“It’s really delicious. I swear. My mom and I come here all the time. Of course, she always tastes one flavor and stops there, and then I order two scoops and eat them both.”
“Sounds like you’re a lot more fun than your mom.”
I smiled. I had never looked at it that way. “I don’t know,” I said. “She’s actually really fun. She just always knows when to stop. She’s very . . .” I searched for the right word to describe Sheila, and finally came up with “appropriate.”
“I prefer inappropriate,” he smiled.
“You know what’s inappropriate?” I asked.
“Curry in ice cream,” he said.
“Wait, that’s what I was gonna say.”
“You know what else is inappropriate?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, unable to stop smiling.
“Having a crush on your stepmother’s biological daughter,” he said. “That’s, like, way inappropriate. On a scale of inappropriate from one to Kanye West, it’s Kanye East.”
When I stopped laughing, we ordered two servings, with two flavors each, so that he could taste every flavor. We took our ice cream and went for a walk, past a row of jacaranda trees, past a Thai restaurant called Poon Thai, which he found uproariously funny, past a couple making out way too ferociously, which I found a little uncomfortable. We talked a lot, but then we got really quiet and just focused on eating the ice cream.
“Please taste this,” I said, holding out a bite of my coconut curry. “It tastes like the entire country of India is in my mouth.”
“That sounds kind of gross. The Ganges River is in your mouth. Isn’t it real dirty?” But he took the bite anyway. And from the look on his face it was obvious he liked it.
“Now I can taste the Ganges River,” I said, unable to stop smiling. “I haven’t even been there.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “The Ganges River is totally my third-date spot.”
I didn’t say anything. I just smiled, because I was on a date, and he had just said there was going to be a third date. I was the girl who’d thought she might never date anyone, who’d thought that her friends were enough. A jolt of excitement hit me, and a little voice in my head told me that if this was possible for me, then maybe even more incredible things were possible as well.
We stopped on a stoop, where we played each other some of our favorite music. I played him some She-Reen, and he really liked it. He said that even though he had no idea what she was saying, he could tell that whatever she was saying was angry, passionate, and totally necessary. I said it was so stupid that Americans only listened to music in English. My family listened to music in so many different languages—Farsi, French, Spanish, Arabic, Turkish, Hebrew, Greek, Portuguese—only a few of which we even spoke.
He said his parents pretty much only listened to really depressing old Mexican music. “Except once in a while my mom will play some old white dude music, like Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits. It’s really strange, but I don’t mind it so much. And I love the old Mexican shit. It’s dope. I complain every time they play it, but secretly I love it.” Then his mood changed, and he said, “So my mom comes back in two days.”
“Yeah,” I said. “This is it.”
“You sure you’re ready to do this?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “I have to do it, right?”
He leaned back and said, “We’re still gonna be us after you meet her, right?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean . . .” And he sat back up now, like what he was saying was really important. “Let’s say she doesn’t want to see you for some reason. Then will we ever hang out again? And let’s say she does want to see you. Will you just wanna see her every time you come over, and forget all about me?”
I hadn’t really thought through all the permutations, so I just told the truth. “I don’t know.”
“It’s all messed up, isn’t it? I’ve never liked a girl the way I like you.” He froze for a beat, then said, “I’m not supposed to admit that, am I?”
I should have said I had never liked a boy the way I liked him, but instead I said, “You probably just like me because you’re not supposed to.” I kicked myself inside for saying that. Why couldn’t I just have told him how I felt? Why did I have to doubt that everything we were feeling was real?
His face dropped a little. It was jarring to see his mood change so quickly, like when you’re listening to a mix and it goes from a really happy song to a really sad song. “You’re not my sister,” he said. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Still . . .” I was thinking of all the reasons why he couldn’t really like me. “I mean . . . you barely know anything about me. I guess you met Caroline, but you haven’t met my family, or Joy, or Kurt, and if I ever do introduce you to my family, they’ll probably hate you anyway because they’ll just think of you as the stepson of my birth mother, so I’m, like, never gonna introduce you to my family . . .” That’s when I had an idea. “Wait, you can meet one member of my family. You can meet my grandmother!” I said, as if it were a eureka moment. My grandmother’s nursing home was just blocks away from where we were.
“Really?”
“Yes,” I said. And then I added, “She has Alzheimer’s, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“The thing is, she probably won’t even remember meeting you. And if she does remember, and she mentions you to my parents, they’ll think she imagined the whole thing.”
“So it’s like I’m meeting a member of your family, but also not meeting a member of your family?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean . . .” I trailed off for a moment. It had been weeks since my parents and I had last visited Maman Homa, and I was genuinely thrilled by the idea of seeing her. I missed her. And I wanted Iglesias to meet someone from my family.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I get it.”
“Look, I want you to meet my whole family, eventually,” I said. “But let’s start with my grandmother. Come on.” I stood up and grabbed his hand. Before we left, I took out my phone and opened my Twitter app.
“Are you seriously tweeting right now?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Just give me a second. My mom reads my Twitter feed, and I told her I was at the library.” I quickly composed a few thoughts of 140 characters or less that indicated I was deciding between reading Dickens and studying trigonometry. Then I put my phone away and said, “Okay, that should convince her. Hashtag, terrible daughter.”
“Hashtag, covert operation,” he said.
“Hashtag, training for the CIA,” I replied, so happy that our conversation felt light again. If our night was a mix, we were back to an upbeat track. We made up random hashtags as we walked to the nursing home, and Iglesias said that since I spoke Farsi and lied easily, I really would make the perfect CIA agent.
Maman Homa’s assisted-living facility was darejeh yek, as Baba would say, which literally translated into first degree, but what he meant was that it was top-of-the-line. The architecture was faux-Mediterranean, with terra-cotta ceilings and bougainvillea everywhere. Sheila hated the nursing home, even though it was so beautiful. She said she couldn’t deal with being around old people for too long. She said she didn’t want to see her future in front of her like that, and that when she was old, she would rather I euthanize her than put her in a nursing facility. “But, Sheila,” I remember saying, “the nursing home is so much fun. All they do is play games and watch movies all day. And they have their own personal chef!” Sheila said I was too far away from old age to understand how horrible being stuck in one place playing games and watching movies all day really was.
Emily, the front-desk nurse, gave me a hug as soon as she saw me. That was the other thing about the nursing home. Every single staff member seemed to know every single patient’s family members by name.
Emily led us to Maman Homa’s room, past four old men playing poker, past a man and two
women playing Monopoly. Maman Homa was alone inside, watching the Persian news on television. “Hey, Maman Homa,” I said as I walked in.
Visiting Maman Homa was kind of like a box of chocolates—you never knew what you were gonna get. Except that with a box of chocolates, you got a guide, so if you were smart and planned ahead, you actually did know exactly what you were gonna get. But with Maman Homa, there was no way to prepare, and no guide. Some days she remembered you. Some days she didn’t. The smile on her face when we entered made me hopeful that this was one of those good days when she was happy and recognized me, but then she said, “Sheila djoon, how are you?” in Farsi, and I knew that it was not one of those good days. In fact, this was a new kind of day altogether—a day in which she mistook me for my mother.
“No, Maman, it’s me, Daria. Your granddaughter,” I said in Farsi.
“Sheila djoon,” she said. “I’ve spoken with your mother. She refuses to leave.”
“Maman, I’m not Sheila,” I said.
“And I want you to know that family is very important to me. And that if I were you, I would stay here with my family. Even though it’s dangerous. At least you will all still be together.” It suddenly hit me that Maman Homa didn’t just think I was my mother, she also thought we were in 1979. “But I also want you to know,” she continued, “that if you do decide to accept my son’s proposal and leave Iran with us, then we will be your new family. You won’t be without a mother, because I will be your mother.”
“Yes, Maman,” I said. “I understand.”
“I know it won’t be the same as having your real mother by your side. But I hope I can be a decent substitute. Did you know I was raised by my aunt?” she asked.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“My mother died giving birth to my younger brother,” she said. “I was five. My aunt took us in. And I called her Mommy. And she was my mommy as far as I was concerned. Do you know that if you keep repeating something, eventually you will believe it?”
“I do know that,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t believe your family is staying here. The country is clearly going down the toilet. But everyone makes their own decisions.”
Emily turned to leave, but before she left, I said, “Emily, she thinks I’m my mom. And that we’re in the 1970s.”
Emily smiled reassuringly, clearly used to this. “Never a dull day,” she said, and then she left.
As Iglesias and I sat by her bed, Maman Homa kept talking about her childhood. She told us all about the aunt who raised her, and how she made a skin mask out of kitty litter because she believed it firmed your skin. And she told us all about her grandfather and how he could’ve been an Olympic ski champion if he hadn’t stepped on glass and gotten an infection in his foot, which then had to be amputated. And she told us all about her cousin who tried to steal her husband away from her, at the wedding.
I translated everything for Iglesias, who seemed very entertained by the stories, and I made mental notes of everything, in case it could inspire my genealogy assignment. Unlike Heidi, my plan was not to make it all up and pretend to be descended from royalty. But then Maman Homa said something really interesting. She told us about her great-great-grandmother who was descended from the Qajars. I couldn’t stop laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Iglesias asked.
“Heidi pretended to be descended from royalty,” I said. “And my grandmother says I really am descended from royalty.”
“Whoa. You’re a real Persian princess,” he said.
“I mean, my grandmother isn’t the most reliable source,” I said.
“Just own it.” Iglesias suddenly stood in front of me and then bowed down. “Your Highness, may I have your hand?”
I lifted up my hand, very demurely, and then he kissed it.
And I blushed.
Maman Homa said, “Sheila djoon, who is this man? If you’re going to be spending time with other men, then I’m going to tell my son to rescind his proposal.”
Before heading back home, we walked along the shore, and Iglesias said the ocean was beautiful, and he said it was no wonder I was named after the ocean because I was beautiful too. I let him say it. And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
When we finally made it to the Santa Monica Pier, we ordered cotton candy and ate it with our hands, licking the stickiness off our fingers. I said there was nothing better than the feel of cotton candy on your lips.
“Nothing better?” he asked. “Not even curry ice cream?”
“Nothing!” I exclaimed.
Then we rode the Ferris wheel, staring at the sunset, and the city became a sea of lights all around us. “Thanks for introducing me to your grandma,” Iglesias said. “I couldn’t understand a word she said, but she seemed really cool.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I wish you could’ve met her before she got sick.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“Forgetting things must be awful,” I said.
“I wish I could remember what I wanna remember, and forget what I wanna forget,” he said as the Ferris wheel descended back down.
“What would you wanna forget?”
“My mom’s death. Every time my dad mentioned my mom’s death.” I gulped down hard, and my stomach sank. Iglesias, perhaps sensing the mood change, added, “Oh, and my first girlfriend. I really wanna forget her!”
“Wait, what? How come she’s never come up?” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was a little jealous.
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“A long time ago? You’re only eighteen.”
“Two years ago,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else, like the things I wanna remember.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what do you wanna remember?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “I wanna remember this.”
“This?”
“Yeah, riding the Ferris wheel with you. I mean, I wanna remember you in general. I’ve never met anyone like you, before you.”
My face got all red, and I didn’t know what to say. All I could think of was, “What am I like?”
“Smart,” he said. “And funny. And real.” I held on to the rails of the Ferris wheel as it slowly crept back up to the top of its circular path. “So is this a moment worthy of your first kiss?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, scared. I looked around and took a mental picture: the dark ocean out of focus in the background, the lights of the city glowing all around us, Friday-night lovers hand in hand below us, families eating ice cream, and Iglesias sitting so close to me I could feel the warmth of his leg against mine. Finally, I said, “Yeah, it’s a worthy moment.”
He leaned into me, but I wasn’t ready. I held him back and said, “Wait until it gets to the very top. Then it’ll be perfect.”
He waited.
I waited.
And then the Ferris wheel got to the very top, and I closed my eyes and felt his lips against mine.
It was better than cotton candy.
Chapter Twelve
I’D THOUGHT THAT HAVING A new granddaughter would have distracted Sheila from throwing my sweet sixteen party, but I’d thought wrong. If anything, it had galvanized her even more. After all, this gave her an opportunity to dress up not only her daughter, but also her granddaughter, and flaunt us both in front of all her friends. Which is why Sheila, Lida, and I were in the baby section of Barneys in Beverly Hills on Saturday morning, searching for an outfit for Rose. I was lost in a daydream, playing that kiss on the Ferris wheel again and again in my head. It felt like a dream, a very nice dream, which I was abruptly taken out of when Sheila hoisted a pink cashmere baby dress in my face. “Daria, for the last time, what do you think?” She demanded to know. “Isn’t it adorable?”
Still in my reverie, all I could manage was a feeble “Yeah, supercute.”
“Are you even paying attention, Daria?” Sheila asked. “This is your birthday
we’re planning.”
“Oh, come on, Sheila,” I said. “We’re not planning it. You’re planning it. I hate my birthday.”
“Why would you say that?” my mother asked.
I thought for a beat. Why did I hate my birthday so much? I guess I hated how I had to pretend it was the best day of the year to make other people feel good. I hated all the obligatory Facebook birthday posts I had to “like.” Or maybe my birthday reminded me that I was born on the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces, so it was basically like the universe couldn’t make a decision about who I was supposed to be, and where I really belonged. But I didn’t say any of that. “I don’t know. I just do,” I said instead.
Sheila took a long breath, composing herself. “Look, I know you’re upset now, but in ten years, when you’re looking at the beautiful photos from the event, you’ll thank me.”
“Ten years,” I repeated, laughing. “Wow. Okay. So way over half my life from now, I’ll thank you.”
“Yes,” she said. “And when you look at those photos in ten years, you’ll love me even more if all our clothes don’t clash, so please help me pick the right outfit for Rose.”
I just shrugged, unable to hide my annoyance. Lida put a supportive hand on my arm, and then, probably afraid of being accused of taking sides, put one on Sheila’s arm as well.
Sheila gently pushed Lida’s hand aside, and announced, “I’ve already decided that I’m going to wear my new red Valentino with the black-and-white flowers. You, well, I was thinking you should be in white, and Rose can be in this—”
“She’s a baby,” Lida interrupted, taking in the dress Sheila was holding up. “Why would you buy cashmere for a baby? She’s just going to spit up all over it.”
“She’s only going to wear the outfit once,” Sheila replied, as if this were obvious. Then she shifted her attention to a pink infant headband, bedazzled with rhinestones.
Before Sheila could say a word, Lida said, “She has no hair, Sheila. That will look ridiculous on her.”
The Authentics Page 11
