by Tahereh Mafi
Coach Hart was a complete asshole, and the more he screamed at me, the angrier I became. I didn’t want to be bullied into making such a serious decision. I didn’t want to be manipulated, not by anyone. In fact, I was beginning to believe that walking away from Ocean now, at a time like this, would be the greatest act of cowardice. Worse, it would be cruel.
So I refused.
And then his coach told me that if I didn’t break up with him, that he would make certain that Ocean was not only kicked off the team but expelled for gross misconduct.
I said I was sure Ocean would figure it out.
“Why are you so determined to be stubborn?” Coach Hart shouted, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He looked like someone who screamed a lot; he was a stocky sort of guy with an almost permanently red face. “Let go of this,” he said. “You’re wasting everyone’s time, and it won’t even be worth it in the end. He’s going to forget about you in a week.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can I go now?”
Somehow he went redder. “If you care about him,” he said, “then walk away. Don’t destroy his life.”
“I honestly don’t get why everyone is this upset,” I said, “over a stupid game of basketball.”
“This is my career,” he said, slamming the table as he stood up. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to this sport. We have a real shot at the playoffs this season, and I need him to perform. You are an unwelcome distraction,” he said, “and I need you to disappear. Now.”
I hadn’t realized, as I walked home from school that day, how far this craziness would go. I hadn’t realized that his coach would be so determined to make this go away—to make me go away—that he’d actually be willing to hurt Ocean in the process. Here, with enough space between myself and his screaming coach, I was able to process the situation a little more objectively.
And, honestly, the whole thing was starting to freak me out.
It wasn’t that I thought Ocean wouldn’t recover from being kicked off the team; it wasn’t even that I thought I couldn’t tell Ocean what his coach had said to me, that he’d basically threatened me into breaking up with him. I knew Ocean would believe me, that he’d take my side. What scared me most, it turned out, weren’t the threats. It wasn’t the abusive rhetoric, the blatant xenophobia. No, what scared me most was that—
I guess I just didn’t think I was worth it.
I thought Ocean would wake up, dizzy and destabilized by this emotional train wreck to discover that it hadn’t been worth it, actually; that I hadn’t been worth it. That he’d lost his chance to be a great athlete at a peak moment in his high school career and that, as a result, he’d lost his chance at playing basketball in college, at one day playing professionally. If this shitshow was to be believed, Ocean was good enough to be all this and more. I’d never seen him play—which seemed almost funny to me now—but I couldn’t imagine that so many people would be this upset if Ocean weren’t really, really good at putting a ball in a basket.
I felt suddenly scared.
I worried that Ocean would lose everything he’d ever known—everything he’d been working toward since he was a kid—only to discover that, eh, I wasn’t even that great, in the end. Bad deal.
He would resent me.
I was sixteen, I thought. He was seventeen. We were just kids. This moment felt like an entire lifetime—these past months had felt like forever—but high school wasn’t the whole world, was it? It couldn’t have been. Five months ago I never even knew Ocean existed.
Still, I didn’t want to walk away. I worried he’d never forgive me for abandoning him, especially not now, not when he told me every day that this hadn’t changed anything for him, that he’d never let their hateful opinions dictate how he lived his life. I worried that if I walked away he’d think I was a coward.
And I knew I wasn’t.
I looked up, suddenly, at the sound of a car horn. It was relentless. Obnoxious. I was halfway down a main street, walking along the same stretch of sidewalk I followed home every day, but I’d been lost in my head; I hadn’t been paying attention to the road.
There was a car waiting for me up ahead. It had pulled over to the side and whoever was driving would not stop honking at me.
I didn’t recognize the car.
My heart gave a sudden, terrifying lurch and I took a step back. The driver was waving frantically at me, and only the fact that the driver was a woman gave me pause. My instincts told me to run like hell, but I worried that maybe she needed help. Maybe she’d run out of gas? Maybe she needed to borrow a cell phone?
I stepped cautiously toward her. She leaned out of her car window.
“Wow,” she said, and laughed. “It’s really hard to get your attention.”
She was a pretty, older blond lady. Her eyes seemed friendly enough, and my pulse slowed its stutter.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did your car break down?”
She smiled. Looked curiously at me. “I’m Ocean’s mom,” she said. “My name is Linda. You’re Shirin, right?”
Oh, I thought. Shit shit shit.
Oh shit.
I blinked at her. My heart was beating a staccato.
“Would you like to go for a ride?”
29
Twenty-Nine
“Listen,” she said, “I want to get this out of the way right upfront.” She glanced at me as she drove. “I don’t care about the differences in your backgrounds. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“But your relationship is causing Ocean a real problem right now, and I’d be an irresponsible mother if I didn’t try to make it stop.”
I almost laughed out loud. I didn’t think this was the thing that would turn her into an irresponsible mother, I wanted to say.
Instead, I said, “I don’t understand why everyone is having this conversation with me. If you don’t want your son to spend time with me, maybe you should be talking to him.”
“I tried,” she said. “He won’t listen to me. He’s not listening to anyone.” She glanced in my direction again. I suddenly realized I had no idea where we were going. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you would be more reasonable.”
“That’s because you don’t know me,” I said to her. “Ocean is the reasonable one in the relationship.”
She actually cracked a smile. “I’m not going to waste your time, I promise. I can tell that my son genuinely likes you. I don’t want to hurt him—or you, for that matter—but there are just things you don’t know.”
“Things like what?”
“Well,” she said, and took a deep breath, “things like—I’ve always relied on Ocean getting a basketball scholarship.” And then she looked at me, looked at me for so long I worried we’d crash into something. “I can’t risk him getting kicked off the team.”
I frowned. “Ocean told me he didn’t need a scholarship. He said that you had money set aside for him, for college.”
“I don’t.”
“What?” I stared at her. “Why not?”
“That’s really none of your business,” she said.
“Does Ocean know about this?” I said. “That you spent all his money for college?”
She flushed, unexpectedly, and for the first time, I saw something mean in her eyes. “First of all,” she said, “it’s not his money. It’s my money. I am the adult in our household, and for as long as he lives under my roof, I get to choose how we live. And second of all”—she hesitated—“my personal affairs are not up for discussion.”
I was floored.
I said, “Why would you lie about something like that? Why wouldn’t you just tell him that he has no money for college?”
Her cheeks had gone a blotchy, unflattering red, and her jaw was so tight I really thought she might snap and start screaming at me. Instead, she said, very stiffly, “Our relationship is strained enough as it is. I didn’t see the point in making things worse.” And then she pulled to a sudden sto
p.
We were in front of my house.
“How do you know where I live?” I said, stunned.
“It wasn’t hard to find out.” She put the car in park. Turned in her seat to face me. “If you get him kicked off the team,” she said, “he won’t be able to go to a good school. Do you understand that?” She was looking me full in the face now, and it was suddenly hard to be brave. Her eyes were so patronizing. Condescending. I felt entirely like a child. “I need you to tell me you understand,” she said. “Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I said.
“I also need you to know that I don’t care where your family is from. I don’t care which faith you practice. Whatever you think of me,” she said, “I don’t want you to think I’m a bigot. Because I’m not. And I never raised my son to be that way, either.”
I could only stare at her now. My breaths felt short; sharp.
She was still talking.
“This is about more than taking a stand, okay? If you can believe it, I still remember what it was like to be sixteen. All those emotions,” she said, waving a hand. “It feels like the real deal. I actually married my high school sweetheart. Did Ocean tell you?”
“No,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” she said, and nodded. “Well. You see how well that worked out.”
Wow, I really hated her.
“I just want you to understand,” she said. “That this isn’t about you. This is about Ocean. And if you care about him at all—which I’m pretty sure you do—then you need to let him go. Don’t cause him all this trouble, okay? He’s a good boy. He doesn’t deserve it.”
I felt suddenly impotent with rage. I felt it dissolving my brain.
“I’m really glad we had this talk,” she said, and reached over me to push open my door. “But I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell Ocean it happened. I’d still like to salvage a relationship with my son.”
She sat back, the open door screaming at me to get out.
I felt then, in that moment, the insubstantial weight of my sixteen years in a way I’d never felt before. I had no control here. No power. I didn’t even have my driver’s license. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have my own bank account. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do to help, to make this better. I had no connections in the world, no voice anyone would listen to. I felt at once everything, everything, and nothing at all.
I didn’t have a choice anymore. Ocean’s mother had taken my options away from me. She’d screwed up, and now it was my fault that Ocean would have no money for college.
I’d become a convenient scapegoat. It felt too familiar.
Still, I knew I had to do it. I’d have to drive a permanent wedge between us. I thought Ocean’s mom was awful, but I also knew that I could no longer let him get kicked off the team. I couldn’t bear the weight of being the reason his life was derailed.
And sometimes, I thought, being a teenager was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
30
Thirty
It was horrible.
I didn’t know how else to do it—it’d been so hard for us to find time alone together—so I texted him. It was late. Very late. Somehow, I had a feeling he’d still be up.
hey
i need to talk to you
He didn’t respond, and for some reason I knew it wasn’t because he hadn’t seen my message. I thought he knew me well enough to know that something was wrong, and I often wondered if he knew right then that something terrible was about to happen.
He texted me back ten minutes later.
no
I called him.
“Stop,” he said, when he picked up. He sounded raw. “Don’t do this. Don’t have this conversation with me, okay? I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry I put you in this situation. I’m so sorry.”
“Ocean, please—”
“What did my mom say to you?”
“What?” I felt thrown off. “How did you know I talked to your mom?”
“I didn’t,” he said, “but I do now. I was worried she was going to try to talk to you. She’s been on my ass all week, begging me to break up with you.” And then, “Did she do this? Did she tell you to do this?”
I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Ocean—”
“Don’t do it,” he said. “Not for her. Don’t do this for any of them—”
“This is about you,” I said. “Your happiness. Your future. Your life. I want you to be happy,” I said, “and I’m only making your life worse.”
“How can you say that?” he said, and I heard his voice break. “How can you even think that? I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want everything with you,” he said. “I want all of it with you. I want you. I want this forever.”
“You’re seventeen,” I said. “We’re in high school, Ocean. We don’t know anything about forever.”
“We could have it if we wanted it.”
I knew I was being unkind, and I hated myself for it, but I had to find a way to get through this conversation before it killed me. “I wish this were simpler,” I said to him, “I wish so many things were different. I wish we were older. I wish we could make our own decisions—”
“Don’t—baby—don’t do this—”
“You can go back to your life now, you know?” And I felt my heart splinter as I said it. My voice shook. “You can be normal again.”
“I don’t want normal,” he said desperately. “I don’t want whatever that is, why don’t you believe me—”
“I have to go,” I said, because I was crying now. “I have to go.”
And I hung up on him.
He called me back, about a hundred times. Left me voice mails I never checked.
And then I cried myself to sleep.
31
Thirty-One
I had two weeks off for winter break and I drowned my sorrows in music, I stayed up late reading, I trained hard, and I drew ugly, unimpressive things. I wrote in my diary. I made more clothes. I threw myself into practice.
Ocean wouldn’t stop calling me.
He texted me, over and over again—
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
Part of me felt a little like I’d died. But here, in the silent explosion of my heart, was a quiet that felt familiar. I was just me again, back in my room with my books and my thoughts. I drank coffee in the mornings with my dad before he left for work. I sat with my mom in the evenings and binge-watched episodes of her favorite TV show, Little House on the Prairie, after she’d found the DVD box sets at Costco.
But I spent most of my days with Navid.
He’d come into my room, that first night. He’d heard me crying and he sat down on my bed, pulled the covers back, pushed my hair out of my face, and kissed me on the forehead.
“Fuck this town,” he said.
We hadn’t really talked about it since then, and not because he hadn’t asked. I just didn’t have the vocabulary. My feelings were still inarticulate, comprising little more than tears and expletives.
So we practiced.
We didn’t have access to the dance rooms at school over winter break, and we were really sick of the cardboard boxes we’d used on weekends, so we splurged on an upgrade. We went to Home Depot, purchased a roll of linoleum, and jammed it into Navid’s car. It was easy to unfurl the linoleum in deserted alleys and parking lots. Sometimes Jacobi’s parents let us use their garage, but it didn’t really matter where we were; we’d just set up our old boom box and breakdance.
I’d mastered the crab walk pretty well, believe it or not. Navid had started teaching me how to do the cricket, which was a level of difficulty slightly higher than that, and I was getting better every day. Navid was thrilled—but only because he had a personal stake in my progress.
Navid was still really invested in the school talent show—something I no longe
r cared even a little bit about—but he’d been planning it for so long that I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t want to do it anymore. So I listened to his ideas about choreography, the songs he wanted to mix for the music, which beats were best for which power moves. I did it for him. I officially hated this school more than any other school I’d ever been to, and had absolutely zero interest in making an impression. But he’d trained me so patiently all these months; I couldn’t turn back now.
Besides, we were getting really good.
The first week of winter break seemed to crawl by. It was impossible to deny, despite all empirical evidence to the contrary, that there wasn’t a massive cavity in my chest where my emotions used to be. I felt numb, all the time.
I stared at Ocean’s text messages before I fell asleep, hating myself for my own silence. I wanted desperately to text him back, to tell him that I loved him, too, but I worried that if I reached out to him, I wouldn’t be strong enough to walk away again. So many times, I thought, I’d tried to draw a line in the sand, and I was never strong enough to keep it there.
If only I had.
If only I’d told Ocean to go away after he followed me out of Mr. Jordan’s class. If only I hadn’t texted him later that night. If only I’d never agreed to talk to him at lunch. If only I’d never gone with Ocean to his car maybe he never would’ve kissed me and maybe then I wouldn’t have known, I wouldn’t have known what it was like to be with him and none of this would’ve happened and God, sometimes I really wished I could go back in time and erase all the moments that led to this one. I could’ve saved us both all this trouble. All this heartache.
Ocean stopped texting me on week two.
The pain became a drumbeat; a rhythm I could write a song to. It was always there, stark and steady, rarely abating. I learned to drown out the sound during the day, but at night it screamed through the hole in my chest.
32
Thirty-Two
Yusef had become a good friend of Navid’s, and I’d been completely unaware of this until he started showing up to our breakdancing practices. Apparently Navid had sold him on the art of breakdancing, and he was now interested in learning.
