“You already gave them a little piece of Mexico,” Fabio cracked. It was practically the first time he had spoken since the conversation began. But the way Encarnación laughed made me get what she saw in him, and made me happy that she had found her own family in him and Iglesias.
“You’re right,” Baba said. “You did give us a very precious gift, but I’d say this ashtray is about on par with it.” Baba winked at me.
“One more thing,” Sheila said. I was nervous about what she was going to say. “Daria’s sweet sixteen party is coming up,” Sheila began. “I’ve invited many people she doesn’t want there, and I think I should invite a few people she might like to have there as well. So would it be okay if I sent you an invitation?”
Encarnación’s face opened up into a huge smile. “We would be honored,” she said. To my shock, Sheila hugged Encarnación, and then my parents left.
I headed up to Iglesias’s room and knocked on the door. “Yup,” he said.
I opened the door and found him on his bed, a laptop in front of him, papers strewn about him. “That went well,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, beaming a little. “Better than I thought.”
I was still standing up. I didn’t feel comfortable enough to sit. I wasn’t sure how long I would be there, or if he was still mad at me, or what we even were to each other anymore.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, not looking me in the eye.
“For what?” I asked.
“It’s my shit I’m angry about,” he said. “Not your shit.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m sorry too. I should’ve stood up for you in front of my parents.”
“It’s cool,” he said. “They’re pretty intimidating, especially your mom. That woman’s a baller.”
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh. “I guess she is.”
There was a long silence, which was broken when, from downstairs, Encarnación shouted, “What’s going on up there?”
“Jesus, Mom,” Iglesias yelled back. “There was a natural lull in the conversation.”
“Keep talking,” Encarnación shouted back. “Just talking.”
Iglesias rolled his eyes. “She was a lot more pissed at me than she was at you,” he said. “I got a lot of shit. Almost as much as when I got arrested.”
“And your dad?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s just rolling with it, you know. I mean, he knew you existed and all. I just get the sense that he’s supporting whatever she wants. Like he’s not allowed to have an opinion ’cause this is her drama.”
“Well, I’m sorry you got reamed out ’cause of me,” I said.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It was mine. We make our own decisions. And they have consequences. I think I finally get that now.”
“Can I sit?” I asked.
Iglesias nodded. Sitting on his bed, he was a far cry from the towering and sexy giant he seemed to be when we first met. Sure, he was still beautiful, with his muscular arms covered in tattoos. And sure, he was still huge. His legs dangled off his single bed, which he must have outgrown years ago. But now he seemed less like a sexy giant and more like a sweet boy. I sat at the edge of the bed and glanced at the papers strewn about. There were some sketches and some scribbled writing. “What’s all this?” I said.
“I’m working on a portfolio,” he said.
“A portfolio, huh?” I replied with a smile. “That sounds like something someone works on when they have plans that go beyond spray-painting city walls and copying my mother’s handbags.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking me in the eye, “I’m applying to art school.” He gave it a beat for the news to sink in, and then he added, “In San Francisco.”
“Oh,” I said. And although I was really happy for him, sadness washed over me as well. I liked sitting on a bed with him, being close to him. “I guess you don’t want to stay here, then. ’Cause there are great art schools right here.”
“I think I need to get a fresh start,” he said. “But I’ll visit my friends often.”
“Friends,” I repeated. I felt hollow, like the part of me that still thought Iglesias and I could be romantic had been ripped out of me.
“Aw, come on,” he said. “It’s not like I’m applying to school in Reykjavik.”
“Reykjavik!” I said with a laugh. “Where did you pull that one from? Why not Abu Dhabi?”
“Or Kuala Lumpur,” he said. “I hear they have great art schools there.”
“The very best ones are actually at the very top of Machu Picchu,” I said. This was what I loved most about Iglesias. These moments when it felt like we could finish each other’s sentences. “There’s no internet or cell phone service up there, but that steep mountain air apparently does wonders for one’s artistic voice.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said. “But the school in Reykjavik is still really appealing. It’s inside a volcano. Mad inspiring.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do they have air-conditioning inside volcanoes? I bet it gets superhot.”
Iglesias laughed, and then he stopped the banter and said with complete seriousness, “I really was considering Reykjavik. There’s a really cool program there Stuey told me about.”
From downstairs, the booming sound of Encarnación’s voice traveled up toward us. “You are not going to school in Iceland!”
Iglesias shrugged. “And that was the end of that.”
“So why San Francisco?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. And then, because he did know, he continued, “Because it’s near, but far. Because I want to be able to see all the people I love, but also go somewhere new. Somewhere where I can just figure out who I am as an artist, you know? Stop copying other people’s shit and make my own.”
“Am I one of those people you love?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah?” I asked, giggling.
I inched closer to him. He shifted closer to me. And when our bodies couldn’t move any nearer to each other, our heads started finding their way toward each other, our lips pulled together by a mysterious force, like magnets.
I closed my eyes.
I felt his hot breath against my face.
I remembered that first kiss on the Ferris wheel, the magic of it flooding through me.
Then, in an instant, the magic wore off, the mysterious magnetic force evaporated, and we both laughed.
Our lips were still hovering perilously close to each other, but we both knew we weren’t going to kiss again. Ever.
“What’s going on up there?” Encarnación bellowed from below.
“I farted!” Iglesias screamed back.
“You’re disgusting,” she responded.
Now I knew whatever romance existed between us was definitely over. No guy talked about farting in front of the girl he liked.
“Can I be totally honest about something?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Hit me with some honesty.”
“I’m really glad we didn’t sleep together,” he said. “I mean, what were we thinking?”
I laughed nervously, and then I thought about it, and I said, “I guess that would’ve ruined everything, right?”
“Right,” he said. “Because now we still have a chance to be friends.”
“More than friends,” I said. “We’re nonsiblings.”
Iglesias nodded, then pushed his laptop toward me. “Here,” he said. “It’s the essay I want to submit with my application. It’s still a little rough. Tell me what you think.”
I started reading, and to my surprise, the essay was about me. It was about how I had knocked on his door with a clear sense of purpose, although he hadn’t yet known what that purpose was. He wrote about my search for my identity, and about how I’d questioned his art, and told him he didn’t make anything original. He said he wanted the chance to go search for his own identity, and that I had inspired this mission. I caught some missing punctuation and fixed
it.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“You were missing a comma,” I said.
“That’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, that’s the only thing wrong with it. You were just missing a comma. The rest is perfect.”
“So I was missing a comma,” he said with a smile.
“Also, thank you,” I said.
“For what?” he asked.
“You’ve inspired me to finally finish an essay I’ve had due for a little while,” I said, thinking of my genealogy assignment.
“So we inspired each other,” he said. Then he leaped off his bed and towered over me. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go.”
“WHERE?” Encarnación shouted from below.
Iglesias took my hand and led me downstairs to face his parents. “We need to go photograph my work for my portfolio,” he said. “You’re welcome to come chaperone us.”
“You bet your ass we’re chaperoning you,” Fabio said. “We’re not letting you get arrested again.”
And off we went, the four of us, like a family. Iglesias took us on a tour of the walls he had tagged. Some of them had been painted over, but some were still there. There was the Girl with a Big-Ass Hoop Earring. There was Marilyn with pills coming out of her mouth. There was Botticelli’s Venus in a G-string. There was a replica of a Chanel handbag with a pet lion peeking out of it. There was The Last Hipster Supper. And then, of course, there was Daria Lisa. There were also all his different tags: Karne, Rico, Hoopla, and, finally, Iglesias.
By the time we got to Daria Lisa, Encarnación said, “They arrested you for making something this beautiful?” Iglesias nodded, and she turned to him with regret and pride in her eyes. “I am so sorry, Enrique. We should have been more supportive of you.”
“After you got arrested for spray-painting, we just wanted to keep you out of trouble,” Fabio added.
“But we never thought to come look at the work first,” Encarnación continued, her eyes wide with wonder. “These are beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” Fabio echoed.
“They’re not beautiful,” Iglesias countered. “The whole point is that I have no voice as an artist. I don’t know who I am. That’s why I wanna go to school.”
“You have so much time to develop a voice,” Encarnación said, sounding very much like a teacher. “You have talent. That’s all you need at your age.”
She pulled Iglesias close to her and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Iglesias smiled, turning into a little boy in her arms. Then he pulled away and said to me, “Hey, pose in front of it!”
“No,” I said, my cheeks blushing red.
“Come on, my whole essay’s about you. Let’s give ’em a visual.”
I acquiesced and stood in front of the Daria Lisa. I tried to give the same smirk and searing gaze that made her such a force. Then I realized I didn’t need to try because I was the Daria Lisa. I was the force.
Chapter Sixteen
ON TUESDAY MORNING, I GOT up earlier than usual for school and asked Sheila to drop me off outside Kurt’s house. His mom lived superclose to school, and he walked to school in the mornings. I sat on his stoop and stared at his front door until finally it opened. Kurt emerged in a checkered shirt, red jeans, and his signature fedora. His mom was next to him, in a pair of wrinkled gray pajamas.
“Hey, Daria,” Kurt’s mom said.
“Hey, Mrs. Sanderson,” I said, standing up to hug her.
“Seriously,” she said. “Call me Susanne.”
“Sorry. It’s good to see you, Susanne. You look good,” I said.
I tried to get Kurt’s attention, but he was wearing sunglasses. With his eyes covered, I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, or even where he was looking. The first thing he said was, “Okay, bye, Mom.”
Kurt’s mom gave him a hug, and way too many kisses on the cheek. “Have a beautiful day at school,” she said.
“Every day is a beautiful day at school,” Kurt said with a smile, then he started to walk away.
I rushed to catch up with him. “Hey,” I said. “Wait up.” Kurt stopped and waited for me. “Would it be okay if we walked to school together?” He nodded, then started walking again. We walked in silence for a few steps, and then I spoke again. “I’ve been through a lot lately. And the thing that felt worst were the moments when I felt forgotten. I guess that’s how you must have felt, maybe. I mean, I’m not trying to tell you how you felt. I’m just trying . . . to be a friend.”
“I didn’t feel forgotten,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
I waited a long time for him to speak again, then finally he said, “I just felt like, I don’t know, like what’s wrong with me? Why did you just stick me in the friend zone without even considering me? Am I not a guy?” Then he took his sunglasses off and looked at me for the first time.
I paused for a moment. “Kurt, I have to be honest. Your crush on me didn’t feel serious. It’s like you were trying to make me feel better or something . . .”
“Why would I need to make you feel better?” he asked. “You’re awesome.”
And there he was. The sweet Kurt I missed.
“In a way, you’re right,” he added. “It’s just that I thought I should like you.”
“Why?” I asked.
“High school is half over and I haven’t even had a girlfriend.” He started walking a little faster. “And the only three girls I get along with are you guys, and Caroline is a lesbian, and Joy is out of my league.”
“And also a lesbian,” I said. I almost walked into oncoming traffic.
Kurt grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “I know! I mean, can we take a moment to acknowledge the fact that Caroline and Joy are officially the strangest couple ever?”
“Acknowledged,” I said.
“I’m happy for them,” he said. “Not to sound like one of my mom’s favorite movies, but I feel like they complete each other.”
“Do you think Caroline and Joy had each other at hello?” I asked, and we laughed. “You know, I think you’re the greatest Authentic of all.”
“Why?”
“Think about it,” I said, and I reached my hand out to hold his. “I kept a secret, and so did Caroline and Joy. You’re the only one of us who was authentic all along. You never let us down.”
Kurt nodded. “That’s fine and all, but is every girl I ever meet only going to see me as a friend?”
“I will bet you that you’ll have a girlfriend by the time we graduate high school,” I said. “If I win, you can take me to dinner at Katsu-Ya.”
“Betting on my love life might be the most Persian thing you’ve ever done,” he said with a smile.
“What can I say? I am my father’s daughter.”
“Did you just quote another one of my mom’s favorite movies?” he asked.
We walked the rest of the way to school holding hands, and laughing. The morning clouds parted and the sun hit my face, warming me.
The first class of the day was Mr. Farrell’s, and he began by picking a name from the hat. Joy, Caroline, Kurt, and I all looked to each other nervously. “Here we go. Today’s presenter will be none other than the one and only Kurt Sanderson.”
Kurt stood up nervously. “Mr. Farrell, I’m totally willing to present today, but the thing is, I’m still waiting to find out the birthdays of a few of my distant relatives, and in order for my presentation to be wholly exhaustive and astrologically exact, I’m going to require about one more week.”
“I’m sorry, Kurt,” Mr. Farrell said. “The system is arbitrary.”
“I understand,” Kurt said, clearly disappointed.
As Kurt made his way to the front of the class, I stood up. “Mr. Farrell, if it’s allowed, I’d like to volunteer.” I wanted to help Kurt, but I also really wanted to present. I had a lot I wanted to get off my chest.
“Oh my God,” Kimmy said. “This is so Hunger Games. She’s volunte
ering as tribute.”
“Well,” Mr. Farrell said, “if no one objects, I don’t see any reason not to allow Daria to present today.”
“Thank you,” Kurt whispered to me.
“Get ready for a Persian sermon,” Heidi cracked as I stepped up to the front of the class, and the Nose Jobs laughed.
I stood in front of the class for a long, awkward beat. “I didn’t bring a prop or a piece of art or anything like that,” I started. “I just thought I’d draw a family tree for you guys, and tell you my story.” I picked up a red marker, wrote my name on the dry-erase board, and then circled it. “So,” I said. “That’s me. Daria Esfandyar.”
“This is such a compelling presentation,” Heidi whispered to her sycophants.
I drew in circles for my mother, father, and Amir. “And these are my parents and my brother. My parents were born in Iran, and my brother is, um, gay.” I swallowed hard. I knew my presentation was going horribly so far. I looked to Mr. Farrell, who gazed at me with rapt attention, willing me to do better by the sheer force of his belief. I drew in circles for Auntie Lida and all the ancestors she’d told me about. When I was done, I said, “A few weeks ago, this would have been my entire family tree. But now it’s different. And not just because my brother and his husband had a baby.” I drew in circles for Andrew and Rose.
I cracked my knuckles and gritted my teeth, and then I picked up the red marker again, and I drew in another circle above my name, and inside it I wrote the words Encarnación Vargas. I could see the confusion on the faces of my classmates. Even Heidi was quiet.
“See, the thing is,” I said, “I found out recently that I’m adopted.” Now there were a few gasps. “I could’ve just omitted that from my family tree. I mean, my family is the one that raised me, right?”
I glanced at Mr. Farrell. He looked concerned, like he was ready to step in any second.
“I’ve always prided myself on being authentic,” I continued, gaining confidence. “I guess that’s why I was so proud of being Iranian. I thought that being proud of my heritage was being authentic. But then I found out that my genes aren’t Iranian at all. And that kind of threw me into an existential tailspin.”
The Authentics Page 19
