“Hey.” Your own faded Magic: The Gathering shirt is feeling a little tight, like can’t-quite-move tight instead of make-your-gains-pop tight, but Saturday is your laundry day, so you were mostly out of clean clothes. “Thanks for having me.”
“Sure.” Dayton’s still standing in the doorway, though, looking at you, blue eyes catching the sunlight.
You wonder if he’d look less weird if he wasn’t a bigot. If being ugly inside makes people ugly outside. If he even is ugly, or if you just tell yourself that because of what you know about him. Hisskin is smooth, and his hair is a nice golden color, and he looks like he doesn’t have to shave yet, whereas you’re up to three times a week now.
You ask, “Shoes on or off?” and Dayton startles and gets out of the way so you can step inside. Your house is definitely shoes off, but Dayton’s got his own sneakers on still, even on the white carpet.
“It’s fine either way,” he answers, which isn’t very useful, but you can hear Maman’s voice chiding you to treat a stranger’s home even better than your own, so you kneel to untie your tennis shoes and leave them—alone—near the door.
You wait for him to see if you want a drink or snacks or anything, so you can turn him down (well, water’s fine, but snacks, no), but he doesn’t. “I usually work in the dining room,” he says instead, so you follow him. His house is weirdly similar to yours—the layout is basically the same, except he’s got an extra closet in the hall where you’ve got a toilet, and the windows have extra little round bits at the top, and all the furniture is different.
Also, it doesn’t smell like rice, the way home usually does. It doesn’t smell like anything, actually, except something a little spicy, but then you realize as you follow Dayton that it’s him that smells spicy. It’s a nice spiciness, though. It honestly reminds you a little of Cooper, who always smells nice, too.
“What’s that smell?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Hm?” He drops into his seat and opens his laptop. It’s dented in the back and chipped by the charging port. “Oh. The new Burberry.”
“The what?”
“Burberry? Cologne?”
“Oh.” You feel yourself blushing. Shouldyoube wearing cologne? Baba didn’t talk to you about that. He’s talked to youabout shaving and deodorant andhormonesand a bunch of other things aboutbeing a young man, but cologne wasn’t one of them.
Maybe it’s an American thing. Maybe it’s just another thing all the other boys know that you don’t get to know. Because you’re an immigrant. Because you’re…
You can’t think that. Not here. Not with Dayton right across from you.
So you say, “Cool.” And you pull out your own laptop and history notebook. “Where should we start?”
21DAYTON
You really hate group projects.
You’ve hated them since the first one you did in sixth grade. You and three classmates had to do a presentation on blowing the biggest dish soap bubbles. But you’re the only one who actually did any work; everyone else just goofed off blowing bubbles.
Technically, this is more of a partner project than a group project. It’s just you and Farshid.
You still hate it.
You can’t believe you got partnered with him.
Farshid’s quiet as you work, his head bowed so his dark hair hangs down and covers his face. He talked a little, earlier, as you settled on doing a presentation on the Tehran Conference. A few times he saidTehranwith a bit of an accent, but when you asked him if that’s how it’s really pronounced, he got quiet again and just said, “Never mind.”
Farshid’s voice has gotten deeper. You wonder if it’s changing or if he’s doing that on purpose, the way Brody does sometimes if there are girls around.
Either way, it makes you hate him more. The girls in class keep looking at him. Smiling at him. Talking about him.
When he runs a hand through his hair and scratches his head, hisbicep and forearm flex. It’s not like Brody, who does it on purpose. Farshid’s just in ridiculous shape.
You’re still a breadstick, but you don’t want to spend half your life in the gym, like Farshid the Freak.
Maybe you should, though. Apparently it’s working for him.
“Whatever happened with you and Hope anyway?” you suddenly ask, and feel a rotten thrill when Farshid looks up, alarmed, and then down again. You know through the grapevine that they never hooked up again after the Sweetheart Dance.
Maybe he said something messed up, too. Grossed her out.
Pulled a Brody.
