The Authentics

by Abdi Nazemian

  “Thanks,” Heidi said, beaming. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

  As Mr. Farrell turned his attention to his lesson plan, Heidi whispered to me, “Congrats, teacher’s pet. Is that the most attention you’ve ever gotten from a man?”

  A few students laughed, and Heidi smiled devilishly. I longed for the Heidi of BNJ, which, if you haven’t figured it out yet, stands for Before Nose Job.

  BNJ, Heidi was my friend, and ANJ, she turned into my enemy. It’s as simple as that. Heidi came back after that summer a different person. She started high school dripping in bling and brands, and her face had noticeably changed. Gone was the beak nose that had made her so unique and so insecure. In its place was a perfect little button nose, with a straight ridge, and nostrils so small I wasn’t sure how she breathed anymore. Once her nose went from a double black diamond to a bunny slope, Heidi swiftly took control of the Persian clique of students who drove BMWs, dressed in designer clothes, and left the smell of their perfume and cologne lingering a mile down the halls.

  You might ask why I wasn’t invited into this exclusive clique, especially when Heidi was my friend since birth. Well, for starters, there was the obvious fact that I didn’t drive a BMW, dress in designer clothes, or wear perfume. But it wasn’t just that. On the first day of high school, after Heidi ignored me to hang out with her new clique, I approached her privately in the bathroom.

  “Hey,” I said. Seriously, that’s all I said.

  “Don’t make such a big deal out of it,” she said.

  “Big deal out of what?” I asked.

  “I know you’re Persian, but you just don’t fit in with us, okay?”

  “I, um, I just said hey.”

  “We’re rich. We’re fabulous. We’re beautiful. Hanging out with us would just make you feel bad about yourself,” she explained.

  “Seriously?” I said. “You think a nose job makes you fabulous and beautiful?”

  “I did not get a nose job!” she protested.

  “Right,” I said, my face burning. I wanted to tell her that if she was going to be the queen of a group of Persians, then why was she butchering her face to look less Persian? I wanted to tell her that her nose job was like cutting off a piece of her heritage. And that instead of sitting around reading fashion magazines, she and her friends should be reading the poetry of Omar Khayyam. I wanted to remind her that her nose was probably still growing, so she’d have to get another nose job soon. But all I said was, “Well, have fun with your fabulous friends. Bye.”

  Mr. Farrell took a plastic box out of a bag and held it up so we could all see it. Inside was an old potato, cut in half. “What do you guys think this is?”

  “A rotten potato,” Heidi said.

  “Be more specific,” Mr. Farrell said.

  “It’s fungus,” Kurt said.

  “You’re right, Kurt. It’s mold growing on a potato,” Mr. Farrell said. “Now, what if I told you that if it wasn’t for this potato, I wouldn’t be your teacher? I probably wouldn’t even be here in this country.”

  “I’d say that was a superpotato,” Caroline said, and a few of us laughed.

  “Maybe some of you know that in the nineteenth century, this fungus caused a potato famine in Ireland. Over the course of five years, half a million people left Ireland and came to the United States. Including one of my ancestors. So if this fungus had never infected this potato, I’d probably be living in Ireland.”

  “And you’d have a hot accent,” Stella said, then immediately blushed. I mean, we all talked about how hot Mr. Farrell was, but not in front of him.

  Heidi raised her hand. “Mr. Farrell, is this some kind of intro for some assignment you’re going to give us about how we’re all immigrants and we have to share our story with each other?”

  “No, Heidi,” Mr. Farrell deadpanned. “I brought a moldy potato to class because it’s completely unrelated to your schoolwork. The most important part of my job as an educator is to waste your time.” Mr. Farrell paused just long enough for Heidi to groan before continuing. “There’s no right or wrong way to do this assignment. You just need to think about what brought you to this point in your life, to this country, and tell the class a story that illustrates that journey. Some of you might bring a piece of art you made. Some of you might bring some food you cooked. Some of you might play a piece of music that’s significant.”

  “I’m sorry, but I thought this was an English class,” Heidi said.

  “You’re right,” Mr. Farrell said. “Which is why you’ll be writing an essay in addition to making a presentation.”

  The class groaned, and then Lance said, “I’m Irish too. Can I just borrow that potato?”

  Mr. Farrell ignored him. “This may seem like an easy assignment, but it’s not. I want to see investigative work. I want to see emotional analysis. I want to see creative thinking. I want to see that you’re thinking deeply about issues of genealogy, immigration, assimilation, identity. You’ll all present your work in January. Have a great vacation.”

  The bell rang, and as I stood up to leave class, I was accosted by the Nose Jobs. “Daria,” Heidi said. “Why did your mother do a save-the-date email for your sweet sixteen? Can she not afford stationery?”

  Behind her, the Nose Jobs nodded and muttered in Farsi. Apparently, their families had all received a save-the-date email for my sweet sixteen party as well. I could feel my heart pounding in anger at my mother.

  “Maybe she accidentally BCCed you,” I said. “You know how hard it is to type with Persian nails.”

  On cue, the Nose Jobs all looked down at their manicured nails. “Whatever,” Heidi said. “Our families are gonna make us come, so we’ll see you there.” Once again, the Nose Jobs muttered their agreement. I didn’t say a word, because I knew she was right. “Hey, Daria,” Heidi continued, “if you want, I’ll do your makeup before the party. You don’t want to be all zitty on your big night.”

  My face got red and hot. I hated her. I hated them. And I hated my mother most of all for forcing these people into my life. I grabbed my backpack and rushed away toward the cafeteria. But I’d lost my appetite, so I escaped the incoming horde and went outside. I searched for an isolated spot, and decided on the shade of an avocado tree.

  I tried to distract myself from my anger by taking out a notebook and a pencil, and beginning a family tree. The truth was that I knew very little about my extended family. I placed myself in the center with a large circle around my name. Then I added in my brother, Amir, and his husband, Andrew, and my parents, Sheila and Pasha. On Baba’s side, I added his brother, Abbas, who lived in Houston with his family, and then I added his parents. His father had died of a heart attack years earlier. I was never that close to him.

  But Baba’s mother, Maman Homa, was one of my favorite people. She lived in a nursing home not far from us. She used to live with us, but she had to be moved when she started forgetting things. My parents refused to ever use the word Alzheimer’s in the house, so we just said she “forgot things,” as if her condition were comparable to me forgetting my notebook on a school day. Watching her lose her memories was so painful, like this person I loved was disappearing before my very eyes. If it was that awful for me, I could only imagine how awful it was for Baba. But if it hurt, he never showed it.

  I moved my pen toward Sheila’s side of the family tree. I drew in a square for her sister, Lida, but then I realized I didn’t know much else. I knew Lida took care of their mother in Iran, but I didn’t even know her name. And I knew nothing about their father. I hadn’t even seen a picture of him. Sheila didn’t really talk about her past much. She was all about staying current.

  The Authentics found me sitting alone by the avocado tree, and walked over. Lance Summers stopped Joy to talk. Kurt and Caroline sat down next to me.

  “You okay?” Kurt asked.

  “Oh, you heard that?” I asked, embarrassed by my public humiliation.

  Caroline put a hand on my knee and squeezed it
hard. “I tried to intervene, but Joy said you wouldn’t want more attention drawn to a miserable situation.”

  “She was right,” I said, looking up to Joy, who finished up her conversation and joined us.

  “What was that about?” Caroline asked Joy.

  “Nothing, really,” Joy said. “He said his dad’s producing a movie in the city this summer, and he thought I could intern for the costume designer or something.”

  “Jesus, can that guy talk about anything but his famous dad?” Caroline asked. “It’s pathetic.”

  “It was kind of a nice offer,” Joy said. “If my parents actually let me do it.”

  “Wait, do you think he likes you?” I asked, and immediately Joy blushed. “You should go for him. He’s totally cute.”

  “Yeah, if self-involved bros who post selfies once a week with their dads’ Oscars are your thing,” Caroline said.

  “Can we move on?” Joy asked. “A boyfriend is not in my life plan until junior year of college.”

  “Well, I think you guys would be cute together,” I said. “But I guess I selfishly don’t want any of you guys to date anyone. The Authentics come first, right?”

  “Right,” Joy said.

  “Is he the kind of guy that girls want?” Kurt asked, looking at me. “’Cause I could be all douchey if that’s what it takes.” And then, imitating Lance, Kurt said, “Yo, ladies, my dad’s doing a Rumi biopic starring Zac Efron. Wanna see a selfie of me and his abs?”

  “That is disturbing ’cause it could actually happen,” I said. “And no, that is not what girls want, Kurt.”

  When I first became one of the Authentics, Kurt did my chart and declared that we were each other’s astro–soul mates, which was his very Kurt-like way of saying he had a crush on me. Caroline suspected that Kurt was gay, and using me as a beard crush. She based this on his lack of a girlfriend and his flamboyant style, but I disagreed with her. Personally, I always thought the most likely explanation for Kurt’s crush was that he pitied me and was pretending to like me to boost my confidence. If I was right, Kurt was an even better friend than I had imagined.

  “Okay, this is me officially changing the subject,” Joy said. “What were you guys talking about before I got here?”

  “I was about to offer to beat Heidi up on Daria’s behalf,” Caroline said. Joy raised her eyebrows at her. “What?”

  “Thanks, Caroline,” I said. “But let’s stick with nonviolence for now.”

  “Don’t let her get to you,” Joy said.

  “Heidi or my mother?” I asked.

  “I was talking about Caroline,” Joy said with a smile.

  “Oh” was all I said. I knew Joy was trying to lighten the mood, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about how I was very much letting both my mother and Heidi get to me.

  “You know what Daria needs?” Kurt asked, and before anyone could answer, he yelled, “A group hug!”

  He leaped on top of me, pinning me down on the grass. Caroline and Joy jumped on top of Kurt. We were one big mass now.

  “Don’t you wish you could pick your family members?” I asked, a little breathless from being smothered by the three of them. “Because honestly, I’d pick you guys.”

  “Speaking of family, what are you guys thinking of doing for the assignment?” Joy asked.

  They all slid off me, and that’s when I had an idea, and my eyes grew wide with excitement. “You guys,” I said. “We should all buy those DNA kits and do genealogy testing like on that TV show. How fun would that be? And who knows, maybe we’d even find out that some of us are related.”

  “Do we have to give blood?” Joy asked. “Because needles give me traumatic flashbacks to my mother piercing my ears.”

  “Have you never seen an episode of CSI?” Caroline asked. “A single strand of hair is enough for DNA testing.”

  “I’m not pulling out my hair,” Joy said, and before she could say another word, Caroline reached over and yanked a hair from her head. “Ow,” Joy screamed. “You’re insane.”

  “You know you love me,” Caroline said.

  “I do not love you right now,” Joy responded, glaring at Caroline.

  “Well, I think it’s a genius idea,” Kurt said. “Let’s find out which one of us is descended from Jesus.”

  “Um, I don’t think Jesus had kids in any universe that isn’t The Da Vinci Code,” Joy said.

  “So we’re doing this?” I asked, and they all nodded. “I mean, we probably won’t find out anything all that interesting,” I said. “But you never know.”

  I yanked a strand of hair from my head and held it in my hand. It was brown and stringy, with a little white tip at the end where it had been attached to my scalp. I stared at the strand of hair with fascination. It was so thin that when the sun hit it, you could barely see it at all. Could this really tell me all about my ancestry?

  “You know you didn’t have to pull that hair out of your head,” Kurt said. He was holding his phone in his hand. “I just Googled the company that does the tests and they want a cheek swab.”

  With that, I let go of the strand of hair and watched it fly away.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN THE RESULTS OF MY DNA test arrived on Friday morning, I tore the heavy envelope open like a little kid on Christmas morning. The cover of the binder was white, and big block letters spelled out “THIS IS DARIA ESFANDYAR.” I smiled. I had been trying to figure out who I was for a long time, and now here was a binder that thought it could answer the question for me.

  The first few pages of the results were full of fun, seemingly trivial information that I pretty much already knew. Like it said I could digest lactose, which wasn’t exactly a surprise since ice cream is my favorite thing in the entire world. And it said that I’m not among the small percentage of people who are insensitive to caffeine, which was definitely not a surprise since the one time I decided to emulate my parents and have an espresso after dinner, I couldn’t sleep and ended up watching a marathon of Hoarders on TV. The next page of the test said I have a mutation of some gene with a lot of letters and numbers in it that basically enhanced the taste of bitter foods, which is probably why I love eating lemons and limes the way most people eat oranges.

  And then I turned to a page with the heading “Ancestry.” On the page was a large gray map with a bunch of areas colored in bright pink. My eyes went to the Middle East first, which was the area I expected to be highlighted, but then my gaze found the other highlighted area on the map, Mexico. I looked to the right, where there was a breakdown of the ancestry: 50 percent Middle Eastern and 50 percent Mexican, which was then traced back to Spanish and Aztec heritage.

  My heart started to beat really fast. My head was pounding too, not just at my temples but everywhere, like my brain was working overtime to process this disorienting information.

  If half of my ancestry was Middle Eastern and the other half was Mexican, that basically meant one of my parents wasn’t really my parent. For a brief moment, I thought this explained everything. It explained why my mother and I were so different. It explained why she thought I was an alien child. But then it hit me that the much more likely scenario would’ve been for Sheila to be my mother. She was the one who was pregnant, right? Maybe she had an affair with some random man and hid it from Baba, and all these years he never even suspected that I wasn’t really his flesh and blood. When I thought about Baba finding out the truth, my heart broke for him.

  I Googled the company that did my test, and there were lots of really bad reviews for it all over the internet, including a case where they mixed up a bunch of people’s results.

  I slowly let out the breath I was holding. It was obviously a mistake.

  Besides the drama of my mysterious DNA, I had enough to worry about leading into the holidays. My nanny, Lala, was leaving our house and going to live with my brother, Amir; his husband, Andrew; and their soon-to-be-born daughter. I know, it’s weird that I was fifteen and had a nanny. It’s not like she n
eeded to take care of me anymore. But she had been living with us since I was born, and my parents promised her (and me) that she could keep her job as long as she wanted it. Lala was the one who watched Pitch Perfect with me fifty-three times while my parents were playing cards. She was the one who taught me how to make cupcakes. She was the one who taught me how to speak Spanish, and listened to me talk about the crush I had on Ebon Buchbinder in the fourth grade, and helped me sew my Halloween costumes. She was the one who listened to all my stories. Watching her pack up her room was so sad, and all that much harder given how pissed I was at Sheila for sending out a digital save-the-date to the sweet sixteen party I didn’t want to have.

  “How could you plan a party for me after we agreed not to have one?” I asked Sheila. We were both standing in Lala’s room, which was almost entirely boxed up.

  “I had a great idea for a venue, and they only had one date available. If I hadn’t booked it, we could’ve lost it,” Sheila argued.

  “And how could you invite the Nose Jobs to my party when you know how awful they are to me?” I continued.

  “That name is not nice,” Sheila said, rubbing her perfect nose. And that’s when it struck me that my mother was a Nose Job.

  “Well, I’m not trying to be nice,” I said. “I’m trying to be real.”

  Lala approached the heated scene gently. “Daria, don’t speak to your mother like that.”

  I turned to Lala and told her in Spanish that my mother deserved it. Sheila hated it when Lala and I spoke Spanish because she couldn’t understand us. She always said it was impolite to speak a language people didn’t understand, but I knew this wasn’t the real reason because she herself spoke Farsi in front of my friends, or Andrew, or Lala, all the time. The truth was that she hated feeling left out. She hated that Lala and I had a language of our own that she didn’t have access to. But here’s the funny thing: my mother, being an enigmatic and contradictory puzzle in human form, had insisted that Lala teach me Spanish. In fact, I remember Sheila admonishing Lala for speaking to me in English when I was a kid. “Spanish,” Sheila would tell her. “It’s important that she speaks Spanish.”