But you’ve never practiced what to do if someone brings a hateful word to school.
Maybe there’s nothing you can do.
Jina elbows your side. You didn’t even notice the server come over. A college guy, you think, with a stylish amount of scruff on his cheeks and chin and upper lip, and gorgeous brown hair, and his shiny brown eyes stare at you, waiting. You hope the light in here hides the blush creeping up your neck and cheeks.
“Oh. Uh. Just water.”
“And your meal?”
You swallow. The guy’s slender but toned, and you wonder how much he eats per day, how much time he spends at the gym, what he does to look like that. He probably doesn’t feed his face with the endless pasta trio.
“The house salad? With chicken?”
“Anything else?”
You shake your head.
“I’ll have everything right out. Ah, and here’s your bread.” Another server comes up with a basket full of bread and several spreads. The bread smells heavenly. It’s golden brown, gleaming with oil.
You definitely have to avoid it.
“Don’t you want bread, maman?” your mom asks in Farsi.
“No, thank you,” you answer in English. Birthday or no, you can’t sacrifice your gains. Not when you’re so close to your goal. You’ve got your macros figured out. Protein and vegetables. That’s the plan.
But Maman frowns at you.
It’s her birthday.
“I’ll take a taste.” You can always run an extra mile tomorrow.
You’re sitting on the floor, your card boxes scattered around you, working on a new Magic: The Gathering deck when Maman knocks on your door. You know it’s her because she always knocks softly. Baba gives a sharp rap, and Jina gives two short taps, and Nadeem is a jerkwad who jiggles the handle and then opens it whether you say come in or not.
Sometimes you worry he’ll walk in on you at exactly the wrong time, but then again, maybe that would traumatize him so much he’d stop. It’d traumatize you too, though, so you’re grateful he’s only here for the night before driving back to Lawrence for his morning class.
“Baleh?” you say, and your mom steps in. She’s changed out of her dinner clothes and into pajamas, but her hair and makeup are still done, and her gold earrings still dangle to tickle her cheeks. The new bracelet you got her shimmers on her right wrist. It clashes with her other bracelets, which are gold, but she was ecstatic when she opened it, so she must not mind.
“Farshid-jan, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks in English.
“Okay?”
She sits on your bed, toward the foot where it looks a little more made.
To be clear, it’snotmade, you just tossed your covers back on it before going for your run this morning, but it looks made because it happened to land that way.
Maman pats the bed next to her and you take a seat. She wraps a hand around you to squeeze your shoulder for a moment. “You’re getting so strong.”
You shrug. You’ve still got a ways to go, but you’re getting there.
“You work hard.”
You shrug again, looking at your hands. You’ve got calluses on the undersides of all your fingers from the weights. And on your knuckles, from the boxing.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
You do work hard. Not hard enough, though.
Maman goes quiet. She rests a hand on your arm.
