But if you’re being honest, there were times when it felt like those little minifigures were your only friends. A world of your own you could escape to. You know you’re never going back to that world, but you’re not ready to say goodbye, not yet.
Not even for some money, which, truth be told, you could use, because your gloves have worn out again, and worse than the wear is the smell. No matter how many little deodorizer pouches you stuff into them, you can’t get it to go away. It smells like the school locker room, and wet dog, and you’re not even sure what else. But it’s bad.
You didn’t know your own hands could smell so gross.
“Farshid!” Jina shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
You turn the vacuum off. “What?”
“Where did you put my nail polish?”
Without the LEGO fort occupying the basement, your sister has taken over part of it, turning it into some sort of nail salon for her and her friends when they hang out. The basement’s not super well-ventilated, though, and you’re starting to think the fumes have been getting to her.
You’re still not sure why you’re in charge of the basement this year instead of her, except force of habit, since as long as you can remember, the basement was your task. Even when you were really small and you mostly had to pick up your toys so one of your parents could vacuum.
Spring cleaning is a serious deal in your house, like it is in most Persian households as you get ready for Naw-Rúz. It’s not like you’re having company or anything; you don’t have any family here, and the big Naw-Rúz party will be at the Bahá’í Center. Still, it’s tradition, and your parents love their traditions.
Including making you clean the basement, even though you didn’t mess it up (this time).
You point Jina toward the corner, where you stacked as much of her stuff as you could, nail polish and cotton balls and lotions andglitter and all that stuff that she suddenly seemed to not only want but know how to use, around the same time she stopped wanting to be seen with you in public. The bottles clink ominously in their boxes as she starts unstacking everything, making a brand-new mess for you to clean up.
You don’t tell her off, though. She’s your ride this afternoon, and if you don’t stay in her good graces, you’ll have to ask Maman instead, and you’d rather swallow one of those bottles of nail polish than be stuck in a car with your mother as she interrogates you about what friend you’re visiting (not a friend), what the project’s on (you haven’t decided yet), will you be eating there (doubtful since the macros will be way off), and when you want to go clothes shopping for Naw-Rúz (never, at least not with her, because you’re too old to go clothes shopping with your mom anymore).
“Farshid!” Jina shouts again.
You stifle a sigh and turn off the vacuum again. You think you’ve vacuumed the same spot like three times now, because you keep getting interrupted.
“Yeah?”
“Can you be ready in an hour?”
If she stops making more messes.
“Sure.”
Dayton’s house isn’t that far away from yours. Two miles, tops. You could run it, honestly, if you didn’t mind showing up sweaty and winded from the big hill along the way. You never knew he lived so close. You’ve never been to his house before.
Truth be told, you’ve put this project off longer than youshould’ve. Ms. Suchecki assigned it back in February, but now it’s March, and you still haven’t touched it, haven’t even talked to Dayton about it, even though you told Ms. Suchecki you didn’t mind being his partner when she pulled you aside after class to double-check.
You didn’twantto be partnered with him, of course, but you couldn’t say no, because if you complained about it, people would definitely read into it, and you don’t want anyone reading into it, so you just said it was fine, as everyone filed out of the classroom around you, and Dayton eyed you like he knew you and Ms. Suchecki were talking about him.
And now here you are, outside his house. It’s painted a vivid pumpkin kind of orange, which you didn’t know houses could actually be outside of, like, a Disney movie.
“Let us know when you need picking up,” Jina says. She’s in the driver’s seat, and Baba’s in the passenger seat, because she’s still getting in her practice hours before she can take her actual test.
“Okay,” you say, but you don’t get out of the car. Your arm feels leaden, and not just because you did two back-to-back classes and an hour of weights this morning, all before coming home and cleaning up the basement.
You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to be here.
But you definitely don’t want to be at home, either, because there’s no way you were going to invite Dayton to work at your house, not with the haft-seen in the entryway, and pictures of your family back in Iran on the walls, and a framed portrait of‘Abdu’l-Bahá on the piano. You don’t want to have to explain who you areto him, because Dayton might just turn around and use it against you.
He’s done it before.
But you can’t tell anyone that, least of all him, so when he pestered you because you only had a week left to finish your project, you finally agreed to this.
And now you’re standing in front of his door, ringing the bell, as Jina pulls away from the curb a little too quickly and you could swear you hear Baba telling her totake it easy, it’s not a race. You cling to the straps of your backpack. Should you have brought something? It’s not like you’re a dinner guest, though. And you didn’t avoid having him over to see your Persian household only to show off being Persian by arriving with a plate of shirini covered in Saran Wrap.
“Hey,” Dayton says when the door swings open. He’s dressed in a teal KC Current shirt and black gym shorts, the kind that hang down to his knees. Your own shorts are cut higher, to show off your quads, which are the only part of you that feels A-tier. Well, that and your glutes, which is probably genetic, because you once overheard Maman telling Jina that big butts run in Persian families.
