I settle into the car and stop myself from looking back at her. But I can’t cut off my thoughts. Did she look at all? If so, how long did she linger? Why am I focusing on her and not who I’m supposed to focus on? I’m wasting my time getting lost in that perfume, in the wave of calm she exudes. Cool water. I close my eyes and think,That’s enough of Erebuni. I force myself to wonder instead when Raffi might DM me.
7
Who is preferably heard? The rich and the handsome.
? ????? ????? ?????? ?’?????:—????????? ?? ????????:
—Armenian Proverb
It’s nine a.m.and Diana’s in my house. I’m hobbling down the stairs, and every step feels like my head is shrinking against its will. Three drinks and I’m hungover; that’s twenty-seven going on twenty-eight for you. I was looking forward to a nice quiet sail out of the house and into a Lyft back to my car. The Sunday morning meeting isn’t until ten a.m. today, and there’s no breaking news, so I was supposed to have a calm morning. My mom tends to sleep in, and Nene, who was never one to chat it up anyway, says she’s too old for idle chitchat. I was hoping to be alone with my thoughts, trying to process the carnival of last night. Right now the main feeling isphysically unwellwith a glowing undercurrent, a spark of optimism.
Diana is in the kitchen, comfy in yoga pants and a stretchy shirt, dropping ice cubes into two steaming Earl Grey glasses. Of course she looks impossibly chic in her most casual outfit.
“Nene,” she whispers as she sets the tea down in front of ourgrandma, who is sitting primly in her white dressing gown. It makes her look older, and my heart cringes thinking of it. Nene nods curtly at Diana.
I walk into the room and hug Diana, about to ask her why she’s here so early. She lives less than a ten-minute drive away, but she doesn’t usually pop by until later in the day.
My mom rushes down the stairs. “Don’t start without me!” And there it goes. Goodbye quiet morning.
I see what this is. The grand inquisition of Nareh Bedrossian and her luck with the suitors at the ball.
Diana is staring at me. “Tantig Anahid and I were texting last night. We have alotto catch up on. You went to shourchbar night? God, you must be exhausted, doing that after the shower.”
My mom waves her arms. “Exhaust,psh. Who did you meet?”
“Guys. I have to go to work. And, ugh, my car.”
I explain to them about taking the Lyft back home, and Diana and my mom are more than happy to drive me to the Armenian school if it means more time to hear gossip about last night. Personally, I’m pleased to not have to pay for a ride again, but there’s something in the conspiratorial energy between those two that’s grating on me. Or that could just be the dull pulsing behind my eyelids. I sense a migraine brewing.
The three of us approach Diana’s white Jeep, which she’s had even longer than I’ve had my car. She’s got her fading Delta Gamma sticker on the bumper and her Santa Clara University license plate frame. I reach for the back seat to sit with Nene, but my mom grabs the handle.
“Go sit with Diana. I don’t want to crane my neck the whole drive.” I begin to protest, but she interrupts, “I’m old, have some pity.”
It is so not worth the argument. So I sit up front, and the second Diana starts the car, I shut off all the air vents blowing at me, because there is nothing worse than cold air on an already gloomy day. June right now across the country must feel so different than it does here. I long for the metropolitan heat, the warm blanket of humidity in Chicago, or DC, or New York. All the possibilities that a sizzling summer suggests, the whole population thrilled by the arrival of it—that’s something I’ve never experienced, and I wish I could.
Diana backs out with a touch of careless abandon, and my mom is already starting with her requests for slow driving. “Gamats, hajees. You know I can’t take it.”
“I am, Tantig. Okay. Nar! So you’re really doing it with this Armenian guy thing? Is Tantig Anahid exaggerating?”
“It’s all true. I’m just...” How do I explain this? My brain is foggy, and I’m regretting not joining them for a glass of tea.
“Finally listening to her mother,” my mom finishes, and I’m glad for it because it means I don’t have to explain further.
Diana makes a daring left turn onto Nineteenth, the artery to the freeway; the Armenian school is off an exit right before it. We zoom past all of San Francisco’s sidesitched homes while my mom makes a sound like she’s sucked all the oxygen out of the car, and I can imagine her digging her nails into the handle.
I decide to open slowly. “So, I met Arek, the engineer guy. Also his friend named Vache, who’s a food journalist. Isn’t that cool?”
My mom retorts, “If you want to end up penniless, yes. What’s his last name?”
“I didn’t catch it.”
My mom sighs dismissively.
Diana says, “Nareh always used to like the intellectuals.”Okay, past tense, diss on Trevor. I mean, it’s true, though. I can tell you right now that being a lawyer and being an intellectual can be mutually exclusive. “We need to find you those East Coast Armenians. Darper en East Coastneruh. The ones who’re more American because they’ve been here so long. You love that. Some Bostonian Watertown guys with checkered shirts who aren’t afraid to wear bow ties and have jobs in, like,finance. Oh, I can totally see it.”
My mom shoves off this idea. In one breath she says, “They don’t come to our things, and we have plenty of men. Now, tell me about Arek Grigoryan.”
I kind of love how all-business Mom can be about the prospect of dating (when it comes to Armenian guys). It’s like she’s a matchmaker in the old country, riffling her fingers through a hanging file. I explain, “He’s super friendly, but he’s like that with everyone.”
