I think, deep down, I’d always known we wouldn’t last.
I’d known about Zahra’s old pain; I knew she’d been used and discarded by other girls who’d feigned interest in her friendship only to get close to her brother. I tried always to be sensitive to this, to make sure she knew that our friendship was more important to me than anything. What I hadn’t realized was how paranoid she’d become over the years, how she’d already painted upon my face a picture of her own insecurities. She was so certain that I’d ditch her for Ali that she nearly fulfilled her own prophecy just to be right, just to prove to me—and to herself—that I’d been worthless all along.
Soon, she hated everything about me.
She hated how much her parents liked me, hated how they were always inviting me to things. But most of all, she hated, hated, that I was always asking to come over to her house.
I felt a flush of heat move across my skin at the memories, ancient mortification refusing to die.
I just want to know why, okay? Why do you always want to come over? Why are you always here? Why do you always want to spend the night? Why?
I’d told her the truth a thousand times, but she never believed me for longer than a week before she was suspicious again. And so it went, my screams soldiering on in their usual vein, unnoticed.
Eleven
I dropped my backpack on the damp, pebbled concrete, took a seat on the dirty curb. I stared out at the sea of glistening cars quietly settling in the parking lot of an outdoor shopping mall.
So this was freedom.
Yumiko and I had spent enough lunches together now that I’d begun to feel a sense of obligation toward our meetings. I always tried to tell her when I wouldn’t be around, and though I’d invited her to join me on this unexciting sojourn off campus, she gently reminded me that she was only a junior. Seniors alone were allowed to leave school for lunch, but given the time restraints—and my lack of a car—the local shopping mall was as far as I ever got, which often diminished my motivation to make the effort.
Today, however, I’d needed the walk.
I’d purchased a slice of pizza from a beloved local place, a place run by a guy named Giovanni. Giovanni was never able to hide his disappointment when I showed up. Giovanni always broke into a sweat when I walked in, his eyes darting around nervously as I ordered. Giovanni and I both knew his real name was Javad, and he’d never forgiven me for asking him, out loud, in front of a long line of people, whether he was Iranian.
When he’d denied it, looking aghast at the insinuation, I was dumbstruck. I’d stared at the crayon drawings taped to the wall behind his head, shakily done stick figures with titles like baba and amoo.
Dad. Uncle.
I hadn’t known it was a secret. His Iranian accent was so thick I was astonished anyone was dumb enough to accept it as Italian. And I’d heard such great things about Giovanni’s that, when I first showed up and discovered a Persian man behind the counter, I was delighted. Proud.
Javad never looked me in the eye anymore.
I bit into my cold slice of pizza, retrieved the newspaper from my waistband. I cracked the paper open with one hand, took a second bite of pizza with the other. I felt a familiar dread as I scanned the headlines, and prepared for a deep dive into a brand-new existential crisis.
“Hey.” A body collapsed beside me with an exhale, blocked my view of a particularly dirty minivan. “Okay if I sit here?”
I stared, unblinking, at the newcomer.
To say that I was confused would’ve been a disservice to the maelstrom of thoughts suddenly kicked up in my head. Noah from AP Art History was sitting next to me, and I gaped at him like he’d opened a third eye. I’d forgotten my manners entirely.
Noah’s smile faded.
He picked up his plate, the paper graying with pizza grease. “I can go,” he said, moving to stand. “I didn’t mean t—”
“No. Oh my God. No, of course you can stay,” I said too quickly, too loudly. “Please stay. I was just—surprised.”
His smile grew back, bigger this time. “Cool.”
I attempted a smile of my own before picking up my newspaper again. I shook out the crease, tried to find my spot. I didn’t mind Noah sitting next to me, not as long as he was willing to be quiet. I’d never had a chance to finish reading a piece about the terrifying similarities between the Iraq and Vietnam Wars, and I’d been waiting all day to get back to it. I took another bite of pizza.
“So, um, your name is Shadi, right?”
I looked up. Felt the distant world come back into focus.
I saw only Noah’s eyes over the top of my paper, and I realized then that I’d never studied him closely. I folded the paper down; the rest of his face came into view. His black curls were cropped close to his head, his deep-set eyes a couple shades darker than his brown skin. He had unusually striking features—something about his cheekbones, the line of his nose. He was undeniably good-looking. I didn’t know why he was talking to me.
“Yes.” I frowned. “You’re Noah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes lit up. He seemed delighted by this, the revelation that I knew his name. “I just moved here. Like, last month.”
“Oh. Wow.” I gestured with my pizza to the damp, depressing parking lot. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed. “It’s not so bad.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He bit back another laugh. “Yeah, okay. It’s pretty bad.”
I cracked a smile then. Picked up my paper.
“So, um, you’re Muslim, right?”
I was still reading when I said, “What gave it away?”
He laughed for a third time. I liked that he laughed so much, so easily. The sound alone made my heart kick a little.
“Yes,” I said, my face buried in the article. “I’m Muslim.”
Gently, he pushed the newspaper down, away from me, and I flinched at his closeness, sat back an inch. He was staring at me with barely suppressed mirth, like he was fighting a smile.
“What?”
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I’m going to say something right now, and please don’t take this the wrong way or anything”—he held up his hands—“but I didn’t think you’d be so funny.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Don’t take this the wrong way?”
“You just seem so intense all the time,” he said, his whole body like an exclamation point. “Like, why are you always reading the newspaper? That seems unhealthy.”
I frowned at him. “I’m a masochist.”
He frowned back. “Doesn’t that mean you like to hurt people?”
“It means I like to hurt myself.”
“Weird.”
“Hey, how do you know I’m always reading the newspaper?”
Noah’s smile slipped. He looked suddenly nervous. “Okay—please don’t freak out—”
“Jesus Christ, Noah.”
“Wait—are you talking to me?” He pointed at himself. “Or are you just listing prophets?”
My eyes widened.
He couldn’t stop laughing, not even when he said, “Okay, okay, complete honesty: I’ve been, like, trying to figure out how to talk to you for a little while.”