I text Amir: I’m here
A minute later, I’m walking up to the door as it opens. Amir stands in front of me, wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white V-neck. His stubble is dark and runs over his cheeks and along the curve of his sharp jaw. My eyes scan him a moment too long, and the word want surfaces in my thoughts.
He cracks a crooked smile. “Hey.”
“Hey. So—”
“So—”
We both laugh. Amir scratches the back of his neck, still grinning. “So, okay. Come on in. I’m set up in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
His house is familiar. Art hangs on the walls, from prints of famous artists to Amir’s photography to Rasha’s watercolors. Sara has her own nook, shelves full of pottery and photos from ballet and soccer. We head down the hall to the kitchen. The table sits by a giant bay window overlooking the backyard.
Amir mentioned his family is out watching Sara’s play. He already went to opening night. “Would you like a drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and leans over it, one arm pressed against the frame. I try and fail not to stare at his bicep. “We have Coke, iced tea, water…”
“Tea works,” I say.
Amir pours us both a cup, then grabs a bag of chips and some grapes. I pull out sour gummy worms and Haribo Fizzy Cola bottles from my backpack. He laughs when he sees them and asks, “Sour candy fan?”
“Understatement of the year,” I respond. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d get anything done without sour candy.
We go to settle at the table, but there are a bunch of photos spread out over it. “Sorry,” Amir says, sliding them into a pile. I catch a glimpse of Rasha in a library and a photo of their parents laughing in the kitchen.
“Can I see that one?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Sure.”
Amir hands it to me. It’s an evocative shot, within a private moment. It feels as if they’re alone in the room. Intimacy caught on film.
Something stirs in me. “It’s really good.”
“Do you think so? I can’t figure out which ones to use.”
“Use for what?”
“A competition for high school photographers. If you win, your work gets shown in this new art gallery. It’s not the best space, but still, I’d have my photographs on an actual gallery wall.” His eyes light up. “And they’re giving scholarship money. I can only pick five pieces for my application, so I’ve narrowed it down to shots of the family, but…” He stacks the photos. There must be at least two hundred of them. “I have a few of those.” He raises his eyebrows, looking a little overwhelmed.
I nod. “Quite a few.”
“They’re good subjects. There’s something familiar and unfamiliar about looking at your family through a lens, seeing your parents as actual people.” His fingers trace the photo of them. “Capturing a moment I wouldn’t linger on otherwise.”
“Like Sunday mornings,” I say, half to myself.
“Hmm?” Amir glances at me.
I clear my throat, a bit embarrassed. “Sunday mornings at my house. My parents run around nonstop all week, but they have a date at home every Sunday morning. They stay in their pajamas and read the newspaper and sip coffee for hours. And they talk about politics and movies and their friends. It’s always weird seeing them like that, like an out-of-body experience, because suddenly they’re not Mom and Dad—they’re real people.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Amir says. “I remember the first time I really saw my dad.” He leans forward some, and I do, too. My skin tingles. “I was fourteen. He was running late, and his car wouldn’t start, so he got out to check on the engine and spilled coffee on his shirt. And then his boss was calling on the phone, and Sara was cranky and crying, and I thought, He’s really stressed out. It must be tough. Before that, he was Dad. Invincible. After, he was just a guy.”
“It’s life-altering when you realize your parents are human.”
Amir’s gaze connects with mine, and I’m startled by its intensity. But eventually, he looks away, straightening the stack of photos. “So—”
“So—”
We both smile. Amir continues, “We should study. My family will be back in a couple of hours.”
“Oh, right.” I pause. “Could you not tell them? About the tutoring?” He almost looks hurt, so I quickly continue. “Sorry, it’s those human parents of mine. I don’t want them finding out I failed a quiz and getting all parent-y.” I pick at my nail. “Do you mind? I mean, it’s not really lying, more like omitting, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
He’s silent for a moment, then says, “Sure. No problem.” Tension eases from my muscles. “It’s not like we’re sneaking around doing drugs or having sex.”
My cheeks burn. Amir said “sex” so casually. I mean, I guess there’s a good chance he’s had sex. He dates older guys, which means college guys now. And plenty of people have sex in high school, too.
Even though I want to have sex in the abstract, every time I think about actually having it, I go into a panic spiral, which tells me I’m not ready. I mean, I know how to put on a condom, but what if it’s more difficult than it looks? What size do I buy? And do I buy them, or would Amir? I mean, not Amir. I mean—who would buy them? And how do you know your parents aren’t going to show up while you’re doing it? And—
Yeah, way too stressful. I’ll figure it out in college.
I open my textbook and stare at the page. “Where should we start?”
“Math builds on itself, so we need a solid foundation. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Amir’s we is generous since he obviously has the foundation down.
“Okay, from the beginning then.”
I slip my phone out of my pocket and turn off the buzzer so we aren’t disturbed. I have three email notifications. What if they’re from colleges? No, I need to study. I resist the urge to touch the icon. I’ll check when I use the bathroom or something.
We flip to page one. “A heads-up, I’ve never done this before.” Amir sounds confident. It’s more a perfunctory notice. “I looked up some how-to guides and—”
I bite back a smile. “You did?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“That was nice.”
“It’s no problem. Anyways, tutors make good money. If I take to it, I can charge other people, maybe save some for college.”