You’re glad for that, at least.
“Are you doing okay?” Maman asks you, brown eyes crinkling with concern, though her forehead doesn’t wrinkle up. She got her monthly Botox last week, so her forehead is always worry-free, no matter what’s going on in your life, or hers for that matter. Including the email from your principal, which she called a family meeting over last night, to make sure you all still feltsafein your school.
But safety’s all relative, at least here in America, where strangers can come and shoot you in class. As opposed to back in Iran, where the police could come and kidnap you from class, and then kill you later in secret.
“I’m fine, Maman,” you remind her. “I’ve just got one more corner to do.”
“I meant with school,” she said. “You’re not getting bullied?”
She can’t know about what people are saying behind your back, can she? The principal didn’t go into details about the incident, and you’re not 100 percent certain your mom knowsthatword in English anyway.
“I’m good. Really.”
She purses her lips. Those, at least, are still natural, you’re pretty sure, because they have little lines in the corners that show when she smiles or frowns or sips her tea. They’re painted a dark red that pops against her sienna skin.
“You know you can talk to me anytime, right? About anything?”
“I know,” you lie, because you remember last year when Jina announced she had a boyfriend, and your mom removed Jina’s door from the frame. She put it back thirty minutes later, but still.Overprotectivedoesn’t begin to describe it.
“Okay.” She pulls your head down to kiss your forehead. “There’s lunch upstairs when you’re finished. Khanum Kermani brought dolmeh.”
You do love Khanum Kermani’s dolmeh, steamed grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice and golden raisins. You could probably eat an entire batch by yourself.
“I’ll be right up,” you promise.
Your mom retreats up the stairs, her shoes squeak-squeak-squeaking again, the wooden steps creak-creak-creaking, and you finally breathe, because no, you’re not going to talk to your mom about it.
Telling Maman what your classmates are saying in the halls—maybe even what they’re calling you, you can’t be sure—means telling her what it means, and telling her what it means would lead to questions you really don’t want to have to answer.
Not yet. In fact, not ever.
5DAYTON
You’ve never been suspended before, in school or out.
You’ve never even gotten detention.
The worst trouble you’ve ever been in was that one time in fourth grade where you collided with this girl—you can’t even remember her name anymore—and you both got demerits for playing too rough at recess.
You don’t even know where the ISS room is. You go to the attendance office and the admin, who you never talk to because you’ve never needed to before, doesn’t even look up from her computer as she tells you where to go.
You’re almost late. You didn’t know Meadowbrookhada G Hall: a short cross hall connecting the E and F Halls down past both gyms. You open the door and step inside right as the bell rings.
For a second you think you’re in the wrong place. This isn’t a classroom. This is a broom closet.
Not literally—there aren’t any brooms or mops or whatever—but it’s tiny. Four desks, though they look more like cubicles, against the far wall; two more at the corner, making an L shape. There aren’t any windows, just the usual “motivational” posters that look like they’ve been hanging since last century. There’s one teacher’s desk but no teacher behind it. No one else is here.
You’re about to back out and keep looking when the door opens again, bumping your backpack and shoving you forward.
“Sorry, man,” a voice says. It’s low, but kind of pinched. “You have to sign in.”
“Huh?” You correct yourself. Your mom’s always on you tospeak properly. “What?”
You turn and find the voice’s owner. He’s in your conditioning class, but you don’t remember his name. He’s always at the far end of the gym during warm-ups, and you’ve never been teamed up with him for anything.
He’s white but super tanned, and stocky, built like he should be on a farm in central Missouri instead of here in the suburbs of Kansas City. His black hair is cropped short, like someone did it with clippers. His brown eyes are deep-set above a long, triangular nose.
“The sign-in sheet.” He points to a clipboard on the teacher’s desk, and sure enough, there’s a lined paper, but the string attached to the clipboard doesn’t have a pencil at the other end.
