“You talked to him?”
“Not about you, but yeah, he seemed down.”
“I didn’t think Icouldlove someone the way I love him.” I wipe at my tears before any more fall into my basghetti.
Bowie sighs. “You’ve got a big heart, Jackson. A big heart, and an itty-bitty brain sometimes.”
“Ouch.”
“But that’s why I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“It’s going to be okay. Now dig in. The basghetti’s getting cold.”
44
The next morning, I wake up extra early to catch the bus. So early, I catch Dad in the kitchen, eating a stale croissant with fig jam smeared on top, sipping his coffee and doing a crossword on his phone.
“Oh. You’re up early.”
“Yeah. Taking the bus today.” I eye the plastic clamshell of Saturday’s croissants. They even look dry. I shake my head and start gathering ingredients for shmoodies.
I make three, out ofhabithope.
“Amy said you’re not doing the play anymore?”
“Yeah.” I told her last night, when she saw Bowie drop me off. Thankfully she didn’t make me get into it.
“What happened?”
I shrug. I don’t want to talk about it. And thankfully, Dad doesn’t press me.
“Hmm. Well, what are you going to do instead? I’m sure there’s other clubs.”
“You’re not doing the play?” Jasmine stands in the door of the kitchen, still in her pink-striped pajamas, her hair coming undone from the braid she sleeps in.
I want to ask her what she thought would happen, but I’m definitely not going to do that in front of Dad. So I shake my head and run the blender.
While I pour out the shmoodies into bottles, Dad says, “What if you signed up for a sport?”
“I don’t think I can join any teams this late.” Also, seriously. What would I play?
“Just saying. Or maybe an internship somewhere. You’re good with computers.”
I’m good by Iraj Ghasnavi standards, which basically just means I was born this century. Dad’s always on me about double-majoring, just in case theatre doesn’t work out.
“Actually, I was thinking maybe I should start up therapy again?”
Dad blinks at me. “What for?”
“I’m just going through some stuff.”
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“I know, Dad, but I think I need to talk to a stranger. A professional.”
Dad only pouts a tiny bit. He’s always acted like, since he’s a doctor, he’s a doctor of everything. But then, every Iranian man has an ocean of knowledge one inch deep. At least that’s what Khanum says.
