Down and Across

by Arvin Ahmadi

  “So Fiora . . .” Stu began. His voice had a shaky lilt to it. Not from nerves or anything—Stu was still soaring from his hotshot victory. He just sounded dorkily pubescent. “Who is this friend of yours?”

  “Ah. Gentlemen, this is Saaket,” Fiora said. “He’s in town this summer doing research for a professor at Georgetown. I brought him along because he’s curious about our art.”

  Stu’s eyes narrowed, and Charles stared at me like I had something on my face. I broke the silence: “I’m not a pro like you guys, but Fiora’s been showing me the ropes. It was incredible watching you solve just now. What exactly is your—well—your method for solving crossword puzzles?”

  “Eh,” Fiora said.

  “Eh,” Stu said.

  “Method my ass,” Charles chimed in.

  “Well,” Eugene said, “you generally begin with a toehold.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Just a fancy word for the first answer you fill in,” Fiora said. “It’s pretty important, actually. It anchors the rest of the puzzle.”

  “The tricky part,” Eugene said, “is that often you will feel compelled to begin with a certain toehold because you believe it will reveal more answers. But it’s more complicated than that. The surrounding clues may cause you to get stuck.”

  Charles burst into laughter.

  “What’s with the chuckles, Chuck?” Fiora seemed irritated.

  “Hey, you can solve however you want,” Charles said. “I just find all this strategy talk to be a bunch of bull. I start where I feel like starting. If I get stuck? Whatever—I’ll save myself. Makes the process more exciting anyway.”

  Charles and Stu broke into a side argument about toeholds, which for some reason involved Charles making fart noises. I whispered into Fiora’s ear, “This guy reminds me of you.”

  “Do not compare me to Charles,” Fiora asserted. She pointed at him below the table. “Adult,” she said. Then she pointed at herself. “Kid.” She took a deep breath. “I know what I am. People like Charles are delusional. That’s the difference.”

  Eugene stood up and clasped his hands together. “All right, friends. Friends. Let us continue with our puzzle play. I’m sure Saaket would like to continue observing.”

  I agreed to participate in the next round, since it was supposed to be collaborative. Every group project has that guy who gets away without doing any work, right?

  It turned out that wouldn’t be possible here. We were solving a “meta puzzle”—four mini-puzzles that come together to solve an overarching puzzle. Only one was a crossword, and the other three were logic puzzles. Since there were four of us working on it (Charles constructed the meta puzzle, so he sat out) we each took one of the smaller puzzles. I picked the one with pictures because it looked easiest, but of course everyone still finished their part before me. That was when it really got collaborative.

  Fiora, Stu, and Eugene huddled over my shoulders.

  “What if we . . .” one of them said.

  “No wait! Try this!” someone else cried.

  We got through seven of the eight pictures. It was the picture-perfect model of teamwork. We were just stuck on the eighth picture. For a suspenseful minute, we all stared at it with intense focus. Eight brows furrowed, four brains working furiously, one mind-boggling image. Anyone who didn’t believe puzzles made you smarter would have to be as delusional as Charles, who kept hollering random words like penis and appendicitis to throw us off.

  “Got it,” Fiora declared, taking the pen out of my hand just like she did when we were constructing our puzzle at Tonic. “There.”

  We laid out the four puzzles next to one another, and together, they spelled the solution to the meta puzzle:

  HEY FIORA LETS ELOPE

  “God damn it, Charles,” Fiora said, shoving his arm.

  “I’ll always be here for you, babe,” Charles proclaimed, making kissy faces.

  “It is a running joke among our group,” Eugene clarified. “That Charles is, quote unquote, ‘in love’ with Fiora.”

  “Not a funny joke,” Fiora groaned. “Can we just move on?”

  Maybe Fiora meant we should move on from the idea of the joke, but Eugene took it literally and fumbled with his paper stack. He pulled out another paper-clipped set of crosswords and passed a sheet to each person, facedown. He stood up to speak.

  “This next puzzle is particularly special,” Eugene said. “Will made it for NPL and has given us an exclusive first look.”

  “National Puzzlers’ League,” Fiora clarified. “It’s a big convention in July. Will Shortz is the crossword editor for the New York Times. He’s like the Beyoncé of our world.”

  The Crusaders all looked at each other eagerly, and without another word, they flipped the puzzle over and dove right in. Fiora immediately stuck her pen down on a box near the heart of the grid. She held it there for a few seconds. Would that word be her toehold? Yes. Yes, it would.

  “So what did you think?” Fiora asked as we left Dupont Circle.

  After the last puzzle, Charles pulled out a bottle of what could only be cheap liquor, concealed in a brown paper bag, and offered plastic cups to the group. Fiora scrunched up her nose and made up an excuse for us to leave.

  “Who are those guys exactly?” I asked.

  “Day-drinking geniuses,” Fiora said. “They’re cooler than you think, I swear. We meet up a few times a month to do puzzles together.”

  “That’s so cool. You guys were all so into it. I couldn’t believe how detached you got from the world and everything.”

  “Deep,” Fiora teased.

  “Now, when are we going to finish our puzzle?” I asked.

  “Ah, yes. Our little boxy bitch.” Fiora tapped her fingers against her chin, like she was playing trills on piano. “Hmmm. This weekend’s no good, since I’m going to Philly again to see my mom. She wanted me to visit for the fireworks.”

  I couldn’t believe the Fourth of July was already upon us. My parents would be back in less than two weeks.

  “Philly is great for the fireworks,” I said absentmindedly.

  “You sound like my mother. Anyway. Let’s jump back into our puzzle when I get back next week. In return, you can listen to me recap an entire weekend of passive-aggressive niceties with my new family. Do we have a deal?”

  I tried my hardest to resist smiling; it was like a balloon had swelled inside my chest, with little balloon animals pushing their way into my limbs. I wasn’t just a distraction to Fiora anymore, but a real friend worthy of the details of her life. If she was a jigsaw puzzle, the image was finally beginning to come together. I was getting a semblance of the full picture.

  I checked my phone—it was almost nine. I had to run to Professor Mallard’s.

  “Deal,” I said.

  The faintest smile slipped out the edge of my lips.

  WHEN ONE DOOR closes, another opens. Apparently this rule applies to girls, too. Fiora may have left town, but Jeanette was still around, and I had almost forgotten about our coffee date. Not that I was really feeling it. After early-morning crosswords with the Crusaders, a full day of research on Mandela, and two nights in a row working at Tonic, I’d had enough of this truly long weekend. But America’s birthday was upon us, and Jeanette—patriotic as a tacky American flag pin—would not be spending the day alone. I agreed to meet her for coffee on Sunday before the fireworks.

  We picked a spot called Bourbon Coffee. Well, Jeanette picked it; I replied with a quick smiley to end our conversation. (Does it still count as a conversation when the ratio of texts received to texts sent is eleven to one?) Bourbon Coffee was located just south of Dupont Circle. On my way over, I passed an abandoned, fenced-off yard with a dilapidated red sign hanging off the side: CAUTION WATCH DOGS. It reminded me of the CAUTION AGGRESSIVE CRANES sign back at the zoo.

&nbs
p; “Scott!”

  I heard Jeanette’s shrill exclamation as soon as I stepped into the coffee shop. She was sitting at the table closest to the door. Naturally. Jeanette wore a white polo, navy Bermuda shorts, red flip-flops, and a starry ribbon in her hair. She looked like a limited-edition American Girl doll. She also looked nervous.

  “Hey, Jeanette,” I said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Wonderful!” she said. We both kind of widened our eyes. Eleven unanswered texts did not translate into wonderful.

  “So . . .” she began. “It sounds like you had a busy week?”

  “Oh man, you wouldn’t believe it. I—”

  “Do you want coffee?” she interrupted. We got in line and ordered. I paid for Jeanette’s coffee, because I felt bad about the unanswered texts.

  Jeanette sat down and took a big gulp of her extra-hot cappuccino. She puckered her lips and raised her brows; I wasn’t sure if she was reacting to her drink or nudging me to fill the conversational void.

  “How was your Sunday?” I asked, changing subjects.

  “Good!” she said cheerfully. “I went to church this morning, and the pastor gave a really lovely sermon on reconciling technology with our faith.”

  Church. Technology. Sexting. Without realizing it, I snorted.

  Jeanette shot me a look that I hadn’t seen on her before. It wasn’t admonishment or shame like I’d expected.

  “I suppose it is funny,” she said.

  I searched Jeanette’s face for a clue to this apparent humor.

  “This is our fifth date”—of course Jeanette was keeping track— “and we still haven’t talked about religion!”

  “Do we . . . need to talk about it at all?” I said carefully, doing my best to tiptoe around what was evidently an important subject for Jeanette.

  “My mother and father firmly believe it should be the first conversation on any date,” Jeanette said. “But my sister Frankie says I shouldn’t bring it up, ever. I told you about Frankie, right?”

  I crossed my feet under the table. My eyes got shifty, and I pressed my thumb deep into the center of my left palm. Until this point, I’d been a pro at limiting my interactions with Jeanette to mutually agreeable subjects like zoo animals, Smithsonian museums, and making out. I took a big gulp of my iced coffee, and in a surprising turn of events, Jeanette perked up and shed all her nerves.

  “I grew up with five sisters. I can’t believe I never told you that! I’m the youngest, and Frankie is the second youngest. Frankie dropped out of Liberty after a year and moved to Brooklyn, where she plays in a folk band. They’re actually quite good!”

  “Are you and Frankie close?” I asked, genuinely curious about this seemingly cool person and how she could be related to Jeanette.

  “Best friends. Always.” Jeanette’s words were clipped with assurance. “Although it doesn’t mean I’d drop my faith like Frankie did. Two summers ago she read Dawkins, and just like that, she decided Christianity wasn’t for her anymore.”

  Jeanette paused and took a deep, deliberate breath.

  “Are you religious, Scott?”

  “Well . . . Technically speaking . . .” Jeanette already knew I was Muslim, thanks to Fiora. No need to bring that up again. “No, I’m not very religious.”

  “But Fiora says you’re Muslim.”

  “Ish,” I said. “A long time ago I asked my parents what religion I was, and I accepted what they told me. Haven’t gotten around to reevaluating it or whatever.”

  “Would you ever consider converting?”

  “To what?”

  “Christianity.”

  I gave Jeanette a look that said, Are you serious? She let out a defeated sigh.

  “What is it with our generation’s fear of religion?” Jeanette spoke intensely but quietly, like she was reasoning with herself. “I saw it with Frankie when she converted to atheism, I see it in my research reports at FAT. . . .”

  (It’s worth noting that Jeanette said the individual letters, not the word.)

  “Fundamentally,” she continued, “you have nothing to lose with religion. You’ve taken economics, right?”

  I quasi-nodded, bobbling my head in a circle. It was a tactic I’d developed every time Jeanette asked about my “classes” at GW.

  “So you know all about opportunity cost,” Jeanette said, jutting her shoulders and straightening her already-straight back. “It’s the idea that when you’re faced with a choice, there will always be a cost associated with not choosing the other choices.”

  Why are we talking about this? I thought, and the words almost slipped out.

  “Logically, I’m better off in the long run with my Christian faith.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said quickly.

  “It minimizes my opportunity cost!” she exclaimed with delight. “I keep my parents happy, who believe for their own reasons. I keep God happy. I keep my community, my morals, my values. There is absolutely nothing to lose.”

  Jeanette’s eyes had grown to the size of golf balls. As she gesticulated her hands with acute awareness, I remembered that this girl aspired to be a lawyer one day.

  She kept going: “And in the unlikely event that God doesn’t exist—”

  I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. Jeanette was wrong: There was a God. He had blessed me with an escape. I answered without looking at the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Saaket joonam!”

  My heart sank. Call #2.

  “Hi, Maman,” I said.

  Who is it? Jeanette mouthed.

  “Saaket jaan, salaam!”

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, looking directly at Jeanette. She nodded and mouthed: Oh. For such an intelligent girl, you’d think she would have picked up on the Farsi word for “mother.”

  “Saaket, what is this ‘hi’ and ‘dad’ business? Farsi harf bezan! You’re speaking too much English lately.”

  “Okay, Maman.”

  “Azar joon, let the boy speak whatever language he wants to speak!”

  “But if he doesn’t speak Farsi, he’s going to forget—”

  “Maman and Baba, I’m out with a friend,” I interrupted.

  “Oh, how nice,” Mom said. “Is everything at home all right, pesaram? Do you have enough money? If you need more, we can have Majid drop some off.”

  “Yep, everything’s fine!”

  “Scott, uh, about your internship . . .” Dad began.

  This was it. He knew. I didn’t think it was possible, but Dr. Mehta must have told Dr. Sen, who told his wife, who told my dad. How could I have been so stupid? Of course they would figure it out. My parents had warmed me up to take me down, an over-the-phone execution, in front of Jeanette . . .

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  Those were not the words I was expecting to come out of his mouth. Those were not words I had ever expected to come out of his mouth.

  “I . . . I think so? Actually, I don’t know. It’s early to tell. But . . . I’m trying to be gritty about it. I’m trying to be gritty about my internship. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “That’s good,” Dad said, as if he were still pondering this new concept of enjoyment. “The rest will figure itself out.”

  I looked up at Jeanette. She’d finished her cappuccino and was tapping the weightless cup against the table.

  “I need to go,” I told my parents. “My friend is waiting.”

  “Okay, Saaket jaan,” Mom said.

  Dad cleared his throat.

  Mom spoke: “Ah, yes. One more thing, Saaket. I don’t want to worry you, but . . . Baba Bozorg had another heart attack this week.”

  “He’s better now,” Dad said quickly.

  “The doctors say he’s recovering very well. They’ll run some tests—after all, it’s the second one this year—
and continue with his cardiac rehab, and . . .”

  “He’ll be fine.” Dad had had enough.

  “I’m . . . sorry to hear that,” I said. I wanted to press further, even if I wasn’t very close with my grandfather, but I knew better. For Iranians, sensitive matters are like Terms of Service: check the box to acknowledge what’s necessary and move on. You never read the fine print.

  “Insha-Allah he stays healthy,” Mom added.

  “Insha-Allah,” I said.

  I couldn’t say for sure, but I was fairly certain I caught Jeanette wincing out of the corner of my eye. I said goodbye to my parents and turned back to her.

  “It means hopefully,” I clarified. “Insha-Allah. ‘God willing’ is the direct translation.”

  “Fantastic,” Jeanette said. “Now, as I was saying . . . So what?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was saying that in the unlikely chance that God doesn’t exist, so what? I’ll have lost nothing. There is no opportunity cost. Insha . . . you know.” She smiled.

  I sighed.

  “That’s great, Jeanette.”

  The National Mall was predictably packed for the fireworks, but as a party of two, Jeanette and I were able to claim a small patch of grass without much problem.

  As soon as we sat down, the fireworks inside my head went off like the bursting reds, blues, and oranges over the Washington Monument.

  I wondered about Jeanette, who was so assured in her beliefs that she knew exactly how to shoot down the skeptics. Wouldn’t that be nice? Not to question your identity every second of every day, but to simply know.

  I wondered about Fiora, who, in that moment, had to be questioning every piece of her identity: her parents, her relationships, her mental health. Yet, despite these variables, something about Fiora felt steadier than Jeanette.

  The fireworks suddenly became more intricate. Greens! Indigos! Pinks! Pink hearts! Multicolored starbursts! My favorite was the fizzling gold streamers in the foreground during the grand finale.