The Authentics

by Abdi Nazemian

  “My mom died when I was a kid,” he said quietly.

  I felt my heart sink down into my stomach. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stuck to the obvious. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, I was real young. I don’t remember it. But it’s not like my dad didn’t talk about it almost every day. It was like his way of making sure I never joined a gang. ‘You gonna join some gang like the one that killed your mother?’”

  Now my heart sank even deeper. I wanted to hold him tight, to make his pain go away. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. All the other options seemed stupid.

  Iglesias shrugged and then changed the mood with a smile. “I’m just telling you a sob story so you’ll kiss me.”

  We looked into each other’s eyes for a long beat. I was mesmerized by his ability to be so vulnerable and charming at the same time. Finally, I smiled back. “If you want to kiss me, you have to make it really special.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah, really,” I said, and then, figuring this was a moment for honesty, I added, “Because I’ve never kissed a guy. Or a girl. And when I do, I want it to be a great story.”

  “This isn’t a great story?”

  “Not great enough,” I said.

  “So how come you’ve never kissed anyone?”

  My face felt flush. Awkwardly, I said, “I don’t know. No one’s ever been interested in me, except maybe my friend Kurt.”

  “Maybe?”

  I laughed. “I always thought he was just joking, but then we had this moment and I’m thinking maybe he does . . .”

  “A moment? What kind of moment? Am I going to need to challenge him to a duel?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing happened. Wait, what’s your sign?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” he said.

  “I’m not,” I persisted. “I was just thinking that when I finally tell Kurt about you, he’ll have to do our charts. He’s obsessed with astrology.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Well, I’m a Libra.”

  I scrunched my face up, trying to remember if Libra was a good match for me.

  “Uh-oh, you don’t seem to like that. I’m changing my birthday. I’m actually a Virgo.” I must not have looked any more pleased, so he continued, “No, wait, I’m a Cancer. Better?”

  I giggled. “You can change a lot of things about yourself, but not your birthday. Besides, there are lots of other factors, like your rising sign, and your moon sign. Kurt will explain it to you someday, when I tell him about you.”

  “So why haven’t you just kissed Kurt?” he asked. “You seem pretty ballsy in every other department.”

  “That’s kind of an offensive expression. What does having balls have to do with being courageous?”

  “Point taken,” he said, then quickly added, “And don’t evade the question.”

  “What was the question again?” I asked.

  “Why haven’t you kissed Kurt?”

  I didn’t know what to say. The truth was that I wanted my first kiss to be truly special, and I never felt that magical pull toward Kurt as anything but a friend. And also, before this moment, I was always too afraid of what Baba would think. I was always too concerned with being his good girl. But I didn’t want to say any of that. Instead I said, “I know it’s not like what happened to your mom, but I just found out that my grandfather was killed during the Iranian Revolution, and my parents never told me.”

  “Wow, you really don’t wanna answer my question,” he said. And then he squeezed my hand tight. “Hey, at least they protected you from it. My dad talked about my mother getting shot every day. Like, ‘Pass the carrots. Never forget your mother was gunned down, boy.’ Didn’t exactly make for an uplifting childhood. Your parents shielded you from their pain. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “Isn’t there a happy in-between place, where parents can tell their kids the truth, but not so often that it totally traumatizes them?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that everything changed after my dad met Encarnación. She totally transformed him. He stopped talking about my mom all the time. I know he didn’t forget her, but he just let go of all that anger. I guess meeting the right person can change your whole life.”

  “I guess it can,” I said. And in the back of my mind, I was wondering if all this happened just so I could meet Iglesias. Maybe everything—the Iranian Revolution, my adoption, Iglesias’s mother’s death—happened because we were each other’s right person, and were meant to be brought together.

  “Look what I made!” Caroline screamed from down the street. We looked up at the wall, which Caroline had emblazoned with an image of some kind of blowfish, or amoeba.

  “It’s great,” I said. “What is it?”

  “It’s a lava lamp,” she said. “That’s gonna be my tag. Lava. Because I erupt!”

  “That’s a dope tag,” Stuey said. Caroline turned her attention back to the wall, on which she started spraying the letter L.

  I looked back up at Iglesias’s Mona Lisa painting. “So do you always paint the Mona Lisa?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “I just replicate famous paintings, then I change them. It’s my thing. Like one time I did Girl with a Pearl Earring, but I gave her a big-ass hoop earring instead. And I did Warhol’s Marilyn once, but I had pills coming out of her mouth.”

  I realized that by day, he copied other people’s designs, and by night, he copied other people’s art. “You ever make your own stuff?” I asked.

  “This is my stuff.” He had become defensive.

  “Yeah, of course it is,” I said. “But it’s kind of an easy way out to copy other people’s purses and other people’s paintings, even if you add some new element to it. It’s a lot harder to create something totally original, isn’t it?”

  “What’re you saying? That you think I suck?” He pulled his hand away from mine. “Like birth mother, like birth daughter. She’s always on me about my art too. Thinks I’ll never make it. Thinks it’ll just get me arrested again, and that I should go to college and be just like everyone else. I bet that’s what you’ll do.”

  “What? Go to college? Yeah, I’m going to college. My parents would kill me if I didn’t.”

  “You always do what your parents tell you?” he asked.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” That got him to soften a little bit. “There are colleges for artists, you know.”

  “I can learn more from Stuey than from some art teacher who doesn’t actually make any art.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess all I’m trying to say is that maybe the reason you’re not sure what your tag is has something to do with the fact that you’re hiding behind other people’s identities. And maybe it would be scary, and vulnerable, and liberating to just make something totally original.”

  He stood up, his face beet red and angry. He looked like a bull, and I thought he was going to charge at me, but instead he put his yellow gloves back on and started painting on the wall in front of us. He was painting a face again, and for a moment I thought it was going to be the Mona Lisa, or the Girl with a Pearl Earring, or Marilyn. But as the face took shape—big brown eyes, wide mouth with a large lower lip, thick black hair—I realized the face was mine, except he’d somehow made me look . . . pretty.

  “I dub this the Daria Lisa,” he said.

  I walked close to the wall, breathing in the disorienting scent of chemicals emanating from the Daria Lisa. “She belongs in the Louvre,” I said. “Or at the very least, LACMA.”

  Underneath the portrait, he painted a new tag: “Iglesias.”

  Chapter Ten

  I WAS ON MY LAPTOP working on the essay portion of my genealogy assignment—by which I mean I was procrastinating by painting my toenails black—when my mother ran into my room and announced, “She’s here. My granddaughter, your niece, she’s here!” As I texted the Authentics the news, my mom screamed, “Get up, Daria! We have to go meet her.”


  We all rushed into Baba’s car faster than I ever thought possible. Seriously, I think it was the first time my mother left the house without making sure her makeup and hair were perfect. Baba sped toward the hospital, and by some small miracle we didn’t get pulled over.

  When we arrived at the hospital, we ran through all the depressing wings toward maternity, which I guess is the only nondepressing wing of any hospital. It’s like every inch of the place is about death, except for one section, which is about life. I couldn’t believe that my niece was just born in this hospital. I hadn’t even met her, and yet all I could think about was her: What would she be like? Would we end up being superclose? Would she see me as cool Aunt Daria or as weird Aunt Daria? What would she be like when she was my age?

  When we got to the front desk of the maternity ward, Sheila told the nurse who we were. Then Amir emerged, with a big smile on his face. He was beaming.

  “Hey,” he said. “Are you guys ready to meet the newest member of our family?”

  Sheila stood up quickly and gave Amir a hug. “Is she healthy? How much did she weigh? What’s her name? You just texted us a picture with no information! What is wrong with you?”

  Amir put his hand around Sheila’s shoulder. He always handled her so well. “She’s very healthy. She weighed seven pounds and three ounces. And her name is Rose.”

  “Rose?” Baba said. “That’s not Iranian. Or Chinese.”

  “It’s our flower,” Amir said. “Every special occasion, Andrew gets me yellow roses, and I get him red roses.”

  I could see Sheila and Baba shift slightly with discomfort. Although they had accepted Andrew into our family, they were still unnerved when hearing about Amir and Andrew in romantic terms, or seeing public displays of affection.

  “It’s a beautiful name,” Auntie Lida said. “Amir djoon, congratulations.”

  “Come on,” Amir said. “Follow me. She wants to meet her family.”

  Amir led us to a small hospital room. Andrew was standing up, rocking his new child in his arms. Their surrogate, Maria, was in bed, her face flushed and tired.

  “Congratulations, Andrew,” Sheila said as she kissed Andrew on each cheek. And before he could thank her, she added, “Now give me that child!” Andrew handed Rose to Sheila, whose eyes welled up with tears as she looked at her granddaughter. “She’s beautiful,” Sheila said. “She’s perfect. She’s just perfect.”

  “Don’t hog her,” Baba said.

  “You wait your turn,” Sheila said, turning her back playfully. With her free hand, she snapped a photo of Rose’s adorable, scrunched-up little face.

  Baba sat down, dutifully waiting his turn. “How are you, Maria? Was our little Rose nice to you?”

  “Oh, she was fine,” Maria said. “We had our moments, Rose and me. There was a good thirty minutes when she didn’t wanna come out. But then she did. I’m just so happy she’s healthy.”

  “You were so good to us, Maria,” Amir said. “I seriously don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me,” Maria said. “I’m so happy for you guys. Kids are the greatest blessing there is.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to hold her once?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t know if I should,” Maria said. I knew from the way Maria said it that she was afraid she wouldn’t want to let her go. Amir had already told me how he and Andrew had asked Maria to pump breast milk for their daughter, and how Maria had said no. Maria said that once she gave birth, she wanted to have some separation from the experience so she didn’t become too attached. “Maybe I can just hold her for a second,” she said.

  I could tell my mom didn’t want to let her go, but that she knew she had to. After all, Sheila would get to hold this child for the rest of her life, and Maria would probably only see her on special occasions. My mother placed Rose in Maria’s arms, and I watched as Maria’s eyes welled with tears. “You’re so lucky, little girl,” she said. “You have two of the best daddies in the world. They love you so much. They wanted you so much. And don’t think you’re gonna get rid of me, ’cause I’m gonna drive down for all your birthday parties, and I’m gonna introduce you to my daughter, and I will always remember the time we spent together, okay?” Rose cooed in Maria’s arms.

  I knew that Rose wasn’t Maria’s child. I knew Amir and Andrew were her parents. And yet Rose spent nine months in Maria’s womb, listening to the rhythms of Maria’s voice. That must have counted for something. There must have been something about Maria that comforted her. Would I feel the same way when I met Encarnación?

  “Daria, you should hold her next,” Andrew said.

  “Me?” I asked. “I don’t know how to.”

  “It’s easy,” Amir said. “Just be sure to support her neck.”

  I was scared to hold her. She looked so fragile, so totally breakable. I looked to Maria, who seemed blissful holding Rose. “Is it okay if I hold her now?” I asked.

  Maria smiled. “Of course it is.” I reached down and gently lifted her up out of Maria’s arms. Maria placed my hand under Rose’s neck. “There you go,” she said. Then she guided my other arm under her body, like I was scooping her. “You’re a natural.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I looked down at Rose, who was gazing up at me. “Can she see me? Babies can’t see far away, can they?”

  “She can see you,” Amir said.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “She’s so cute. Hello, Rose. I’m your aunt. Which is crazy, ’cause I’m way too young to be an aunt. But I guess there are no rules anymore, right? You have gay dads, and a teenage aunt. You’re like a reality show waiting to happen.” I locked eyes with Rose, and it was like there was no one in the world but the two of us. She made everything else in the room, and in the world, feel blurry and unimportant.

  “There are definitely no rules anymore,” Maria said.

  Lida looked down at Maria and said, “It must be hard, saying good-bye to her.” Sheila glared at Lida, obviously unhappy that Lida would bring up this delicate point.

  “It’s hard, but I prepared for it,” Maria said. “I always knew she wasn’t really mine.”

  That statement snapped me out of my reverie. I always knew she wasn’t really mine. Was that how my birth mother felt when I was born? Or was it different? Did she feel that I was hers, and gave me up because she couldn’t afford to keep me? I was stuck on that word: mine. Everyone belongs to someone, and I wanted to know who I really belonged to.

  When I turned my gaze back to Rose, I realized she had fallen asleep in my arms. Then I looked up and saw the Authentics were standing outside the room, quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment. I waved them into the room, and after congratulating Amir and Andrew, they all stared in awe at the little creature asleep in my arms.

  “Oh, Daria,” Joy said. “She’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “How does it feel?” Caroline asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Surreal.”

  “Well, she’s really lucky to have a supercool aunt,” Kurt said.

  I smiled, and we all stared at her in silence for a moment.

  “I think this is the first time I feel kind of old,” Joy said.

  We all laughed, and that’s when Sheila grabbed her phone, snapped a photo of us, and immediately posted it to Instagram. Seconds after my mother posted the photo, my parents’ phones started ringing with congratulations from every Persian in Los Angeles.

  Later that day, after Rose was finally released to go home, we took her to Amir and Andrew’s house, where Lala was waiting for us. The house smelled the way our house used to smell, which reminded me of how much I missed Lala. The mixture of her perfume and her Persian-Mexican fusion cooking in the kitchen was like the smell of home to me. Lala immediately scooped Rose up into her arms and cooed at her. She told Rose that she would be her Lala, and that she would teach her Spanish and play with her, just as she had played with me. Lala looked up at me and said, “It feels lik
e yesterday that I was holding you in my arms, Daria.”

  “Well,” Sheila said, “it feels like the day before yesterday, maybe.”

  “She looks just like you did, Daria,” Lala went on.

  “Except a little more Asian,” Andrew joked.

  “She looks just like her grandmother,” Baba said.

  My mother blushed. “She’s much prettier than me,” she said. “Just look at those perfect little lips.” Baba said Sheila had perfect lips as well. Then Sheila said that Rose had Baba’s eyes. And for a moment, they were lost in a haze of comparing Rose to each other with pride.

  I suddenly realized that they never had this moment when I was born, because I didn’t look anything like them, and even if I did, they knew it was merely coincidence rather than biology that was responsible for it. Even if my crazy theory about Baba still being my birth father was true, he wouldn’t have been able to verbalize any of it. I felt like I didn’t truly belong. I remembered going to Saint Martin as a kid with my parents, and Sheila explaining to me that we were technically in France, even though the island was so far away from it. That’s what I felt like listening to my parents talk about how much Rose looked like them. I felt like an isolated island.

  We spent the rest of the day settling Rose into her new room. I was surprised when I walked in and saw that it was pink. Hadn’t they told us it was yellow? As if he could read my mind, Amir said, “Of course it’s pink. Don’t tell your militant friend Caroline, please. I didn’t want some lecture about how we’re abusing our child with gender stereotypes.” The room was really cute. There was a beautiful white crib in the corner of the room, and above it was a decal of a caterpillar in every color of the rainbow. “The caterpillar is our little shout-out to the rainbow flag,” Amir said.

  “As if a pink room isn’t gay enough,” Andrew added.

  “What’s the rainbow flag?” Sheila asked.

  “It’s the gay flag,” Amir explained. “You should come to a pride parade someday. You’ll see hundreds of them, along with drag queens, and men in leather jockstraps.”