If you are afraid to wet your feet, you will never catch fish.
??? ??????,???? ?? ???????:
—Armenian Proverb
I’m parked outsidethe Armenian school, which I didn’t go to past pre-K because Dad didn’t want me to. The fog on this side of town is so thick that you’d honestly think it was December.
I glance at the sparkly heels tossed on the passenger-side floor. When my mom saw me choose an adorable pair of gold ballet flats for tonight, she asked in her most scandalized tone, “You’re wearing flats?!” Before I could answer, Nene recited in her proper Armenian, “Erekhan pan teer, heduh khnah.” That translates to “If you send your child on an errand, go with them,” which is such a sick burn I didn’t even get offended. I consider wearing the heels, taking my five foot two to five-six, but if I’m actually going to be dancing, my back will not make it through the night. That is, if I go inside at all.
I stare at the event hall. Cute women dressed in cocktail dresses and shawls for the cold and men in business casual filter in. I’m wearing an indigo jersey dress that is fancy enough butalso so soft and comfortable, and I swiped my mom’s long gold necklace. How I look isn’t the problem. Everyone seems to be here with people they know. It’s not like they’re all strangers to me, but so many of them are such far-removed acquaintances, and I always forget everyone’s names, and I hate that game of “Should we say hi? Should we not? Can I just nod my head at you and smile?” My level of knowing them is almost more awkward than if I were a complete stranger. I am Boghos and Anahid’s daughter. Haiganoush’s granddaughter (my grandma’s classical pianist days still hold clout, all these years later).
I know what they’ll say about me. “Oh, now she shows up?” “She’s alone? That’s weird, but she was always weird. That’s why she never comes to our events.” “Her father was so snobbish.” “Do you think she’s gained weight?” “Who do you think is prettier? Her, her mom, or her grandmother? In their primes, of course. I’ve always said the grandma.” “Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” And perhaps most prominently: “Why is she here?”
I’m so stupid. What was I thinking coming here, pretending to be part of this world? I’ve always felt outside it, even being full-flipping-Armenian. I should have begged Diana to come with me tonight, though I’m sure she’s already in bed dreaming of her new seafoam-green KitchenAid mixer. Out of instinct I pull out my phone and start to text Trevor, then I remember he’s on a plane and ignored my texts earlier today. I have no one. I feel so, so alone.
I drape my arms over the steering wheel, hang my head, and let out a long wailing groan. What the hell am I doing with my life? Why did I ruin such an easy, good thing?
Then there’s arap-rapon my window and I spring up.
A face is peering at me from outside, mostly obscured by curls, but I see one large inquisitive brown eye.
She says, voice muffled by the window, “Are you okay?”
Her presence, while shocking, is also having this warm, comforting effect on me. She seems so genuinely concerned. I put on a quick smile and say, “Yes, yes, all right.” Then I make a motion toward the door, grab my purse, and step out. She backs up to give me space.
I’m outside, and the cold doesn’t feel like an onslaught for once; if anything it’s refreshing. We’re wedged between my car and another black one, and it’s feeling cozy over here. So this woman, my guardian angel—is that too dramatic? Whatever—is as tall as a palm and has this chic slouch. She’s wearing a low-cut lacy black top with black pants and is sporting both a choker and a pendant around her neck. Her hair’s incredible, with curls cut in an asymmetric bob. She’s basically the coolest person I’ve ever talked to. I should probably say something.
I give the tiniest wave.
“Thanks for—I’ve got this headache.” Something in her eyes, totally nonjudgmental, with a familiarity that I can’t quite place, compels me to add, “And I’m a bit nervous to go in since I’m by myself.”
She nods like she gets it. “I’m by myself, too.”
When she speaks, it’s like stepping into cool water. When she speaks, I lose all sense of what’s around me.
And she’s here by herself.
“Oh.”
I am very smooth.
“Do you want to go in together?”
“Totally. Yes, thank you.”
If I keep tacking words on to the end, maybe I’ll find the right one. As we step out from the cars it dawns on me that my hair isgoing to be pummeled by the fog, so I throw away any last chance of seeming normal and set my purse on top of my scalp, hoping to at least preserve the top of my hair, which is the most important hair, as any blow-drying-straight woman knows. She smirks at me.
“The hair. Fog is its mortal enemy,” I explain.
“I remember those days.”
Oh right, she’s au naturel. Hopefully she won’t look down on me for making a big deal about my hair frizzing. Doesn’t seem to be, but I can’t tell. Who is this person? She looks vaguely familiar, but I definitely haven’t met her before. I’d remember.
“I’m Nareh. Bedrossian. Thanks again for this, I already feel better.”
“Erebuni.”
Erebuni. I roll the letters around in my head. Not quite an Armenian name I’ve heard of, but familiar.
