by Sara Farizan
“This was the kind of performance people will be talking about for years. The Celtics are NBA champions once again!”
“Hey!” Drew shouted at me. He had changed into gym clothes, but I was still in my school uniform, tie and everything. I was goofing around, shooting hoops by myself, waiting for Sean to get out of the ceramics studio so I could hitch a ride home. Drew, with his own basketball under his arm, looked ready to work.
“Hi. Do you have the gym reserved or something?”
“No. You can shoot around.” He dribbled up to where I stood at the top of the key. He released his ball and missed, the clanging of the rim the only noise in the whole gym.
I shot my ball and missed too. We both ran to get our own rebounds.
“We could use the one ball,” Drew suggested.
“Okay.”
He shot, missed, got his rebound, and tried again. He missed. I got the ball, threw it. It bounced off the rim and fell in.
“Made baskets get the ball,” Drew said, passing the rock to me. I dribbled, released, got rewarded with the rock again.
I airballed. Drew chased after it. He dribbled between his legs before shooting a floater in the paint. He made it.
“Coach said you’re thinking about camp this summer,” Drew said.
“Thinking about it,” I said, passing the ball to him. “You worried I’m going to take your spot or something?”
“No. I’m too good. But it’d be all right to room together.”
“Why?” I asked. He threw up a brick. “Aren’t you mad I ruined the tournament for us?”
“We wouldn’t have even gotten to the tournament if it wasn’t for you.” Drew passed me the ball. “The seniors are leaving, and it’ll be up to us to lead the team next year. You’re not bad. You’re not great, but you’re not bad.”
“What a sad vote of confidence, Reggie.”
“Shhh! I think they’re bonding. In their own macho, elusive way.”
“Why don’t people say how they feel anymore, Reggie? I mean, we certainly do.”
“That’s because we’re paid to.”
“Thanks. I guess,” I said, slamming the ball down with both hands. It shot up over my head. “I bet I could take you one-on-one.” I caught the ball.
“You could. But you’d lose,” Drew said.
“Want to find out?” I sent him a bounce pass.
“Okay,” he said, moving to the top of the key.
Drew and I played until we were both soaked with sweat. When he tried to fake me out, I wouldn’t fall for it. When I tried to steal the ball from him, he’d cross over and breeze on by to the hoop. By the time we were tied up at 20 apiece, I was exhausted. He might have been too, but he didn’t let on.
“How about next point wins?” I asked.
“Fine by me,” Drew said. He had the ball, backing into me as he dribbled. “What do you think we’ll be called next year? The Granger Sea Lions or some other animal Bergner is trying to save?”
“I do like Sea Lions,” I said as he pushed into me. “But I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Drew dribbled until he had enough room to turn around. He took a shot. I boxed out and scooped up his miss. Drew was intense, but he looked like he was having fun, like he had strayed from his typical practice routine to play and show off.
I squared up against him.
“What are you going to do?” Drew asked me as he reached in for the ball.
I was going to live my life. I was going to spend time with people who cared about me and whom I cared about. I was going to be comfortable in my own skin even when some people wanted to make that impossible for me.
I was also going to score a layup on Drew’s punk ass.
“Bijan surges forward! He’s a man with a plan, with his eye on the sky, and BANG! He scores!”
“I think Bijan Majidi has a bright future ahead of him, Kevin. Not as bright as my career, mind you, but he’s going to go a long way.”
“I hope so, Reggie. I really do hope so.”
Acknowledgments
Bijan’s story took a lot out of me and would not have been possible without the following people:
My father and mother, to whom I owe so much and whose unconditional love and support always makes me feel so incredibly lucky and grateful. They taught me to be proud of who I am and I could not be more proud of who they are. My uncles, Kian and Shahab, for watching Celtics games with me from the eighties until now. My grandmother, who introduces me as a writer to random strangers and who helped raise me on stories of her past. My sister, for making me laugh and making sure I don’t take things too seriously. Elise Howard, my fairy godmother, who still believes in me and my characters. Thank you, Elise, for your patience and for seeing this story through. Susan Ginsburg, for being a wonderful agent and taking me on as a client. Sarah Alpert, for her editing assistance over multiple drafts. I owe you big-time! Brooke Csuka, Ashley Mason, Jodie Cohen, Caitlin Rubinstein, Jacquelynn Burke, Eileen Lawrence, Trevor Ingerson, and all past and present Algonquin Young Readers team members and authors. My mentor, Chris Lynch, for asking me what I’m working on even when I don’t have an answer. Thank you for always asking, Chris. Jacqui Bryant, for getting me back in the writing groove and for finding me a day job that accommodates my writing. Day job friends, for computer research questions and listening to my writing nonsense, particularly Pavani, Sumit, Paul, Liz, Amy, Kat, Kate, and George. Marisa Pintado, for reading an early draft and for being the kindest person I’ve ever met. Jessica Spotswood, Saundra Mitchell, and Lamar Giles, for inviting me to write stories for their awesome anthologies. Maggie Tokuda-Hall, who is the coolest; the crew of Books Inc. Laurel Village circa 2013–2014 (love you all); Maria Loli Reyes, Kaveh, Kevin, Marmar, Rana, Laura Kinney, Steve from Outer Limits Comics, Jessica Golden-Weaver, Malinda Lo, Meredith Goldstein, Leila, Carolina, Christina, and Steph. I owe all of you and many other friends and family so much.
I want to thank all the teachers, librarians, booksellers, students, bloggers, authors, and journalists who have supported me over the years. And dear reader, I want to thank you so very much for finding this book. Bijan’s story is just one story and he’s not perfect. He is sixteen and doesn’t have all the answers, but he’s trying to figure out who he is in the world without others defining him. I hope his story resonates with you and that he’s a hero you want to root for.
Published by Algonquin Young Readers
an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2018 by Sara Farizan.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Neil Swaab.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Farizan, Sara, author.
Title: Here to stay / Sara Farizan.
Description: First edition. | Chapel Hill, North Carolina : Algonquin Young Readers, 2018. | Summary: When a cyberbully sends the entire high school a picture of basketball hero Bijan Majidi, photo-shopped to look like a terrorist, the school administration promises to find and punish the culprit, but Bijan just wants to pretend the incident never happened and move on.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018008382 | eISBN 9781616208721
Subjects: LCSH: Arab Americans—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Arab Americans—Fiction. | Cyberbullying—Fiction. | Bullying—Fiction. | Basketball—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.F179 He 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018008382<
br />
Read on for a free preview of TELL ME AGAIN HOW A CRUSH SHOULD FEEL, by Sara Farizan
One
My copy of The Color Purple lies in front of me on my desk, the spine bent and wrinkled from the many times I’ve pored over the book. I have so many things to say about the beautiful prose, the characters, but I won’t . . . because I, Leila Azadi, am a Persian scaredy-cat. I can’t believe even English class makes me anxious these days.
“Now, when Walker describes Shug through Celie’s eyes, what is she trying to convey?” Ms. Taylor has, of course, managed to touch on the one subject in The Color Purple that I can’t even begin to comment on.
Please don’t call on me.
Please don’t call on me.
Ms. Taylor is eyeing the class like a hawk about to swoop down on some unsuspecting field mice. A really hot hawk with great hair and an appreciation for literature, I might add . . . which reminds me, I should stop crushing on her in class, especially since it’s the beginning of the school year.
Ms. Taylor sets her sights on my friend Tess. “Any thoughts?” she asks.
Tess looks up at Ms. Taylor with those mousy eyes, her retainer glistening under the fluorescent lights. I’ve told her to stop wearing it at school, but she insists her teeth will not be compromised for popularity.
“I think Celie finds Shug attractive . . . like in a romantic fashion,” Tess says.
The snickering begins with Ashley Martin and Lisa Katz. They’re the girls every guy at our school has fantasized about since we were in ninth grade, which I find strangely disturbing. I’m pretty sure Mr. Harris, our science teacher, has been seeing Ashley outside of school. I should probably tell Ms. Taylor that because she and Mr. Harris have been dating since the beginning of the school year. They have never said anything about it, but it’s so obvious, especially when he comes all the way from the science building to borrow chalk from her. I should get him a gift card to Staples and tell him about all the discounts he can get on office supplies.
Mr. Harris is like one of those guys who loved his time in high school and decided never to grow up. I would probably find him endearing and dreamy like everyone else if I didn’t resent him for dating a woman far superior to him . . . and if I wasn’t failing his snooze of a class. Why would I ever care about frictionless acceleration anyway? How is that ever going to get me a girlfriend?
Not that I dare think about that. I’m not ready to announce my lady-loving inclinations as yet. I can hear the whispering, knowing that what they are snickering about could easily be me. I’m already different enough at this school. I don’t need to add anything else to that.
As Tess struggles through her answer to Ms. Taylor’s question, Ashley cackles with the fervor and depth that only a bitchy blond sixteen-year-old can muster. Apparently Lisa is no longer interested. She looks back to her notebook, hiding her face by pulling her brown bangs down. It’s a habit she’s had since we were kids.
Lisa and I went to the same private elementary school. She’s richer than God–her father is some kind of CEO–plus she’s attractive and dresses well. Considering our totally different social circles now, it’s hard to believe we were friends as kids. But back then we both had an obsession with Roald Dahl books, and that was all that was necessary.
“Very good, Tess,” says Ms. Taylor. “Celie does have strong feelings for Shug. Is it possible for her, even though she is married, to be attracted to another woman?”
The class is silent again. I hate when this happens. I’ve never done well with awkward silences or pauses. I can always hear people breathing. I can hear myself breathe. It’s the most uncomfortable feeling ever. Usually I’d make a joke or something, but this subject is too risky. They’d all know.
“Robert? What do you think?” Ms. Taylor has caught another of Armstead Academy’s finest in her talons now. Robert Peters is on the soccer team, rows on the crew team, and gets great grades, but I don’t understand why he works so hard. His parents own a potato chip brand popular in New England, and Robert will inherit the company when he grows up. He always has a Gatorade bottle with him, full of piss-yellow Gatorade and vodka. He gets a little loopy from the booze by history, which is two periods away, but keeps it together enough that teachers don’t notice.
“I don’t know, Ms. Taylor. I’ve never been married and I’m not a lesbian.” Everyone laughs, this time including me. I don’t really mean it, but the fake laugh is high school protocol. Everything’s a lark when you’re rich and handsome, like Robert. Why upset the status quo? Though I’m not one to talk. My dad’s a surgeon.
My parents are both originally from Iran and think education is the most important thing. To give them credit, Armstead has facilities and resources beyond those of a lot of small colleges. We have a sleek fitness gym to train Olympic athletes (we’ve had two in the past eight years) and our dining hall is like a castle out of Harry Potter.
At first, when I came here in ninth grade, I really loved the place. I got along with everybody, I loved my classes, and I enjoyed sports. It all kind of went awry after meeting Anastasia this past summer at a Global Young Leaders of the Future camp, where we spent two weeks having mock debates while representing our countries in the United Nations. I was put in the Algeria group, the only Middle Eastern country other than Israel represented. Anastasia was representing Ghana, but she was from France.
Anastasia had a red birthmark near her eyebrow that she didn’t seem at all self-conscious about. One day she cornered me in the dorm lounge and talked to me about the concept of privilege and how I was a naive, spoiled girl who didn’t know anything about the world around me. I found her fascinating.
By the time the Festival of Nations came around, where we all dressed up in inappropriate ethnic garb from our represented countries, Anastasia came up to me while I wore a hijab and she was wearing a dashiki, which was clearly meant for a man. We looked ridiculous, but we had been talking for days about our favorite musicians, her melodramatic poems, and my crap photography skills, and by this time there was this . . . tension between us. I had no idea what that tension was; I just knew I shouldn’t pursue it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, either.
Anastasia asked me to help her find her djembe drum in her dorm room before the festival got underway. We went upstairs to her room, and she locked the door. She swung me around by my arm and asked me if I had ever been properly kissed before. I thought back to playing spin the bottle in sixth grade and kissing Andrew Cassidy. His kiss tasted like Fritos, a snack I can’t stand. Then there had been my semiformal date, Greg Crawford. We kissed for ten minutes. I wanted to feel something, but I didn’t.
So here was Anastasia, gently tugging at my hijab-covered arm, breathing softly on my lips, looking at the shape of my eyebrows and pushing back my head scarf with her other hand. I told her that no, I didn’t think I had been properly kissed. And then it happened.
She inched closer. My ears were warm enough to heat up a Hot Pocket. My stomach felt the way it had on the Thunderbolt coaster at Six Flags New England. I wondered if Anastasia would know that I practiced kissing on my pillow and could never quite figure out where my tongue was supposed to go.
All my wondering was put to rest when our lips met. The kiss started slow, her lips figuring me out, asking whether it was okay to continue their dance. I backed away slightly, looked her in the eye–and started to cry.
And then I knew for sure what I had been trying to avoid for so long. Everything rushed to the surface. I cried as I remembered throwing the dress I had received for my third birthday on the floor. I cried as I remembered wanting to be best friends with a girl in fifth grade because she was so pretty. I cried as I remembered always rescuing the girl, played by a stuffed animal, while pretending to be Indiana Jones. I cried and Anastasia kissed my lips again, this time aggressively, her tongue asking for acceptance. We missed the festival, but we couldn’t have cared less.
Our fling lasted through a couple more ma
ke-out sessions, but Anastasia ended up liking some guy named Enrique by the time the mock United Nations summit rolled around at the end of the summer. I was heartbroken. I threatened almost every country at the conference with whatever military capabilities Algeria had. My other group members had to appease everyone afterward by offering to export more oil. After days of the two of us not speaking, the program came to an end and Anastasia pulled me aside in the girls’ bathroom.
She said this was only the beginning for me and I was going to find someone special. She said she was a mess and I could do better. At the time I didn’t believe her, but I was willing to put up with her melodrama for one last kiss. We broke apart when we heard a toilet flush. A Japanese girl came out of the stall, washed her hands, and booked it out of there.
After this past summer, I came back a little wiser to the universe, having met people from all over the world. I realized I was different, and that Anastasia might not have been the only one who had figured that out about me.
“Leila, what do you think?” Ms. Taylor’s question pulls me out of my daydreams. I feel everyone’s eyes on me.
What do I think? After the summer I was thinking too much. I started noticing things I hadn’t before, like our hallway janitor, who had to clean up the snack wrappers we tossed onto the floor, even though a wastebasket was a few feet away. I started noticing how all the black kids in our grade, seven in total, sat in one spot by themselves and were always pointedly asked what they thought in class whenever we studied slavery or the civil rights movement. Greg hates being asked, and I don’t know why he doesn’t say something to his mother, who is on the board of trustees.
I also began to notice how white everything was. The students, the students’ teeth, and the fences surrounding the outdoor swimming pools we never used. We all seemed to categorize ourselves without ever explicitly saying anything. Where does that leave students who don’t have a clear category?
“Can Celie be attracted to another woman?” Ms. Taylor is standing near my desk. Ashley Martin folds her arms and Robert Peters guzzles his Gatorade bottle.