Down and Across

by Arvin Ahmadi

  ETCH A SKETCH

  CONNECT FOUR

  THE PRICE IS RIGHT

  FAMILY FEUD

  CASH CAB

  DEAL OR NO DEAL

  AMAZING RACE

  SURVIVOR

  AMERICAN IDOL

  HELLS KITCHEN

  THE X FACTOR

  “Anything else?” I asked

  THE BACHELOR

  “Really?”

  “Hey, it’s an accurate depiction of modern romance. Passion and fizzle. Even the most independent lady needs her fix of trashy TV,” Fiora said. “In between MSNBC and the History Channel, of course.”

  Fiora said the words “in between” exactly when I looked down at the first entry on our list. Something clicked.

  “Hold on,” I said, grabbing the pen out of her hand a little too forcefully. I brought the napkin closer and circled:

  Fiora grinned like I had guessed her favorite song or Bachelor contestant. She snatched the pen from me:

  And together we continued:

  “This is incredible,” I said. “There are words in between our words. This is really good, right? It’s like a theme and a subtheme.”

  Fiora didn’t say anything. Her eyes stayed fixed on the list.

  “Fiora?”

  She kept scanning the napkin while I waited for her to respond. Then she scrunched up her face and went, “Yeah. No. It’s not going to work.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s a cool idea,” Fiora admitted. “But based on what we have, there’s no theme connecting all these bridge words. Theoretically we could force a subtheme, like just half-ass something, but then we’d have no freedom with our grid. Filling in the rest of your squares would suck immensely. Especially when you’re new to this, you always want to leave a little bit of wiggle room with your theme.”

  I let out a loud grunt. “Well, that’s just—” and then I smiled and thought for a few moments. “That’s so ‘cool American’ of you.”

  “What?”

  I spelled it out for her: “C-O-O . . . L-A-M-E . . . R-I-C-A-N,” I said, pausing strategically around the bridge word. “Cool American.”

  Fiora looked like she was going to punch me. I braced myself. Yep—she was going to—wait. No. All of a sudden she started laughing. Hysterically!

  “Wha . . . I . . . Who even are you, Saaket Ferdowsi?”

  “You know what, Fiora?” I grabbed another napkin and drew a giant question mark. “That’s what I’m figuring out.”

  Fiora announced that we were done for the night and would finish later.

  “Come on,” I begged.

  “My therapist says you have to divide big projects into manageable pieces,” Fiora said. “Building a crossword puzzle isn’t easy. You have to take it step-by-step.”

  This was the second time Fiora had mentioned her therapist around me. I was surprised by how openly she talked about therapy, like it was a weekly piano lesson and not an expensive appointment for your mental health.

  I’d seen a therapist exactly once in my life. Throughout sophomore year, I tried convincing my parents to get me evaluated for ADHD. I begged and begged. If I were the conductor of the train of thought, I’d steer it right into the Bermuda Triangle, I told them. They never budged. My parents didn’t “believe” in therapy. They were convinced all shrinks were con artists, no different from palm readers or Nigerian prince spammers.

  This time, I didn’t make a PowerPoint presentation. I took matters into my own hands.

  It was a chilly November morning. Every corner of our cul-de-sac was covered in a thin coat of frost: car windshields, stray soccer balls, even the littlest blades of grass. It was so cold, you could see your own breath. My mom shrieked something about hypothermia and offered to drive me to the bus stop for school, but I insisted on walking like I always did. Truth was, I had plans to take a different bus—into Philly, to see Lydia Sparrow, a shrink who administered ADHD tests for $150 a pop.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Scott,” Dr. Sparrow said. Her voice was tough—not Mafia tough, but like a piece of well-done steak. Inelastic and consonant-heavy.

  “So why are you here today?”

  “I’m having trouble following through,” I said. I realized I was sitting uncharacteristically still. I started tapping my foot, little taps—fast—and cracking my knuckles.

  “My thoughts are scattered, doctor, and it’s been like that for a while. I’m starting to worry that I’ll never be able to focus on . . . you know, things that are important. College classes. My job. Life.”

  Dr. Sparrow took some notes and nodded. I caught her eyelids drooping for a split second; she tried covering it up with a cough.

  “So you have attention issues?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed, “I guess you could call it that. My grades aren’t awesome, and I have a hard time focusing at school or doing homework without my mind wandering off.”

  “Yes, yes. This appears to be a theme . . . a theme song! Ha.”

  “Ha-ha, sure.”

  For the rest of our meeting, Dr. Sparrow asked about my childhood, how my parents treated me, relationships with friends, siblings, bullies, and sex, with a lot of questions about violence, to which I repeatedly answered “No.” At one point I asked when we would begin the actual ADHD test, and apparently, this was it.

  “Scott, evaluating someone your age for ADHD is a relatively complicated process. Usually the disorder is diagnosed when a person is much younger—”

  “My parents never took me to a psychologist when I was younger. They don’t believe in psychology.”

  Dr. Sparrow cleared her throat. “And so it’s going to take more sessions to determine what’s going on. It might be ADHD, it might not, but whatever it is, I’m sure we can help you overcome the symptoms and perform at a suitable level.”

  “Can’t you just write me a prescription?” I asked, cracking my knuckles.

  Dr. Sparrow smiled sweetly. “That’s not how it works.”

  “I’ve read online that Adderall would help. Vyvanse is also the new—”

  “We can explore treatment options after a few more sessions.” More sessions? I wasn’t expecting a marathon. “I enjoyed meeting you, Scott, and I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Clearly, I had misdiagnosed how therapy worked. I never went back.

  “Oh, wait! I almost forgot to ask.”

  I waved my hand in front of Trent to get his attention. He was pouring a beer that resembled liquid dark chocolate. He raised a finger from the glass—hold on, one second—and eventually he came over. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m, uh, running low on funds.”

  Fiora raised an eyebrow, and Trent looked at me skeptically.

  “I’m not asking for money,” I blurted out, lifting my elbow from the sticky bar top. “Well, I’m not not asking. I need it. But I’d like to earn it. Is there any way I could wash dishes or wipe tables here part-time? I’ll do anything, really.”

  Trent thought for a moment. A group of cute girls tried to make eye contact with him at the end of the bar; he completely ignored them.

  “Tell you what,” he said, raising a patient finger at the girls. “I’ll ask my manager later tonight or tomorrow. I’ll you let you know as soon as I can.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Trent.”

  Trent rushed over to tend to his customers, leaving me alone with Fiora.

  “You’ll do anything, eh?”

  Fiora was half smiling, gently stroking her chin. I could see fire in her eyes. The wheels in her head were spinning, and it wasn’t about puzzles.

  “If I eat cheap, I can make what I have last through the weekend. Maybe even Monday. But after that . . . I don’t know.”

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks for a dare,” she said.

  I remember
ed what Trent had told me about Fiora after the biking accident. Fiora’s life these days is about as messed up as a bunch of lawmakers trying to do their damn jobs.

  “What kind of dare?”

  “I haven’t figured out the details yet. Hmm. What could you, Saaket Ferdowsi, possibly do that would give me unadulterated pleasure?”

  Lord knows she’s not the kind of girl to let the world get away with giving her a kick.

  “I’ve got it!” she burst out. “I dare you to pick someone up.”

  “Pick . . . who up?” I asked hesitantly.

  “A girl,” she cried. “Or a guy. Whatever floats your boat.”

  My eyes and eyebrows and lips all shifted in different directions. “And where am I supposed to pick up this girl?”

  “That’s where the dare gets fun,” Fiora said. “I want it to be somewhere interesting. Somewhere challenging. Like a sexual health clinic, but less risky. Or a cancer support group, but less immoral.”

  Sometimes, she’ll kick back.

  I shook my head. “This is wrong on so many levels.”

  “Come on! I’m serious!” Fiora flailed her arms like a sports fan reacting to a bad call. “How about . . . Oh God, not . . . Oh!”

  “Oh no,” I muttered.

  “The zoo. The National Zoo. Oh, it’ll be perfect,” Fiora said, clapping her hands.

  “The zoo isn’t even open this late!”

  “Not tonight,” Fiora said, like I was the crazy-sounding one. “Tomorrow—no, that won’t work. Tomorrow’s Friday. I’ve got my crossword group in the morning and class during the day. We’ll go Saturday. Yes! There’s bound to be so many people on Saturday.”

  “People?” I squeaked.

  “Girls! Cute, single DC interns wandering around, oohing and awwing at the animals.”

  Fiora practically galloped in her seat, flailing her hands in mock excitement. “Saaket, they’ll be so vulnerable. That’s why they’re at the zoo, to feel loved vicariously through the giant pandas and koala bears and other cuddly animals.”

  “Honestly, Fiora . . .” I bit my lip and cracked my neck.

  “You don’t know how to pick up a girl? It’s easy. You walk up and make a smooth comment about how cute and cuddly the pandas look. She’ll glance in your direction and check you out, and you’ll be making these cute-and-cuddly-but-sexy eyes at her, and BAM.” Fiora smacked her hand on the bar top. “You seal the deal.”

  These things give her a necessary thrill.

  “What exactly do you mean by, um, ‘sealing the deal’?” I couldn’t believe I was playing along with Fiora. It was like Stockholm syndrome.

  “A phone number. Proof that you scored digits.”

  “Don’t you have something better to do with your Saturday? Instead of paying to watch me embarrass myself, you could donate to the Ferdowsi Fund and visit the zoo with your boyfriend . . .”

  “He’s been in a shitty mood since that bike chase,” Fiora said sharply. An icy rage crept up my spine, since technically that bike chase was her fault. But also . . . relationship problems? I was listening. “And on the contrary, I’ve got too much going on. Believe me, after last weekend, I could use the distraction. You’re helping me here, too, you know.”

  My palms were sweatier than my entire body after the bike chase.

  “I don’t know, Fiora. I’m not comf—”

  I stopped myself. Comfort was not a luxury I could afford right now. That wasn’t the point of my journey. Sure, I recognized the absurdity of Fiora’s dare, but the money would let me stay in DC and work with Professor Mallard, and my earning it would do something for Fiora. We had a chance to provide each other with a stipend of sorts. A bridge that would carry us over for a little longer.

  I cocked my head back and smiled. All along I had seen Fiora as this lovely interruption, as her own complicated entity, but the intersection of our grids made for a stronger puzzle. Finally, I was getting somewhere with grit. I was clearing my head. You don’t clear a table and wipe it with a grimy old rag.

  “Scratch that,” I told her. “I’ll do it.”

  THE AMAZING RACE is a game-slash-show (not to be confused with game shows, like Jeopardy!) where teams of two race around the world competing with each other. The teams could be married acupuncturists, pro wrestlers, Roller Derby moms, and other absurd types of people. My parents used to watch it all the time, and from the way they raved, it sounded like a dramatic, daredevil-ish, entertaining-enough smorgasbord of television.

  Today it sounded graceful.

  A-M-A-Z-I-N . . . G-R-A-C-E. Grace.

  T-I-C . . . T-A-C-T . . . O-E. Tact.

  I spent all of Friday morning trying to make our theme work. To win any game, you needed grace and tact. It was the best pattern I could come up with. The answers would be games where the “bridge” word was an ingredient for success. It was genius, I thought. I just couldn’t come up with more than those two.

  By day five, I was finally getting the hang of this running-away thing. I’d made remarkable new friends like Fiora and Trent. I’d worked hard to win Professor Mallard’s attention. Heck, I had even started making a crossword puzzle. I came to DC to get gritty, to discover myself, and I was reaping the rewards on this whirlwind adventure.

  Then my parents called again, and this time I knew I had to pick up. Three weeks. Three calls. More lies than I could count. I could do this.

  “Allo?”

  “Salaaaaaaaam, Saaket jaan!” my dad practically sang into the phone, the bad reception giving his voice some extra vibrato.

  “Saaket joonam,” my mom crooned. “We miss you so dearly. Are you eating enough? Are you healthy?”

  Dad added: “What time is it there?”

  “Uh, around three,” I said.

  “So early!” Mom said. “It’s midnight here. Are you still at your internship?”

  “They let us out early today. It’s Friday,” I said. It was so easy to make stuff up on the phone with your parents.

  “That’s wonderful,” Dad said. “Isn’t research wonderful? Your mother and I are so proud that you are applying yourself to this internship. One day, it could even look good on your medical school application, or for your PhD—”

  “Dad.”

  There was a palpable moment of silence. I clenched my teeth. I wanted to remind my dad that he applied to this internship for me. I wanted both my parents to know that I was here in DC, happy with the trajectory of my future—even if I didn’t quite know what it looked like. I was learning that I could focus, that I could be gritty.

  My mom cleared her throat. “Saaket, I have to say, I wish so badly that you were here with us. It’s a shame you haven’t seen Iran yet. The royal palaces, the bazaars, the bridges . . . And it’s been wonderful to be with our family and friends. You know, your dad and I haven’t been back since before you were born. Everyone asks about you, of course. We tell them you’re busy doing important things!”

  I appreciated my mom changing the subject, but I was still stuck on my dad, who clearly had no real interest in my happiness. I couldn’t get over his one-track mind, his obsession with my life, my future, even from ten thousand miles away. I knew for a fact his own father never put half as much pressure on him as he put on me. Baba Bozorg let Dad come to America at sixteen and live an independent life.

  “How’s Baba Bozorg?” I asked.

  Another fat, pulpy silence.

  “He’s fine,” Dad said.

  My grandpa’s health went to shit last winter. I don’t know the details because my parents never talked to me about it. I just overheard them arguing a few months ago about whether or not we should all fly to Iran to see him. Dad won that argument. He didn’t want me to miss my precious internship because it would be “crucial” for college admissions. I wasn’t overly upset—I’d only met my grandfather twice, when I was mu
ch younger, and have always felt a hazy, distant connection to Iran—but I wondered: What if that’s me in thirty years, choosing between my father’s deathbed and an opportunity to get ahead? What would he want me to do?

  “It’s getting late,” Mom said softly.

  “Yes, yes. It is. Your mother and I have to go,” Dad said.

  “Okay.”

  “Saaket joon, is everything all right at home? Don’t forget to lock the door and set the alarm at night,” Mom reminded.

  “Yes, everything is fine,” I said. I couldn’t remember if I had set the alarm before leaving home on Monday. I hoped so.

  “Have you been getting my emails?” Dad asked. “There was an article . . .” The reception got shoddy for a moment, and I didn’t catch the tail end of Dad’s sentence.

  “Yeah, yeah, I saw that.”

  “Okay, joonam. Let us know if you need anything,” Mom said tenderly. “Delemun barat kheili tang shodeh.” There was no familial way of saying “I love you” in Farsi, so my parents got around it with other statements of affection like “You are my world” and “I would sacrifice my life for you.” Or in this case: “Our heart misses you deeply.”

  “Khodafez,” they said. Goodbye.

  “Khodafez,” I said, hanging up the phone.

  I stepped outside for some fresh air. An ambulance blazed down New Hampshire, wailing like a petulant child. I sat down on the stoop of the hostel and logged in to my Gmail account, cupping my hand over my phone to prevent glare from the sun. I hadn’t checked my emails since before I left home.

  FROM: Dr. Bhupendra Mehta

  SUBJECT: Re. Internship Absence

  Dear Scott,

  I am very sorry to hear about your predicament with lice . . .

  Success. I knew it would be a solid excuse.

  FROM: Dad

  SUBJECT: Fwd. Early decision affords major edge to engineering applicants

  FROM: Dad

  SUBJECT: Fwd. College Admissions **SHOCKER**