by Tahereh Mafi
This was a seriously messed-up school assignment.
“Your turn,” I said, glancing at Ocean, whose attitude toward me had changed, rather dramatically, in the last week.
He’d stopped talking to me in class.
He no longer asked me generic questions about my evenings or my weekends. In fact, he’d said no more than a couple of words to me in the last few days, not since that afternoon I saw him in the dance studio. I often caught him looking at me, but then, people were always looking at me. Ocean at least had the decency to pretend he wasn’t looking at me, and he never said anything about it, for which I was secretly grateful. I much preferred silent stares to the loud assholes who told me, unprompted, exactly what they thought of me.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little confused.
I thought I’d had Ocean pretty figured out, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Aside from the unusual name, he seemed to me like an extremely ordinary boy raised by extremely ordinary parents. The kind of parents who bought canned soup, lied to their kids about Santa Claus, believed everything they read in their history books and didn’t really talk about their feelings.
My parents were the exact opposite.
I was fascinated by canned food simply because that miracle of Western invention was never allowed in my house. My parents made everything from scratch, no matter how basic; we never celebrated Christmas, except that sometimes my mom and dad took pity on us—I received a box of envelopes one year—and my parents had taught us about the atrocities of war and colonialism since before I could read. They also had no problem sharing their feelings with me. They relished it. My parents loved telling me what they felt was wrong with me—it was what they called my unfortunate attitude—all the time.
Anyway, I couldn’t really get a bead on Ocean anymore, and it bothered me that it even bothered me. His silence was what I thought I wanted; it was, in fact, exactly what I’d been working toward. But now that he really had ignored me, I couldn’t help but wonder why.
Even so, I thought his silence was for the best.
Today, though, was a little different. Today, after a twenty-minute stretch of perfect quiet, he spoke.
“Hey,” he said, “what happened to your hand?”
I’d been trying to tear open a seam in a leather jacket last night and I’d tugged a little too hard; the seam ripper slipped and sliced open the back of my left hand. I had a pretty intense bandage taped over the space between my finger and thumb. I met Ocean’s eyes. “Sewing accident,” I said.
His eyebrows pulled together. “Sewing accident? What’s a sewing accident?”
“Sewing,” I said. “Like, sewing clothes? I make a lot of my own clothes,” I said, when he didn’t seem to understand. “Or, I mean, often I’ll just buy vintage and do the alterations myself.” I lifted my hand as proof. “Either way, I’m not great at it.”
“You make your own clothes?” His eyes had widened, just a little.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Why?”
I laughed. It was a reasonable question. “Well, uh, because the clothes I really want are out of my price range.”
Ocean only stared at me.
“Do you know anything about fashion?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
“Oh,” I said, and tried to smile. “Yeah. I guess it’s not for everyone.”
But I loved it.
Alexander McQueen’s fall line had just hit stores and, after a lot of begging, I’d convinced my mom to drive me to one of the fancy malls around here just so I could see the pieces in person. I didn’t even touch them. I just stood near them, staring.
I thought Alexander McQueen was a genius.
“So—did you do that to your shoes?” Ocean said suddenly. “Like, on purpose?”
I glanced down.
I was wearing what used to be a pair of simple white Nikes, but I’d drawn all over them. And my backpack. And my binders. It was just something I did sometimes. I’d lock myself in my room, listen to music, and draw on things. Sometimes it was random doodles, but lately I’d been experimenting with graffiti—tagging, specifically—because some tagging techniques reminded me of highly stylized Persian calligraphy. I wasn’t like Navid, though; I’d never graffitied public property. Not more than twice, anyway.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “I did that on purpose.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
I laughed at the look on his face.
“No, really,” he said. “I like it.”
Still, I hesitated. “Thanks.”
“You have another pair like that, too, huh?”
“Yes.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“You sit in front of me,” he said. He looked me right in the eye and he almost smiled, but it looked like a question. “You’ve been sitting in front of me for two months. I stare at you every day.”
My eyes widened. And then I frowned. I didn’t even have a chance to say the words before he said—
“I didn’t mean”—he shook his head, looked away—“wow, I didn’t mean that, like, I stare at you. I just meant that I see you. You know. Shit,” he said softly, and mostly to himself. “Never mind.”
I half laughed, but it sounded weird. “Okay.”
And that was it. He didn’t say anything else worth remembering for the rest of the period.
7
Seven
I was dropping off my books in my locker after school—and grabbing the workout clothes I’d stashed in there with my gym bag—when I heard a sudden swell of voices. The halls were usually pretty quiet at this hour, and I rarely saw people after school let out, so the sounds were unusual. I turned around before I could think it through.
Cheerleaders.
There were three of them. Very pretty and peppy. They weren’t in official cheerleading uniforms—they were wearing matching tracksuits—but somehow it was obvious that they were cheerleaders. Interestingly, cheerleaders had never been mean to me; instead, they ignored me so completely that I found their presence unexpectedly comforting.
I turned back around.
I’d just slung my gym bag over my shoulder when I heard someone call out a greeting and I was very certain that whoever was talking was not talking to me, and that even if they were talking to me, that I’d turn around only to be met with some new creative bullshit, so I ignored it. I slammed my locker closed, spun the combination, and walked away.
“Hey—”
I kept walking, but now I was beginning to feel a little creeped out because the voice did seem to be focused in my direction and I didn’t think I wanted to know why someone was trying to flag me down right now. All the people I knew at this school were waiting for me, at this exact moment, inside of a dance room in the gym, so whoever this was, they were almost certainly trying to bother me and—
“Shirin!”
I froze. This was an unusual development. Generally, the assholes who harassed me in the hallways didn’t know my name.
I turned around, but only halfway.
“Hey.” It was Ocean, looking a little exasperated.
I had to make a physical effort to keep from looking too surprised.
“You dropped your phone,” he said, and held it out for me to take.
I looked at my phone in his hand. Looked at him. I didn’t understand why the world kept throwing him in my path, but I also didn’t know how to be mad at him for being a decent person, so I took the phone.
“Thanks,” I said.
He looked at me and his expression was somehow both frustrated and amused and still he said nothing, which would’ve been fine, except that he looked at me for just three seconds too long, and suddenly it was weird.
I took a deep breath. I was about to say goodbye when someone called his name. I looked past him to see that it was one of the cheerleaders.
I was surprised but tried not to show it.
And then I left, without a word.
That night, after a particularly exhausting training session, I felt too wired to sleep, and I couldn’t explain why. I was sitting in bed, writing, writing, writing. I’d always kept a pretty intense diary.
I scribbled in that thing every day, multiple times a day. In the middle of class, even. During lunch hours. The thing was so precious to me that I carried it around everywhere I went, because it was the only thing I could think to do—the only way to keep it safe. I worried that one day my mom might get her hands on it, read it, realize her daughter was a complicated, flawed human being—one who often disregarded the dogma of religion—and have an actual aneurysm. So I always kept it close.
But tonight, I couldn’t focus my mind.
Every once in a while I’d look up, look at my computer, its dead, dark face gleaming in the dim light, and I’d hesitate. It was really late, maybe one in the morning. Everyone was asleep.
I put my pen down.
The old, hulking computer in my room was a bulky, unwieldy thing. My mother had built it, piece by piece, a couple of years ago when she was getting some new level of certification in computer programming. It was a bit like Frankenstein’s monster, except that it was my mother’s monster, and I’d been the lucky recipient of its great girth. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I turned the thing on.
It was loud.
The screen lit up, blinding and ostentatious, and its CPU component started whirring like crazy. The fan was working too hard, the hard drive was click-clicking away, and I immediately regretted my decision. I’d heard stories of parents who let their kids stay up all night, but I didn’t know them. Instead, my parents were always on my case, and always suspicious—though generally for good reason; my brother and I weren’t very good at following rules—and I was sure that they would hear me tooling around in here, barge inside, and force me to go to sleep.
I bit my lip and waited.
The damn computer had finally turned on. It took like ten minutes. It took another ten to click around and get the internet to work, because sometimes my computer was just, I don’t know, obstinate. I was weirdly nervous. I didn’t even know what I was doing. Why I was doing it. Not exactly.
My AIM account logged in automatically, and my short list of buddies were all offline. Except one.
My heart did something weird and I stood up too fast, feeling suddenly stupid and embarrassed. I didn’t even know this guy. He was not—would never be—even remotely interested in someone like me and I knew this. I already knew this and I was still standing here, being an idiot.
I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to make an ass out of myself.
I turned back to my computer, ready to hit the power switch and shut this whole thing down when—
double ding
double ding
double ding
riversandoceans04: Hey
riversandoceans04: You’re online
riversandoceans04: You’re never online
I stared, finger frozen over the power switch.
double ding
riversandoceans04: Hello?
I sat down at my desk.
jujehpolo: Hey
riversandoceans04: Hey
riversandoceans04: What are you doing up so late?
I started typing, I don’t know, before I realized my answer might be way too obvious. So I tried for something generic.
jujehpolo: I couldn’t sleep.
riversandoceans04: Oh
riversandoceans04: Hey, can I ask you a question?
I stared at the messaging window. Felt a little scared.
jujehpolo: Sure
riversandoceans04: What does jujehpolo mean?
I was so relieved he hadn’t asked me something super offensive I almost laughed out loud.
jujehpolo: It’s, like, a Persian thing. Jujeh means small, but it’s also the word for a baby chicken.
jujehpolo: And polo means rice.
jujehpolo: I realize as I’m typing this that that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s just, like, an inside joke, I guess. My family calls me jujeh, because I’m small, and jujeh kabab and rice is, like, a kind of food . . .
jujehpolo: Anyway
jujehpolo: It’s just a nickname.
riversandoceans04: No, I get it. That’s nice.
riversandoceans04: So you’re Persian?
jujehpolo: Yeah
riversandoceans04: That’s so cool. I really like Persian food.
My eyebrows shot up my forehead. Surprised.
jujehpolo: You do?
riversandoceans04: Yeah. I really like hummus.
riversandoceans04: And falafel.
Ah. Yeah. Okay.
jujehpolo: Neither one of those things is Persian.
riversandoceans04: They’re not?
jujehpolo: No
riversandoceans04: Oh
I dropped my head in my hands. I suddenly hated myself. What the hell was I doing? This conversation was so stupid. I was so stupid. I couldn’t believe I turned on my computer for this.
jujehpolo: Anyway, I should probably go to bed.
riversandoceans04: Oh, okay
I’d already typed the word Bye, was just about to hit enter—
riversandoceans04: Hey, before you go
I hesitated. Deleted. Rewrote.
jujehpolo: Yeah?
riversandoceans04: Maybe some day you can show me what Persian food is.
I stared at my screen for too long. I was confused. My first instinct told me he was asking me out; my second, wiser instinct told me that he would never, ever be stupid enough to do something like that, that he was almost certainly aware of the fact that nice white boys did not presume to ask weird Muslim girls out on dates, but then, barring that, I was mystified.
Did he want me to, like, educate him on Persian food? Teach him about the ways of my people? What the hell?
So I decided to be honest.
jujehpolo: I don’t think I understand what you mean.
riversandoceans04: I want to try Persian food
riversandoceans04: Are there any Persian restaurants around here?
jujehpolo: Lol
jujehpolo: Around here? No
jujehpolo: Not unless you count my mom’s kitchen
riversandoceans04: Oh
riversandoceans04: Then maybe I can come over for dinner
I nearly fell out of my chair. The balls on this kid, holy shit.
jujehpolo: You want to come into my house and have dinner with my family?
riversandoceans04: Is that weird?
jujehpolo: Um, a little
riversandoceans04: Oh
riversandoceans04: So is that a no?
jujehpolo: I don’t know
I frowned at my computer.
jujehpolo: I guess I can ask my parents.
riversandoceans04: Cool
riversandoceans04: Okay, goodnight
jujehpolo: Uh
jujehpolo: Goodnight
I had no idea what the actual hell had just happened.
8
Eight
I spent the weekend ignoring my computer.
It was the middle of October, I’d been in school for a couple of months, and I was still trying to wrap my head around it. I hadn’t made any of my own friends, but I wasn’t feeling lonely, which was new. Plus, I was busy—also new—and bonus, I suddenly had plans. In fact, I was getting ready to head out.
Tonight, I had a breakdancing battle to attend.
We were just going to be in the audience, but the prospect still excited me. We wanted to join the breaking scene in this new city and see where it would take us. Maybe, once we were good enough, we’d start battling other crews. Maybe one day, we dreamed, we’d enter regional and state and maybe, maybe international competitions.
We had big dreams. And they had been parent-approved.
My parents were a little conservative, a little traditional, and, in some ways, surprisingly progressive. Generally, they were pretty cool. St
ill, they had massive double standards. They were terrified that the world would hurt me, as a young girl, far more than it would my brother, and so they were stricter with me, with my curfews, with what I could and could not do. They never tried to cut me off, socially, but they always wanted to know everything about where I was going and who I was going with and exactly when I would be back and on and on and on and they almost never did this with Navid. When Navid came home late they’d only be mildly irritated. Once, I came home an hour late after watching the first Harry Potter movie—I had no idea the thing would be three hours long—and my mom was so upset she couldn’t decide whether to cry or kill me. This reaction baffled me because my social activities were so mild as to be almost nonexistent. I wasn’t out late partying, ever. I wasn’t sitting around getting drunk somewhere. I’d do stupid shit with my friends like wander around Target and buy the cheapest stuff we could find and use it to decorate the cars in the parking lot.
My mom did not approve of this.
The upside of breakdancing with my brother was that my parents worried less when they knew he was with me, ready to punch an unsuspecting harasser in the face if necessary. But my brother and I had also learned a long time ago how to game the system; when I wanted to go out somewhere, and I knew my parents wouldn’t approve, he’d vouch for me. I’d do the same for him.
But Navid had just turned eighteen. He was older and, as a result, freer. He’d been working odd jobs everywhere we’d lived since he was younger than even me, and he’d saved up long enough to buy himself an iPod and a car. It was the teenage dream. He was currently the proud owner of a 1988 Nissan Sentra he would one day use to run over my foot. Until then, my ass was still walking to school every day. Sometimes I’d catch a ride with him, but he had that zero period in the mornings and he usually ditched me after practice to do something with his friends.
Today, we’d be driving that beautiful beast into a new world. A world that would give me a new title and hone a new facet of my identity. I wanted to become a b-girl in the full sense of the word. It would be so much better to be called a b-girl, a breakdancer, than the Girl Who Wore That Thing on Her Head.
