“Thanks,” I say aloud.
He nods and smiles, grabbing my backpack off the ground for me as I turn my hearing aids back off. I do one last look around, turn off the work lights, and let the theatre doors close behind us.
You need a ride?
“Jasmine’s got me. She’ll be working a while yet.”
I can keep you company
“I’m just doing homework.”
I don’t mind. Don’t want to go home yet.
I cock my head at him, but he doesn’t answer my unasked question. Finally I shrug. “Sure.”
***
“Chicken?” Amy signs at me.
I nod, and she passes it my way. I kind of lucked out on stepmothers: Amy never tried to do any weirdI’m your mother nowstuff when she and Dad got married five years ago, like Jasmine was worried about. Instead, she said she hoped we’d be friends, and that she would grow to become someone we could trust. She’s always been there for me and Jasmine.
She even learned some sign, though it’s mostly food words. Still, it’s more than Dad ever managed, or Mom for that matter. With them both being doctors, it was like they expected my hearing aids to solve everything, and then were personally offended when they didn’t.
Truth be told, my family has been more comfortable with me being queer than they’ve ever been with me being disabled.
Don’t get me wrong, Dad absolutely loves me and Jasmine, and makes sure we know it. He comes to all my plays, frames every single one of Jasmine’s art pieces, but I don’t think he gets us. It must baffle him how he, a cardiologist, and our mom, an anesthesiologist, wound up with two artsy kids.
I pass the chicken to Dad, who’s looking at his phone as we eat, bushy eyebrows twitching. Even when he’s not on call, he’s usually glued to his phone. Dr. Iraj Ghasnavi is dark-haired, though it’s thinning in the back and around his widow’s peak, and brown-eyed like me and Jasmine. His skin is darker than mine, a rich sienna that never burns in the summer, just turns more golden. He’s also short like me—I topped out at five-seven when I was fourteen, which doesn’t bother me that much (exceptwhen people loom over me), but it does make reaching things in the theatre annoying sometimes.
Jasmine thumps the table to get my attention.
“Huh?” I wish she’d just use her Notes app like Liam did. But I stifle a sigh and turn my hearing aids back on. “Yeah?”
“What were you doing with Liam this afternoon?”
“Uh. Homework?”
“Who’s Liam?” Amy asks, looking between us.
“Just a guy I know,” Jasmine says, but then she looks down at her plate and lets her hair draw a curtain on her expression. No doubt hiding a rising blush.
She’s definitely crushing.
Dad looks up from his phone. “Somethingsomething Liam’s an Iranian name? It means ‘my nation.’ ”
“His last name is Coquyt, though,” I say.
Dad cocks his head to the side. “Probably not Iranian, then. He’s your year?”
“Mine,” Jasmine says. “Senior.”
“What’s he doing for college?”
Jasmine shrugs.
“Early decision at UT,” I say. He and Bowie talk about it sometimes. “He’s a swimmer.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Good school.”
