by Arvin Ahmadi
I allowed myself to imagine a scenario where everything worked out. Fiora apologizes to me, and I apologize to her. We both apologize to Trent. He gets his job back. We become great friends again in no time, except Jeanette, who stays out of our lives. I pictured the three of us inside a coffee shop: Fiora and me solving the New York Times crossword puzzle while Trent scans the Washington Post headlines. I could reestablish my life in DC. I could thrive in DC. Everything could more than work out; it could be perfect.
If there was one thing I was consistent about, it was being blind to the details of my own reality.
Blind to my own isolation.
The heavy rain pounded the back of my neck as I headed back to the hostel, simultaneously pushing me forward and weighing me down.
I imagined a puppeteer in the rain clouds, tugging the strings of this sad, dejected person. His body lagged like a wet towel being dragged across the bathroom floor. His steps lacked motivation. His head hung low. The rain no longer fazed him.
I snapped out of my third-person melodrama at the hostel and took a long, warm shower. In a moment of naked clarity, it hit me that I’d missed my last weekly check-in call with my parents. I threw on a dirty T-shirt and ran downstairs. Scott-the-front-desk-guy let me borrow his laptop for a minute, perhaps because he felt bad for me. As I logged out of his Gmail and in to mine, I noticed the date in the top-right corner of the screen. July 11. My parents would be back in three days. It was time to let them know that I was working with Professor Mallard, and, in spite of losing my friends and my source of income, that I wanted to stay in DC.
As luck would have it, I wouldn’t get the chance.
Saaket jaan,
Where are you? You haven’t picked up any of our calls. We have been calling your cell phone nonstop since Friday. And the home phone. The neighbors say they haven’t seen you in weeks and Dr. Sen says you left your internship last month because you had lice? Is that true? Why didn’t you tell us???
Your mother and I are very worried, so we are flying back immediately. Please, please, if you see this email let us know that you are all right. We love you.
Baba and Maman
The email was time-stamped 11:32 a.m. Just hours ago. If I had simply called the day before or earlier that morning, I wouldn’t have worried them like this. What made me sick to my stomach were the possibilities that had to be running through their minds—that I might have been abducted, or I might have been murdered, or I might have caught a rare and deadly strain of flesh-eating lice, I might have, might have, might have . . .
I felt like an idiot. Until this trip, my parents had always kept extremely close tabs on me. They made me call every day when I was away at Model UN conferences. They monitored my eating. They stayed awake until I went to sleep, no matter how late. They were strict not because they wanted to torture me, but because they cared. I had taken their inch and blindly assumed they would give me a summerlong marathon. How could I think they wouldn’t check with the neighbors or Dr. Sen? How could I even think that if all went according to plan, they would have accepted my actions? “Yes, of course we’re fine with you staying in DC all summer after you lied to us about your internship and your whereabouts”?
In what universe, Saaket?
I replied to their email immediately.
Maman and Baba,
Please don’t worry. I’m fine and I will be home very soon.
Love,
Saaket
WEEK FOUR
MONDAY WAS MY last day working with Professor Mallard. It was hard to focus after deciding so abruptly that I would not be gritty—that I was going home. Not to mention, I was still hung up on the Jeanette disaster. I felt terrible, just terribly guilty about what had happened to Trent. Deep down I knew it was my fault. I was desperate to apologize to him, but I had no way of getting in touch.
The best I could do was to dedicate my last few hours of research to Trent. I researched Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in California. I’d watched a movie about his life a couple of years ago and recalled he was an important figure in the gay rights movement who was assassinated. What I didn’t know was that Harvey Milk hadn’t always been gritty about activism. After graduating from college, he joined the navy. Harvey Milk was a public school teacher, a stock analyst, even a Broadway producer. It wasn’t until his forties that he got involved in politics and advocacy.
After I emailed my findings to Professor Mallard, I walked over to her office to say goodbye. The door was wide open.
“Interesting choice,” she said, her face glued to the computer screen. “I’m reading your email right now. Harvey Milk?”
“One of my good friends is gay,” I said. “Well, formerly. I mean—formerly good friend. Not formerly gay.” I rubbed the side of my face, exhausted. “I kind of screwed him over.”
Professor Mallard smiled at me. “Don’t worry. People forgive more easily than you would think,” she said. I tried my best to smile back.
I told Professor Mallard that I had to go back home today—back to Philly.
“Already?” She sounded more surprised than disappointed.
“Parents,” I said.
She didn’t pry any further. I promised her I would keep up my research from home, whether it was helpful for her book or not. I thanked her for helping me learn about grit . . . helping me to actually see it. Professor Mallard gave me her business card.
“You’re a special kid, Scott. I admire your grit.” She walked me to the door, where we first collided three weeks ago. “You’re going to be fine.”
That night I fell asleep thinking about God. Even when things go wrong, I’ve always believed in a holy power that controls the world. I wondered about the events that had crisscrossed to bring me to this place. How much of it was fate, and how much of it was my fault? How much control did I really have over my life?
A few days ago, I felt good about this journey I had embarked on. But now that my immaculate house of cards had collapsed, I had to wonder what did it.
Was it Jeanette?
Was it Fiora?
Was it my parents?
Or was it me—from the moment I stepped onto that Greyhound bus, the first time I heard the word grit—failing, flailing, gasping for air—me?
STOP THINKING. Start doing. Today, I would go home.
My last round of roommates checked out later than I was expecting, so I hurried to begin my own departure process. I threw a few things in my backpack, paid the rest of my hostel fees at the front desk, and bolted out the door.
I had three crisp twenties left—enough for lunch and a bus ticket home. But by the time I’d picked up a sandwich and made it to the bus stop, I’d barely missed the one o’clock bus to Philly. The next one was at four. Just my luck. I plopped down on the concrete sidewalk, crisscross-applesauce, to form a new line. At least I’d be the first to board.
I was sitting there for a while when, out of nowhere, I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. They pressed down and leapfrogged over my head. Guess who.
“Hey-ya.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“Front desk guy told me you finally checked out,” Fiora said. She took a seat on the sidewalk, facing me. “I thought I might find you here.”
I leaned away from Fiora, wondering what she’d done now.
“Well . . . I’m leaving,” I said.
For a split second, I thought this might turn into one of those rom-com scenes where Fiora admitted she was in love with me and convinced me to stay in DC. Realistically, I knew that wouldn’t happen.
“I’m not here to proclaim ‘I love you’ or any of that crap,” she said.
I looked up to glare at Fiora when I noticed something had changed. Her blonde hair was almost entirely gone—just a short, ruffled pixie cut.
“What happened to your hair?” I said
frantically. “Are you all right?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. This has nothing to do with Sunday,” Fiora said, smirking just enough to imply she was actually fine. “Haven’t you ever gotten frustrated with that one piece of hair that keeps falling out of place? Every day, every week, it’s always falling out of place. So you finally say to yourself, ‘You know what? I’m going to take matters into my own hands and cut it off.’”
“No . . .”
“Well,” Fiora continued proudly, “I cut it off. All off.”
“You’re so weird,” I said, trying hard to suppress a smile. “Why’d you come here?”
“Look. It’s obvious you don’t want anything to do with me . . .” Fiora said, her words trailing off. She gazed past me at the side of the bus that had just pulled up.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mimicked.
Fiora turned her attention back, looking me straight in the eye.
“But don’t you want to help Trent?”
Fiora admitted that we both still had shit to figure out. In the meantime, our friend Trent was out of a job. She said they had talked over the phone, and Trent wasn’t even the least bit angry with me. He wasn’t angry with anyone. He was keeping his chin up and looking for other jobs in DC. It’s not like he could go back to Charleston or ask his family for money, Fiora said. His options were limited.
“The thing is, we all know Trent’s dream is to go into politics,” she said, waving her hands like a motivational speaker. “He doesn’t want to bartend for the rest of his life. But at this rate, he’s never going to get there.”
“Unless?”
“Unless we get him that dream job.”
I rolled my eyes. “We don’t even know what that dream job is,” I said.
“Of course we do! Remember that senator he’s always babbling about? The one who’s Republican-but-not-really because he’s cool with gay people and pot?”
“Renault Cohen?”
“Exactly.”
“How are we supposed to get Trent a job with a US senator?”
I didn’t see where Fiora was going with this. Was her plan to pass out Trent’s résumé to every person on Capitol Hill? Post it on telephone poles? Scan Craigslist?
“Networking,” Fiora said. “I did some research, and apparently Renault Cohen is very involved in the DC French scene. Reh-nohhhh. Lucky for us, Bastille Day is this week. There are a million events leading up to it. A big celebration tomorrow night at the French Embassy, champagne happy hour, a picnic during the day—”
“I can’t stay that long,” I interrupted. I thought about my parents’ near-instant reply to my email on Sunday:
Saaket jaan—Ok. Thank you for letting us know you are safe. We are at the travel agency in Tehran and they say it will be very expensive to move our flights. So we will leave in two days as planned. And we will talk to you on Wednesday.
The last sentence gave me chills. From what I could tell, I was royally screwed.
“You don’t need to stay much longer,” Fiora said. “There’s a super-exclusive soiree tonight at the French ambassador’s residence.”
“How’d you hear about it if it’s so exclusive?”
“Benji tipped me off,” Fiora said. “We were supposed to go together before he broke up with me. His family’s a big deal in France.”
Fiora threw her head back, ruffling her new hair. I scratched mine.
“Why don’t you go by yourself?” I asked.
“I don’t look like much of a Benjamin, do I?” she said half smiling. “There’s no way he’ll go. All we have to do is show up, use Benji’s name to get in, and find Renault Cohen. If we tell him Trent’s story, I’m sure he’ll sympathize.” Fiora put her hand on my arm. “Come on, Saaket. Let’s do it for Trent. What’s one more night?”
Fiora knew how to play people. She dangled carrots, she twisted words. But when she truly cared about something, you could tell. First it was crosswords. Now it was her best friend. She didn’t always know what she wanted, but when she did, she went after it.
This would be no exception.
My parents weren’t due to arrive home until tomorrow morning. It was cutting it close . . . But for one last DC adventure?
“I’m in.”
It felt strange to be reunited with Fiora so soon after our fight. Fortunately, there wasn’t much time to mull over the strangeness, because I needed a tuxedo for the soiree. She suggested we borrow one from Benji.
“No way,” I said.
“Come on—”
“No, Fiora! I don’t care if you still have his apartment keys. You already stole his bike. If he figures out you took his tux, we’re both screwed.”
“He has, like, eight of them,” Fiora said. “Benji hardly keeps track of his closet. I know it better than he does.”
“How in the—”
“Saaket, please. I’ll return it tomorrow. He won’t even notice it’s gone.” Fiora’s face twisted up like cheap earbuds. She wasn’t giving up on me. “Benji hates dressing up. His outfit of choice was always a tank top and cargo shorts, with these stupid Crocs—”
“Okay, okay,” I said, smiling inside. I liked it when Fiora made fun of Benji’s style. Schadenfreude. I felt like I’d earned it.
Benji was supposed to be teaching a class for the next hour, so we hurried over to his apartment to steal the tux. Fiora moved so buoyantly that you could tell she got a kick out of high-risk escapades like this one. I, on the other hand, followed along like a prisoner marching to his execution. I couldn’t have been more terrified.
As promised, Fiora used her copy of Benji’s apartment key to get us inside. It reassured me that Benji was careless enough not to take his key back. He definitely wouldn’t notice a missing tuxedo . . . right? Right. Riiiight.
The apartment was modest in decor but abundant in mess. Fiora and I waded through a minefield of boxers and dirty shirts to get to his closet. Luckily, the tuxedos (yes, plural) were all the way in the back.
Fiora picked one out and moved to the door.
“Don’t I need to put it on?” I asked.
“You can do that at my place,” she said.
It occurred to me that Fiora still had to wear something nice, too. It also occurred to me that I’d never seen Fiora’s “place”—apartment, dorm, row house, bunker, or whatever form of unique, Fiora-esque living it might be.
Fiora’s apartment was less than two blocks away from Benji’s. I could see the convenience of their relationship: student/teacher, neighbors, confident man/neglected daughter. Fiora’d had every reason to keep gravitating back to Benji. I just wish she had realized sooner that she deserved better.
Fiora threw her clothes off as soon as we entered the apartment. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a naked and perfect female body covered in nothing but black, lacy underwear. I stared for two seconds before turning away—the first second because I was caught off guard, and the second because my eyes lingered. Fiora’s breasts and hips curved beautifully, and her skin was so light it shone even in the darkness. For a girl with such a devilish sense of adventure, she radiated like an angel.
A few minutes later, she was dressed in a long royal-blue dress.
“On y va,” Fiora said. Let’s go.
We took a cab to the French ambassador’s house. For some reason, Fiora sat in the passenger seat, leaving me alone in the back. She kept peculiarly quiet. I pretended to stare out the window at the green landscape along Rock Creek Parkway, but I couldn’t help sneaking peeks at her profile. Fiora stared straight ahead, taking small breaths through the tiniest gap in her lips, her chest rising and falling.
I couldn’t say for sure, because I only caught a glimpse, but it felt like there was a storm brewing in her eyes. It reminded me of when we first met.
My peeks must have been as subtle as
Fiora’s haircut—which surprisingly upped her classiness to a level I couldn’t compete with—because as soon as I took another one, she piped up.
“Hey, Saaket?” I held my breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that trip I took last winter, after I bombed my Spanish final. The one to Madrid.”
I grinned shamelessly, because Fiora couldn’t see me. She was still staring at the road. “Do I remind you of it?”
“No,” Fiora said. She lifted her chin and looked me straight in the eye through the rearview mirror. She wore an icy expression, and I dropped my smile immediately. “It’s just . . . Things were so different then. I made my decisions differently. You know?”
I didn’t know.
“A lot has changed since Spain, and I don’t know how I feel about it.”
I sat silently, unsure how to console Fiora about the changes in her life. She didn’t need consolation, I decided; she would figure it out on her own.
“So what happens if this soirée plan doesn’t work?” I asked, placing a hoity-toity French accent on the word.
“Il faut voir,” she said in real French.
For the rest of the ride, Fiora and I gazed out of our respective cab windows. I would later learn what Fiora’s sexy French phrase translated into: We’ll have to wait and see.
THE FRENCH AMBASSADOR’S residence was the most colossal three-story mansion I’d ever seen in my life. It blew my mind. “Stop staring,” Fiora whispered to me. She pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her Instagram feed. “Act cool.” I just couldn’t help it. I scanned the lush, green lawn—each blade of grass cut with razor-thin precision—and let my eyes wander up the house’s faded brick facade. The French were at it again with their whole esthétique thing. Fancy-schmancy. Francy.
Just before we reached the door, Fiora stumbled into a garden of pink petunias. The doorman took note.
