The Authentics

by Abdi Nazemian

  I drew in circles for Meili and Fang. “And then I thought about how my niece is half-Chinese,” I said. “And I realized that my family tree is kind of like a map of the world. It has all these branches and they don’t just point up and down. They point left and right, and in all kinds of diagonals.” I took a breath. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” I said. “And I know I’m not exactly being articulate. But I guess my point is that I’m really happy I discovered all this. Because the way I see it, the more family you have, the better. It just means there’s more love in your life.”

  I thought I was done, but then I surprised myself by drawing three more circles next to my name. I wrote in the names of Caroline, Joy, and Kurt. “And one more thing. I realized that friends can sometimes feel like family. And if they feel like family, then they are family. And that’s a good thing too. ’Cause that’s even more love.”

  Caroline, Joy, and Kurt all smiled, misty-eyed.

  I put the marker down. “So I guess what I’m ultimately trying to say is that I’m superproud to be a part of an Iranian, Mexican, Chinese, American, Muslim, Jewish, and agnostic family. How authentic is that?”

  In my head, I had imagined this rousing closing line would have been met with wild applause. I had imagined the Nose Jobs cheering me, and the jocks fist-bumping me, and the Latin Quarter giving me a standing ovation. But instead there was just an interminable, awkward silence, which was broken when Betty Powell said, “I’ve always known I was adopted. The only part of it that was ever weird was when my birth mother became a superfamous singer.” Only at Beverly Hills High, I thought to myself, is adoption a competitive sport. And then, Betty added, “Well, you can talk to me about it anytime, Daria. I mean, if you have questions or anything.”

  I thanked her, and then handed Mr. Farrell my essay. He finally stood up and said, “Thank you, Daria. That was moving. I thought this assignment would be thought-provoking, but I don’t think I was prepared for just how thought-provoking. It reminds me of the fact that teachers often learn more from students than the other way around.”

  I gulped down hard, and I had a brief moment of thinking that being a teacher would be a really fun job to have. Someday.

  At lunch, I heaped some food onto my tray and approached the Authentics’ table. I thought a few people would stop me and say something about my presentation, but no one did. In fact, everything was status quo. The cliques were all at their designated tables, and nothing had changed. When I plunked down my tray, Caroline, Joy, and Kurt were midconversation. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “How proud we are of you,” Caroline said. “That was awesome.”

  I blushed a little.

  “Seriously,” Joy said. “We were just saying we should’ve given you a standing ovation, but we were all too moved to . . . move.”

  “Thanks,” I said, laughing. “Hey, guys, can we make a pact that we won’t have any more secrets among us?”

  “That’s fine,” Joy said. “But I’m not ready for anyone outside the Authentics to know about me and Caroline. Okay?”

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “My girlfriend is such a closet case.”

  “I just don’t want to break my parents’ hearts,” Joy said. “Yet.”

  “So are we going to wait till they die to tell them?” Caroline asked.

  “How can you even say that? It’s like you’re wishing for my parents to die,” Joy said.

  Caroline almost put a hand on Joy’s knee, and then stopped herself. “Of course not. I just think you need to come out.”

  “But I don’t even know if I’m gay,” Joy said. “I think maybe I’m bisexual.”

  “Then come out as bisexual,” Caroline insisted. “Or just come out as being with me, so I can kiss you right here in this cafeteria.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Joy exclaimed.

  “Taurus Rising in action,” Kurt said, shaking his head. “One more stubborn than the other.”

  “Speaking of astrology,” I said. “I have a question, Kurt.” Kurt looked at me, curious. “It turns out I was born two hours earlier than I thought I was.”

  “Wait,” Kurt said. “You were not born at eleven eleven a.m.?”

  “No,” I said, amazed that Kurt remembered the exact time of my birth.

  “You realize that totally changes your chart,” Kurt said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Wow,” he said, as if he’d just discovered there was life on Mars or something. “Everything makes sense now.”

  “You know what doesn’t make sense?” I said, looking toward Caroline and Joy. “Calling ourselves the Authentics. I mean, it’s too much to live up to, you know.”

  “I agree,” Caroline said. “No one can be all authentic all the time.”

  “I actually think it’s a little weird to have a clique name,” I said. “I mean, we’re almost sixteen. We’re practically adults. Adults don’t have clique names.”

  “Um, the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,” Joy said.

  “The Rat Pack,” Caroline added.

  “Okay,” Kurt said. “Let’s call ourselves the Inauthentics, then.”

  “But it’s not like we’re inauthentic,” Joy said. “We’re just selective about who we tell the truth to. We can be the Selectives.”

  “I don’t know,” Kurt said. “Maybe we don’t need to define ourselves based on how authentic or inauthentic we are at all. Daria said we were like family, right? Maybe we’re the Family.”

  “Ooh, like the mob,” Caroline said.

  “You know what the rest of the school calls us behind our backs, right?” I asked. And they all looked at me with questioning glances. “They call us the Island of Misfit Toys. Heidi told me during our tender heart-to-heart last week.”

  “Wait, that’s hilarious,” Kurt said.

  “I love it,” Joy said.

  “Joy’s my toy,” Caroline said, and then, enjoying the rhyme, she added, “And I would love her even if she were a boy.”

  “But what if she were as mean as Lucius Malfoy?” Kurt asked.

  “Oy,” Joy said, with a dramatic roll of the eyes, and we all laughed.

  Caroline stood up on the table and announced loudly to the whole school, “Hey, everyone, from now on, me and my friends can publicly be referred to as the Island of Misfit Toys. We’re an island, we’re misfits, we’re toys, and we’re damn proud.”

  Our classmates gave Caroline a moment of their attention before going back to their own conversations. And so the Authentics became the Island of Misfit Toys, the irony being that in finding each other, we were no longer misfits. We fit just fine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ON THE ONLY RAINY NIGHT Los Angeles saw all winter, my mother and I sat across from our dinner table, with Baba and Amir as our impartial mediators. Slowly, we hammered out the details of my sweet sixteen party using the one skill we all shared: negotiation.

  “I will concede to your venue selection,” I said.

  “Concede?” Sheila echoed. “The venue is beautiful.”

  “It’s the banquet hall of a garish Persian restaurant,” I scoffed.

  “Daria, we agreed to keep all communication positive.” This was Amir, holding me to one of our ground rules.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “I will accept the beautiful choice of venue if you allow me to choose my own beautiful outfit.”

  “I will consider your proposal,” my mother said. “But I will need to see this beautiful outfit first.”

  I pulled up a picture of the body-hugging zebra-print Halston dress Joy had bought for me as an early birthday present. She was adamant I wear it to the party, and I finally had the confidence to do just that. “It’s Halston,” I said to Sheila, because now I knew who he was, and because Sheila loved a brand name.

  “Do we have an agreement?” Baba asked.

  “What shoes will you be wearing?” Sheila asked.

  “Mom, come on,” Amir said. “We agreed not to nitpick.”

  �
��Fine,” my mother said. “We have an agreement. Now I’d like to discuss the guest list.”

  “As a reminder,” Amir said, “we have agreed not to disinvite anyone.”

  “The thing is that the Malikis have some family visiting from Israel, and the Javadis have some family visiting from London, and . . .”

  “Oh my God, Mom!” I yelled.

  “Daria, we agreed to keep our voices calm,” Baba said.

  I took a deep breath, and saw this for what it was: an opportunity. “Fine,” I said. “You can invite the distant relatives of all your friends, if we skip the requisite boring slide show.”

  “Skip the slide show?” Sheila looked to Baba. “We’ve spent months going through old photos, and she wants us to—”

  “Sheila, we agreed that Amir and I are impartial,” Baba said, and I loved him for that.

  “I’m not done,” I said. “Instead of a boring slide show chronicling my journey from adorable baby to pug-nosed, awkward teenager . . .”

  “You do not have a pug nose,” my mother said. “That’s just a false—”

  “As I was saying,” I cut her off. “Instead of the slide show, I would like the banquet hall to be turned into an art gallery for the night. And it will be Iglesias’s first show.”

  “What does his art look like?” Sheila asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “And I’m not done. I want to sell his art at the party. And I want you guys to encourage all your friends to buy pieces.”

  “I don’t know,” Sheila said, biting her lip. “Every guest will already be giving you a gift. I don’t want them to feel obligated to buy a work of art as well.”

  “Obligated?!” I asked incredulously.

  “Daria, tone,” Baba said flatly.

  “Do you think the lucky people who bought Warhol’s first pieces felt obligated? Do you think Picasso’s first buyers felt obligated? It’s a privilege!”

  “Fine,” Sheila finally said. “Fine. Let’s just move on to the menu. Persian food, obviously.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But I thought it would be fun if each course represented a different part of my identity. Like Chinese appetizers, Persian main course, Lala’s tres leches cake for dessert . . .”

  It went on like that for a few hours. I think we went through three pots of cardamom tea before every detail, from the flowers to the lighting to the décor, was planned.

  No matter how hard we worked to plan the party, there were bound to be some surprises. Like, for example, I was dancing with Caroline and Joy when we saw Kurt approach Heidi by the buffet table. Heidi looked disgusted that he would deign to speak to her. We all inched closer to them to hear what they were saying.

  “You know what’s missing at this party?” Kurt asked Heidi. And before she could answer, he said, “Pink fondue. Oh, and pink goldfish.”

  And to our shock, Heidi laughed. “I’ll have you know the fondue was my crazy mother’s idea.”

  “But the goldfish were all you,” Kurt said.

  Heidi shrugged. “Guilty as charged. I thought they’d be cute, but they were creepy.”

  “Just a little creepy,” Kurt said, and Heidi laughed again.

  “Hey,” Heidi said to Kurt, “do you always wear that hat ’cause you’re prematurely balding? Because there’s a pill for that.”

  Kurt took his fedora off, revealing his thick head of hair. “Nope,” he said. “I’ve got newscaster hair. I just like fedoras.”

  “I’m gonna make you a T-shirt that says ‘I Heart Fedoras,’” Heidi said. “Then you can stop wearing that hat.”

  Kurt laughed, and then a classic Leila Forouhar song came on the playlist my mother had made for the party, and Heidi screamed, “Oh my God, this is my jam!” And she pulled Kurt to the dance floor, and just like that, they were dancing. Heidi and Kurt, dancing together!

  An hour later, Heidi approached me during a rare quiet moment, wearing Kurt’s fedora, and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me Kurt is bizarre but also totally charming?”

  “Wait, are you acknowledging my existence again?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I am.”

  I smiled. “Kurt is totally charming. I just never thought you’d agree since we never agree on anything.”

  “True,” she said. “But you know, we don’t have to be the same person to be friends.” As I took that in, she announced, “Kurt did my chart. He said I’m his astro–soul mate or something.”

  I smiled. Maybe it was a little odd that Kurt and Heidi were becoming an item, but I loved that Kurt had met someone who found him sexy. I couldn’t wait to say I told you so. I was totally going to win that bet.

  “It’s a great party,” Heidi said. And then, as if she couldn’t end on a compliment, she added, “But seriously, Daria, that zebra dress is a little insane. You have to be Gisele to pull off a dress like that.”

  “You know, you don’t have to be bitchy to me,” I said. “You can just be nice.”

  Heidi smiled big. “I’m a Scorpio Rising,” she said. “Cruel honesty is in my nature.” And with that, she walked back over to Kurt.

  At that moment, Sheila and Baba announced that a performer was about to take the stage. All the lights went out, and the guests, including me, wondered who it could be. Had my parents, in a desperate attempt to live up to the unreachable standards set by their peers, hired She-Reen to make a special appearance? To my delight, when the lights came back on, Caroline was onstage, wearing a white bodysuit. In broken Farsi, she sang a Persian version of “The Island of Misfit Toys” from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As she did, Iglesias spray-painted her bodysuit with the image of the Daria Lisa. It was epic performance art, and it was in my honor, and I couldn’t have been more moved.

  There were more surprises. Like the Skype message from Auntie Lida, who didn’t just record some boring birthday message for me. She took me on a tour of life in Iran. “You seem so interested in your history,” she said, “so I want to show you some of my Iran.” And in the video, she showed me her home, and the city streets of Tehran, and her friends.

  And then there was a Skype message from Meili and Fang, who wished me a happy birthday and told me I was welcome anytime in Beijing. “Of course,” Meili said, “you will stay with us. In our home. Not in a hotel. And you will wake up bright and early because I am like a rooster.” I laughed, reminded of how much I appreciated Meili’s unique brand of opinionated humor.

  Then there were the gifts—so many special, thoughtful gifts. Amir and Andrew gave me a framed picture of Rose and me that Andrew took covertly the first time I held her in my arms. “You’re already the best aunt in the world,” Amir said as he hugged me.

  Caroline and Joy gave me a T-shirt and a hoodie, both of which read, “Misfit Toy.” And they told me that they had them made for the three of us, and Kurt. Encarnación gave me a photo album, with photos of her childhood and her ancestors in them. When she gave it to me, she said, “All the people in this album are a part of me, and now they are a part of you.” Lala gave me a leather journal, and on the first page, she wrote, “You have so many stories to tell, Daria. Write them down before you forget them.” And I started almost right away. In fact, later that night, when I couldn’t sleep from the buzz of energy still running through my veins, I filled up almost the entire journal.

  But maybe the best gift of all came from Iglesias. “Almost all your pieces sold,” I said to him as we drank sodas in a corner of the room.

  “All but one,” he said. And he must have seen my disappointment, because quickly he added, “It wasn’t for sale.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Which one?”

  He pointed to one of the pieces on the wall. It was a mess of colors, bright pinks and reds and oranges swirling around each other. It was beautiful. “This is the first piece I did for this show. The first piece I did that wasn’t copying someone else’s style. I don’t really know if this is going to be my style, but it’s the beginning of me at least trying to figure
out who I am. And I thought . . .” He paused. “Wait, am I making you cry?”

  I smiled through my tears. “Shut up.”

  “Look, I don’t have to give it to you,” he said.

  “Hey, it’s mine now,” I joked. “What’s it called?”

  “Ocean,” he said.

  We looked at each other for a long beat, saying nothing.

  Finally, he said, “Listen, Ocean, I gave you a memorable first kiss, and I just want to say that your first time had better be just as special. If I hear you gave it up to some gross guy at some lame high school party, I will haunt your dreams.”

  I wanted to say he would probably haunt my dreams regardless, because he was my first kiss, and my first love, and my family, but I just said, “Oh please, you lost your virginity to a girl with a fake tan and a septum piercing.”

  As we laughed, Sheila and Baba approached me with their gifts.

  Baba handed me his gift. It was a big box, but it was pretty light, and I wondered what it could be. I opened the box, and to my surprise, there were clothes inside. It was unlike Baba to buy me clothes, so I eyed him with confusion. And then I pulled out the clothes and realized they had all come from Local.

  “I want you to know that if you ever want to see your biological father, I would support that decision,” Baba said.

  Tears formed in my eyes. I knew how hard this must be for Baba to say.

  “We could even go see him together,” Baba added. “If you want.”

  I looked up to Baba. “Thank you,” I said.

  I knew that someday, I would want to know Seth Nijensen better. But I also knew that day wasn’t today or tomorrow.

  Baba pulled me into a hug and said, “I love you, aziz.”

  I couldn’t help it; I cried in his shoulder. Even though he was wearing a fancy suit that Sheila had picked out for him, and a red tie to match her dress, and even though she had doused him in cologne, I could still make out his unmistakable scent, which I smelled every time he held me close, and I was filled with such gratitude that the universe had conspired to make this man my father. Baba let me go, and placed his hands on my cheeks, and wiped away my tears.