16FARSHID
“Pleasetry to get along with your mom tonight,” Baba pleads, pausing at the door to the garage. “Please, Farshid-joon?”
It’s not like youtryto pick fights with her, but Baba doesn’t understand.
Sometimes you’re not sure you understand, either.
You nod and follow him to the car, letting Jina squeeze herself into the middle seat next to Nadeem before you get in after. You used to get stuck in the middle, being the youngest, but your shoulders are too broad for that now. You’re finally seeing some real gains in them, getting that triangle shape you’ve been working on for months, but it’s agonizingly slow going. Your body fat is still at 10 percent, though some mornings, if you haven’t had any water yet and the light hits you just right, you think you might,might, be able to make out a bit of abs.
All that could go down the drain tonight, though, because Maman wants Italian for her birthday.
You clutch her card and her gift. You’ve been shoveling all the neighbors’ driveways to make extra money. You’re only a month into winter and there’s been three heavy snows, which probably bodes poorly for the environment but boded well for your wallet, and for keeping you active when the gym was closed due to weather. Bestof all, you were able to get Maman the silver bracelet Baba said she’d been eyeing. And you’ve nearly got enough for that weight set, too.
Bahá’ís don’t really celebrate Christmas, so you didn’t get any presents or money for that. You did get a new coat, though that was more because your newly B-tier shoulders didn’t fit in your old one.
You’ve outgrown your dress shirt, too, which you only found out tonight when you tried to put it on. It’s not just because of your gains (though that did feel good, no lie), but because you’ve gotten a little taller, too. You’re wearing a polo shirt instead, one that was a little too big for you in the fall but now fits right, so you’re a little underdressed compared to your family, but at least it’s got a collar.
You keep quiet as Nadeem tells Maman and Baba about his first week back at KU—you’re lucky the weather cleared enough for him to drive back for Maman’s birthday. You stare out the window as you drive across the Missouri River and past CPKC Stadium, beneath those weird pylons and past the silver humps of the Kauffman Center, which look kind of like butt cheeks from a certain angle. Whoever designed it must’ve been good about not missing leg day.
“Farshid-jan?” Maman asks.
“Huh?” You weren’t listening.
“How was your day?”
“It was fine,” you say. You signed up to challenge for second chair at the end of the week, and you’ve been practicing hard, so you think you’ve got a shot at it. All your classes were fine. Even conditioning—which usually kind of sucks, having to share it with homophobes like Dayton and Brody—was a little better, since Cooper’s schedule changed and he got moved to your class.
You hoped you’d be teamed up with him for the horrible basketball unit, but no, he ended up with Dayton and Brody. You’re not sure which of them is worse.
You’re not sure which of them wrote that word on RC’s whiteboard, either. Maybe they did it together. Or maybe neither of them did. You’ve heard plenty of other people use that word.
No one got in trouble, though. There were no witnesses, no proof. Instead there was an all-school assembly about diversity and inclusion and fighting homophobia and you had to sit there, feeling weird the whole time, like everyone was staring at you, like everyone thought you were in RC because you’re gay and not because you’re an ally, because they know you like to look at Cooper sometimes, because maybe they’re right, maybe that wordisyou.
One word, six letters. But if it’s true, then nothing will ever be the same, will it?
You don’t want it to be.
You don’t.
You breathe a sigh of relief when you step into Lidia’s, because you’re not the only one here in a polo shirt instead of a dress shirt or suit, like Baba. In fact, there are people here in T-shirts and jeans, so you’re actually dressed kind of nice in comparison.
Everything smells good: garlic and basil and tomatoes and burnt cheese and pasta water and lemon and coffee. You love Italian food.Loveit.
It’s the only other S-tier food, Persian being the first one of course.
Your mouth waters, and your stomach growls. You modified your afternoon snack, had a protein shake for lunch, just to make sure you wouldn’t throw off your macros in this palace of carbohydrates.
The host shows your family to a table in the corner near a huge gas fireplace shielded from the rest of the room by thick glass. The whole restaurant is a converted freight house, with high ceilings and exposed wood beams. As you pull out Maman’s seat for her, you catch a train whistle as it steams into Union Station to the south.
“Merci, Farshid-joon,” she says as you scooch her back in and take the seat between her and Jina.
“Tavalodet mobarak, Maman.”
You keep quiet, studying the menu as Nadeem talks about his new classes and Jina tells your parents about her plans for the Sweetheart Dance next month, which boy she’s going to ask, where she wants to go for dinner, and what color dress she wants.
You don’t have any stories to share about school, though. You didn’t tell your parents about that word on the whiteboard back in November, and you didn’t tell them about the assembly when you got back from Thanksgiving break, and you didn’t tell them about how there’s three more teachers at Rainbow Coalition meetings these days. They say they wanted to sign up as cosponsors, but they stand around with their arms crossed, and you get the feeling they’re really just guards.
Four times a year—sometimes more—you practice what to do if someone brings a gun to school. You know how to barricade the doors, you know what to do if you get stuck in the hall or, worse, a bathroom, you know to silence your phone, you know what you’d do if…
