by Arvin Ahmadi
The sky had filled with smoke by the time the show ended.
Families picked up their picnic blankets and left. Jeanette and I both had work the next morning, so we kissed goodbye on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
On my way back to the hostel, I thought of my parents, and finally, I wondered about my own situation. What was left of my time in DC? The string of lies I had woven only kept getting longer and longer, and the odds that my parents would actually be impressed with this new internship felt slim. I had betrayed their trust; that probably tipped the scale. In fact, it struck me that they wouldn’t just be angry—they would explode. It would be unlike any punishment I’d ever seen. But even if they dragged me home from DC and grounded me for life, I could keep up my grit research. I’d still have these experiences.
WEEK THREE
“HE PLAYS THE kazoo, Saaket. How am I supposed to come to terms with that?”
I was laughing so hard my sides were beginning to cramp. It was Monday evening, and Fiora and I had reconvened on a bench in Dupont Circle. I sat upright, and Fiora lay perpendicular to me, her legs propped up on my lap.
“Aside from that minor flaw, it sounds like he’s not such a bad stepdad?”
Fiora drew her lips in and nodded.
“Mom found a good one,” she admitted. “He’s not even, like, too nice, you know? Sometimes stepparents are dicks, but it’s almost worse when they make it obvious that they’re trying to impress you. Franklin is just the right amount of cool.”
“And your half sister?”
“She’s two. She was literally clapping and dancing to the fireworks all of last night. Don’t worry, though, she’s got plenty of time to piss me off.”
“Sounds like the perfect weekend.”
“It wasn’t so bad, yeah.”
Fiora stretched her arms out, reaching for the sky. She wiggled her fingers at the ostentatious sunset—a flashy spectacle of grapefruit pink and sweet-nectar orange that dyed the entire skyline, one-upping the previous night’s color show. There were hardly any clouds in sight. We studied the sky carefully for a few moments, until Fiora dropped her legs to the ground abruptly and sat up.
“I brought you something from Philly,” Fiora said. “Picked it up from the station this morning.”
“I hope it’s not a miniature Liberty Bell. I have so many of those that I’ve thought about turning them into teacups or shot glasses.”
Fiora handed me a folded piece of newspaper.
“I paid for it in Philly, but you could say it’s from New York . . .”
It was a crossword puzzle, ripped out of the New York Times. And in tiny, bold letters at the top-right corner of the grid: BY FIORA BUCHANAN.
I stared at the flimsy gray paper for what had to be a full minute.
I could have said: I’m so, so proud of you.
I could have said: This is an incredible accomplishment.
I could have said: Congratulations!
“You are a freaking beast.”
Fiora bent over and buried her face in the palms of her hands, laughing.
“You know, that’s exactly the sort of review I was going for,” she said, coming down from her giggles.
Unfortunately, neither of us had a pen on hand, so I promised Fiora I’d work on her puzzle later and finish before the next time we hung out.
“I can’t believe I know someone with a crossword puzzle published in the New York Times. Now, if you could work on publishing an article . . .”
Fiora punched me in the rib cage. I fell over on my side, pretending to be hurt; Fiora pulled me back up, and we sat straight for a moment.
“My dad texted me this morning,” she said gently, almost surprised—like a carrier pigeon had delivered the message and not her biological father. “He still does the Times puzzles, you know. Anyway . . . he said he was proud of me. That Grams would have been proud.”
My body warmed up with happiness for Fiora. A gust of wind passed, though it did nothing to ebb the tingly sense of delight I was feeling.
I realized it was getting dark. I placed my hand on the small of her back.
“That’s great, Fiora.”
During the rest of the week, I found confidence in familiar places.
I found confidence in solving Fiora’s New York Times puzzle, even if it took three hours and twenty-six minutes.
I found confidence in paying back the hostel for a few more nights.
I found confidence in my steps on M Street each morning. The route to Georgetown had become second nature to me, like a house I knew well. My eyes grazed over the same candy-colored town houses, and I cut across the same campus lawns, and I opened the same wooden doors at White-Gravenor Hall. All things considered, I felt more grown-up than ever with my daily routine.
I found confidence in the lives of Marie Curie, Steven Spielberg, and Thomas Edison, who overcame sexism, rejection, and ten thousand failed attempts to invent a lightbulb. They all made it in the end.
I found confidence in working with Trent behind the bar. Weeknights were slower at Tonic, so we passed the time by telling stories about our lives before DC. Trent got a kick out of my escapades with Jack and Kevin, like the time I tricked them into showing up at a real party, complete with loud music and alcohol, by pretending it was a Star Trek viewing. Trent told me about life growing up in Charleston—how for him, it revolved around the Church. Trent may have been gay, but he was still Christian. He couldn’t shake off his faith. We agreed that religion, like friends, can take on many forms.
Thursday night, I presented my finished puzzle to Fiora at Tonic. I pointed out the corner where I’d gotten stuck, and she was proud that I pushed through. We got right back to constructing our puzzle, and here, my confidence skyrocketed. Fiora and I filled about 80 percent of the grid before calling it a night. We would fill in the rest over the weekend.
I decided that I wouldn’t worry about my parents anymore, who would be back in America the following week. Even if grit didn’t save me from their wrath—even if I was sentenced to spend the rest of my days counting staples in my bedroom—it would all have been worth it.
Dear Professor Mallard,
Happy Friday!
Today my research focused on Khaled Hosseini, one of my favorite authors. He wrote The Kite Runner and is Afghan American, making him one of the few popular writers who actually looks like me. I was surprised to learn that Hosseini wasn’t always an author; he went to medical school and was a doctor for more than ten years. When he was writing The Kite Runner, he would wake up at 4 a.m. every morning to crank out new pages before work.
Khaled Hosseini’s family moved to the United States when he was eleven. They sought political asylum after the Soviets invaded Afghanistan. His father went from being a diplomat to a driving instructor, and his mother took a job working the night shift at Denny’s. They lived off food stamps. Hosseini says he became a doctor to ensure his own financial security—because his family, despite their struggles, sacrificed everything for him.
His story bothered me at first, but then it gave me hope. It’s never too late to take over the steering wheel of your life. Everything works out in the long run.
My findings are attached.
Sincerely,
Scott Ferdowsi
I ALWAYS HAD a feeling that I wouldn’t be very good at breakups. My eighth-grade girlfriend was the one to break up with me (we’d “lost our spark,” she explained over IM), and the jury was still out on my on-again-off-again fling with Annie Choi. It wasn’t my style to reject the people I let into my life, whether they were telemarketers or girls I’d picked up at the National Zoo. But this week, I decided enough was enough with Jeanette. Our last date had been a disaster. The texting was getting out of hand.
I asked her to meet me at Bourbon Coffee on Friday.
“Scott!”
/> Again with the shrill exclamation. Jeanette was sitting at the same table as last time, dressed professionally in a purple frilly blouse and a black pencil skirt that sufficiently covered her knees.
“Hey there,” I said, my eyes flickering like broken taillights between the table and Jeanette’s face. “How was work?”
Jeanette lit up.
“It’s been so rewarding, Scott,” she gushed. “I’ve been working on a pamphlet all week about the urgent need for more stay-at-home mothers.”
I knew I couldn’t jump into it right away. (Not that I was capable of a quick and clean breakup, anyway.) I’d have to entertain Jeanette’s right-wing chatter until I could segue into those callous words: We need to talk.
“Our generation’s obsession with equal rights, equal pay . . . It’s nice, but don’t you think we’re taking it too far?” Jeanette asked.
“Oh. Sure, I guess you could say that.”
“Exactly!” Jeanette shouted. “We need to talk”—I flinched—“about families! Everything shouldn’t be about what women need, but what their families need. Kids need their mothers. Husbands need their wives. They need their full attention.”
“But don’t you want a career?” I asked, remembering the girl who said she planned to attend law school one day. “Isn’t that why you’re in college?”
Jeanette looked at me sweetly. “Well, of course I want to work. Where else will I meet my future husband?” She may have been joking, but I didn’t laugh. Her face turned straight. “Look, I understand my views are more traditional than most people our age. But I’ve thought it all through, really. I want to experience things while I’m young, just like you and Frankie—that’s what this summer is for! It’s just . . . At the end of the day, I know what I want as an adult. A family. I value that more than anything else. I want a happy, traditional family.”
On one hand, I was astounded by Jeanette’s total rejection of all things modern and feminist. On the other hand, though, I couldn’t help but respect her. She had her life mapped out. I envied that.
“What do you want, Scott?” Jeanette asked, her expression filled with genuine interest. “Do you want to keep studying psychology—get your PhD and teach?”
I laughed. “I have no clue. I mean . . . maybe? I’m doing grit research, I’m bartending at Tonic, I’m here with you. I even got into crossword puzzles lately.”
“That’s so interesting!” Jeanette exclaimed.
I came up with an idea.
“In fact,” I said, “I have one on me.”
“Oh, can I see?”
I pulled the puzzle out of my back pocket and slapped it on the table. I grinned with a cocky sense of pride.
“There’s this metaphor about crosswords—”
Jeanette interrupted: “I used to love doing crossword puzzles with my mother when I was—oh. You’re constructing a crossword! That’s so neat, Scott.” She looked at me with eyes that made me regret this idea immediately—eager eyes that saw no boundaries. I had let her get too comfortable with me.
“I want to t-talk . . .” I stuttered. “Our grids, the intersection, it’s not—”
Jeanette wasn’t listening to me; she pulled a pen out of her purse.
“You should insert an interesting first name in here,” Jeanette said. “A modernist writer, because that would appear quite crossword-y. Virginia Woolf!” Before I could object, Jeanette scribbled in VIRGINIA.
“Oh, yeah,” I said meekly. “That’s wonderful.”
“And here you need a four-letter word that ends in R. How about REAR? You could come up with a fantastic clue for that. A blank admiral, or the trunk of a car, or perhaps even . . .” Jeanette blushed and giggled. Oh God, was she making a sex joke?
I felt paralyzed. Jeanette was molesting my crossword puzzle—the one I’d started with Fiora. My plan to segue into the flaws of our intersecting grids had failed. I lost track of time. Had five minutes passed? Ten? Forty-five? Words kept coming out of her mouth and falling onto the puzzle. I nodded robotically the whole time.
Then I snapped out of it, snatching the puzzle out of her hands.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I said.
I led Jeanette toward Dupont Circle, hoping that we could find a bench where I could breathe and spit the words out. “I don’t want to see you anymore.” Seven words. No, even shorter: “It’s not you; it’s me.” Five. Better yet: “We’re done.” Two.
I should have thought through my plan of action. Instead, my mind kept wandering to Fiora, and how I would explain to her that Jeanette had violated our crossword.
Sometimes, the universe takes the exact thing that’s on your mind and puts it right in front of you. By this logic, I shouldn’t have been thinking about any person at all; I should have thought about a million dollars or a mega-mansion. Lo and behold—
“Saaket!”
What had seconds ago been eclipsed by a mammoth tree revealed itself to be none other than the Crusaders, sitting at their flimsy plastic table. They were not solving crosswords. Instead, they wore different-colored party hats: Stu’s was green, Eugene’s was periwinkle blue, Charles’s was pink, and Fiora’s had Happy Birthday written in cursive.
“Oh, hi, Fiora!” Jeanette squealed. She looked around, and then twisted her face consideringly. “Who’s Saaket?”
I noticed Eugene was about to speak.
“It’s my nickname,” I blurted.
Fiora rolled her eyes but preserved her smile. She seemed to be in a happy mood.
“Hey, is it your birthday?” I asked.
“It is not,” Eugene said. “We are celebrating a milestone far more important than birth! Fiora’s debut crossword puzzle was published in the Times this week.”
The Crusaders instantly broke out in syncopated applause. Fiora blushed.
“These guys are too good to me,” she said, resting her hands on Eugene’s and Charles’s square shoulders.
“Goodness, con-grat-ulations, Fiora!” Jeanette clapped, her jaw practically touching the grass. She nudged me. “Scott, perhaps our puzzle will be next?”
“Your puzzle?”
Fiora’s smile faded.
“Scott is working on his own crossword puzzle,” Jeanette explained. “We were just working on it together. It’s almost finished!”
I couldn’t place the exact emotion Fiora’s happiness was morphing into, but the transformation was palpable. The Crusaders noticed, too, and became fidgety.
“Show her, Scott,” Jeanette added.
I looked at Fiora desperately. Apologetically. I was already begging for forgiveness. Eugene shot Stu a questioning glance, who bounced it off to Charles, who looked left and right and then stared at his feet.
I planted my hands into my pockets; I did not take them out.
“Let me see it,” Fiora said, forcing a smile. Fiora was not happy that I was making her bring out her poker face, especially in front of the Crusaders.
I handed her the crossword. My shoulders tensed up, sending a chill down the back of my neck as she scanned the sheet of paper.
“So you guys are what, boyfriend-girlfriend now?” Fiora’s tone was prickly, almost mad. “Getting married already?”
Jeanette and I answered simultaneously.
“No!”
“Are you crazy?!” Jeanette said, looking truly horrified.
Fiora and I glanced at each other quickly, then turned to Jeanette. Huh?
“I mean—” Jeanette grew frazzled. It didn’t help that Fiora was staring her down intensely. “Scott and I aren’t serious, Fiora.”
I glared at Jeanette. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—I mean . . . Gosh. Don’t you remember what we talked about last Sunday, Scott? You’re a Muslim. I’m Christian. My parents wouldn’t approve, and they would cut me off like they did to Frankie,
and—”
Jeanette spoke these words matter-of-factly, as if it was common knowledge that Muslims were a special, wholly un-datable breed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I like you as a person. But you must be able to acknowledge that we’re worlds apart. We could never be more than a summer fling.”
Fuck you, Jeanette, I thought.
The Crusaders had gotten up during Jeanette’s hyper-rationalized bigotry and moseyed over to a distant bench. The bench where I should have broken up with her.
“Well, that’s delightfully open-minded,” Fiora finally said, the fakest smile slithering across her face. “Who could you get serious with, Jeanette? Trent?”
Jeanette giggled. “That’s not such a crazy idea,” she said. “Trent is a handsome, conservative Southerner. I’m sure my parents would approve.”
“Trent is gay,” Fiora said, totally deadpan. Jeanette’s eyes shot wide open. She might have even gasped.
“That’s . . . I’m very sorry for him.”
“Seriously?” I packed so much judgment into that one word.
“Scott, surely as a Muslim you don’t approve of that lifest—”
“Fuck you.” Fiora spat the words at Jeanette and stormed off.
I stared at Jeanette.
“Did you know about Trent, Scott?”
I took two deep breaths and looked down at my hands. They were clenched tight, the skin bunching up around my knuckles.
“We’re done, Jeanette,” I said, shaking myself into motion. “I need to go.”
Trent was right about Jeanette—she was crazy. She was racist. Most of all, she was a bigot. You couldn’t help people like that.
I sprinted back to the Hanover Hostel. I had no plans to go chasing after Fiora. If it weren’t for Fiora, I never would have met Jeanette in the first place. I bit down hard on the inside of my lip; I failed to draw blood, but nerves flew through the roof of my head. As much as I wanted to blame Fiora, I blamed myself more. I wasn’t going after Fiora because I couldn’t look her in the eye without feeling like I had messed everything up. I should have seen through Jeanette.
