feel like being a consolation prize.”
I get that sometimes Greg thinks he still likes me, but only because he hangs out with me and doesn’t know about all the girls who like him. Maybe if he saw who else was out there for him, I’d never have to worry about feeling like I’m leading him on. I get up, facing Greg. Tess grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”
“Relax, jeez, I’m just going to the bathroom.”
Her grip loosens and I walk as though I am going straight to the bathroom but then detour over to Greg’s table.
“Hi, Greg,” I say as I sit down across from him. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Tess turn cherry Tootsie Pop red.
“Hey. What’s up?” We don’t talk about our night at Lisa’s. What would be the point?
“Not much. Just tired of studying. Tess and I have a big test tomorrow.”
“What subject?”
“Science. We’re both awful.” This is a huge lie. Tess could teach our class if she wanted to. “Want to come tutor us?”
Greg closes his
textbook and gives me a small smile. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Great! We’re sitting over there.” I point to Tess. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom.”
I smile at him before I walk away, planning to leave them alone for the rest of the period. Sometimes people just need a good kick in the pants. Myself included. I go to the back rows of the library, looking for a decent book to check out. I notice Lisa in the row next to me, and I push some books on the shelf between us to the side. They fall all over the place.
“Sorry! I was trying to be smooth,” I say.
Lisa shakes her head and keeps her attention on me.
“What do you want, Lei?”
“Nothing. I’m just giving my friend some alone time with a gentleman,” I whisper.
“How noble of you,” Lisa declares.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” I ask.
“Fine. But my mother yelled at me for not enjoying the festivities.” Lisa rolls her eyes. “She told me she saw you at the party. Thanks for not telling her where I was.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and kick at the carpet with my shoe. Lisa crosses her arms over her chest.
“You do realize we’re talking to each other on school grounds,” I point out.
She shrugs.
“Your friends won’t mind?”
“I don’t really give a shit.”
“So I didn’t get a part in the play. I’m just an understudy.”
“That’s understandable. Your gas is awful.” She then stops my shoe with hers so I’ll stop idly kicking the carpet. I do and look up to see Lisa grin at me.
Fourteen
After a week filled with a crappy science test, grueling play rehearsals, and listening to Tomas solidify our weekend plans for the millionth time, the day of our visit to Saskia’s place arrives at last. I have had a few moments with Saskia here and there over the week, but she is constantly busy at play rehearsal, and I doubt she even notices me. And now, tonight is the night when I can talk to her as much as I want. Well, as much as Tomas lets me get a word in.