If You Could Be Mine (11 page)

“Sahar?” I freeze as I see Baba’s reflection in the mirror. He’s home early from the workshop! How didn’t I hear him come in? Damn him for being so quiet!

“It’s for one of Nasrin’s music videos! They need a boy for the dance routine!” I have become such a fast liar. If I don’t cry, he might actually believe me.

“Oh,” Baba says, looking at me. Even if he doesn’t believe my lie, he wouldn’t believe the actual reason I am in his clothes. I have never been afraid of Baba. I know some girls in my class have deeply religious fathers with strict rules. Other girls have fathers who discipline them physically. Baba is so gentle that it has turned pathetic these past few years. I think about how Goli
khanum’
s family mourned their loss of a son. I don’t know if I could put Baba through that. Though he’s so deep in his grief, I doubt he would notice I was gone.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he says.

I take off the hat and look at my reflection again. “No. I suppose not. But it’s important . . . for the video project.” I want to get out of these clothes. I don’t know what he is trying to accomplish by just standing there.

“Nasrin is always getting you to do these crazy things.” He chuckles, but the sound makes my eyes well up. I can’t let him see me cry.

“I’m going to change . . .” I whisper, and he nods, turning his back and walking into the kitchen. Tears fall from my eyes, and I try not to make too many gurgling noises. My nose runs as I look at how big this shirt actually is on me.

“I can make dinner tonight, Sahar. What would you like to eat?” Baba hasn’t cooked a meal in five years. The shock is enough to stop my tears.

“Um,
aab gosht
would be fine if you have lamb?” I know we have lamb. I do all the grocery shopping.

“That sounds fine. You like
aab gosht
!” he calls. I don’t actually. But it’s simple to make. Whenever Baba offered to cook, Maman and I would ask him to make it. Everyone in my family always spares one another’s feelings. It leaves little room for honesty. I put my jeans back on and hang the too long trousers back in Baba’s closet along with his shirt. They look better on the hangers than they do on me. How do Jamshid and Parveen look so natural, so confident? Maybe if—
when
—I go through the surgery, I will look the part too. Maybe.

“Mrs. Mehdi called me. She says there is a party for the bride and groom this Friday.” Baba keeps opening and shutting the cabinet doors as he calls to me, and I can tell he’s struggling to find the ingredients.

“Don’t those two have enough parties?” I call back. Nasrin told me about this one during one of our last “study sessions.” Our head scarves came in handy to hide the bite marks on our necks. Nasrin has been putting lots of makeup on her neck to cover her bruises. I relish them. She’s mine and I don’t want her to forget it. But we need to stop. If Reza were to catch us, if anyone were to catch us, we would be done for. The love bite on my neck could one day be replaced by rope burn.

I pull a T-shirt over my head and notice the way my hips and breasts are showcased. I’m such a girl.

I walk into the kitchen, where Baba is stirring chickpeas and potatoes. He’s facing the stove, with his back to me. “If you want to buy a dress you can. I’ve been commissioned for a piece, and you never treat yourself.” Dress shopping. He doesn’t know me at all. I wipe my eyes and nose, and fan my face to give myself air. I don’t want him to ask more questions. I slump in a chair by the kitchen table, don’t comment when I see he hasn’t added salt.

Baba turns to me, still stirring. “There you are,” he says. “My clothes don’t even look good on me, never mind on a beautiful girl like you,”

Why is it now that he is choosing to be a parent? “I’m not beautiful.”

“You aren’t?”

“Baba, please don’t humor me. I’ve had a long . . . month.” More like a long few years.

Baba stops stirring the pot and turns to look at me again. My face feels hot. Baba has never made me angry before. Maman and I always had arguments. Sometimes Baba would mollify us. Sometimes he would bow out gracefully and let us deal with our issues. Maman and I would fight about little things, like how often I could play with Nasrin. Most of our arguments were about Nasrin, now that I think about it.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” he says.

I’ve never felt that way. I don’t feel comfortable in my skin, and that has nothing to do with my gender. Growing up around Nasrin made me pale in comparison. But I never cared because I felt beautiful being her friend. She chose me.

The pot boils over. Baba backs away quickly before water splashes on him. I rush to the stove and lower the heat. I look at him. He can’t even boil water. He takes his manhood for granted. What I could do as a man. Who I could
be
in this country . . . I would leave him in the dust. My jaw clenches. I can change. I don’t have to be stuck like this.

“It has been a while since I’ve cooked,” he says.

“Five years. It’s been five years since you’ve cooked.” I turn off the stove and watch the boiling bubbles pop in the pot. Maman died five years ago of a heart attack. Her smoking probably didn’t help. I told her to stop. She just smiled sweetly and told me not to worry so much. That’s what we do. Smile and not worry so much. Riot in the street? Smile and don’t worry so much. See the swinging bodies in the square? Smile and don’t worry so much. Can’t be with the person you love because it’s against the law? Smile, damn it.

“I’m not very good in the kitchen,” Baba says.

“You don’t try! At anything!” He balks at my yelling. His hesitation only eggs me on. “I do everything! I do everything to remind you that we’re still living, and you don’t care to participate.”

Baba doesn’t protest. Most fathers would tell me to shut up or send me to my room. He sits and lowers his head to his hands, running his fingers through his hair. I should back off, but I’ve had enough. Someone needs to feel my rage.

“Maman left one child behind, not two! You’re supposed to take care of me. Why won’t you take care of me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the best and most honest answer he’s ever given me. He looks lost. He looks like he’s been kicked in the face. He makes it difficult to be angry with him. I look back at the bubbling pot on the stove.

“You forgot to add salt,” I say, and as soon as I do he’s up and finding the salt in one of the cabinets. He adds some to the pot and stirs it in, looking at me as though he’s asking for permission.

“I always forget salt, don’t I?” He’s finally noticing his shortcomings. Normally I would tell him it doesn’t matter or that the dish doesn’t really need salt.

“Yes. You always used to forget. Even when you tried.”

He nods and asks me to sit down while he continues to prepare the meal.

“Your Maman didn’t like my cooking at all, did she?” Baba asks. The question makes me smile a little. I shake my head. He chuckles, and it’s about time.

11

“WELL, AT LEAST THEY
are serving decent food,” Ali says as he tosses another grape into his mouth. Baba decided not to come to the party now that he is actually grieving. Ali was more than willing to be my male escort.

“You look really good,” he says. “Nasrin should get engaged more often. You’d turn into a fashionista.”

I’m glad Ali is here, but sometimes I wish he would just shut up. I took up Baba’s offer and asked Parveen to go dress shopping with me. She was surprised at my wanting to buy a dress, but I explained it was for a party. I think all my groaning in the dress shop convinced her that I really want to be a man.

There are so many guests here, even more than last time. The Mehdis hired caterers, and Soraya is off for the evening to enjoy the festivities. She is dressed in a simple brown dress that is long enough to cover her thick, overworked legs. She wears a white head scarf, doing her best to dress up. Soraya’s daughter, Sima, is here, too. She gave me advice for the university entrance examinations. Even though I tried my best to listen, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Nasrin, who has had her
namzad,
her fiancé, right next to her all evening.

“It was a mistake to come tonight. No one would have noticed if I wasn’t here.” I’m muttering to Ali, who not so subtly glances at Cyrus Mehdi’s ass. Ali has always liked boys who are dumb and cute. Cyrus is talking to Mr. Mehdi’s business associates and can’t stop tugging on his shirt collar. Mr. Mehdi just smacks his son’s back, laughing and being the man of the hour. Mr. Mehdi always likes to be the center of attention. Nasrin gets that from him. While Cyrus tries his best to appease some old businessmen, Dariush is across the room, chatting with Sima. She laughs a little, and Dariush looks pleased. I would worry about Sima, but then Soraya comes to her daughter’s side and the three of them continue to talk.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been at Nasrin’s beck and call all evening,” Ali says.

“That’s because the groom is always with her! Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom?”

“He would probably bring her in there. Bathrooms are sexy sometimes.” I don’t want to know how he came to that conclusion. “Besides, I thought we were here to get to know the enemy.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. Reza’s palm is at Nasrin’s lower back while they talk to some doctor types. You aren’t married yet! Don’t get so carried away with your hands!

“He must have a weakness. Something unappealing that might make the family rethink giving their precious daughter away. A secret drug habit, perhaps? He has two wives already? Maybe he’s related to Saddam Hussein.”

“Ali, be serious.”

“I’m just saying that you can’t compete if you don’t better acquaint yourself with the competition.” He has a point, and I do have some morbid curiosity. What do Reza and Nasrin even talk about? She’s barely an adult and doesn’t know anything about medicine, and he certainly doesn’t know anything about her. Another part of me doesn’t want to know him. I feel guilty enough as it is, spending time alone with Nasrin.

“He’s busy talking with all the grown-ups. Doesn’t he feel ashamed having a wife half his age?” I ask.

“He’s a man. He can do whatever he wants,” Ali says flippantly, and pops another grape into his mouth. He picks them off the stems from bunches on the table rather than just taking a small bunch on to a plate. I hate when people do that. “He is a handsome man. And he didn’t even have to get a nose job or anything.” Many young people in Tehran get nose jobs. It isn’t uncommon to see men and women alike walking around with bandages on their noses without embarrassment. Three girls in my class had nose jobs at the same time. After the bandages came off, I couldn’t tell them apart from one another for a week.

“Nasrin hasn’t even looked at me all night,” I grumble.

Ali laughs. “That doesn’t mean she hasn’t seen you. Don’t you notice how red her face gets when she knows you’re nearby? I’m telling you, Parveen knows her fashion.” I blush, realizing my twin sisters are more exposed than usual tonight. “You and Parveen have been spending a lot of time together,” Ali adds.

“She’s a nice girl,” I say.

“You know you aren’t her type,” he says.

I laugh, glad the music is so loud. “Why does everything have to be about lust and sex with you?”

“Because everything else is boring, Sahar! So if you don’t have a thing for her, why do you spend so much time with her?” I’m not going to tell him what I’m planning. He would probably just laugh at me and tell me how foolish an idea it is. I don’t care if the plan is naive; it’s all I have right now.

“Parveen’s kept me distracted, and she’s a good listener.”

“Whatever you say, cousin.” Ali takes great strides across the crowded room and stops in the middle, looking over one shoulder to me. He raises his eyebrows, and I don’t want to do this, but I would rather chaperone Ali than let him loose around Nasrin at her own party. I trail him as he approaches the doctors and Nasrin. He was right. She’s blushing.

“Nasrin! My, you two make a handsome couple!” Ali exclaims as he pats Reza on the back. I make my way into the circle and look at Nasrin. She stares at Ali, but her face becomes an even deeper shade of red.

Nasrin makes the introduction. “Reza, this is Sahar’s cousin, Ali. Don’t listen to half the stories he will tell you.”

“
Baleh, salam
. It’s very nice to meet you.” The two men shake hands, and I notice one of the other doctors in the group looks nervous. Ali notices, too. When he lets go of Reza’s hand, he addresses the doctor.

“Hello, Nasser. Haven’t seen you in ages!” The young doctor blushes and politely nods. I’d rather not think about how they know each other. Nasser mentions something about getting some water and leaves the group. The other physicians continue to chatter about doctor things, and I hope I never sound as elitist as they do. Nasrin finally glances at me. She looks miserable. She has a smile and too much makeup plastered on her face. Her unhappiness is in her eyes. There are tomes of stories resting there if anyone cared to see them.

“It’s nice to see you again, Sahar,” Doctor Superman says to me, and I try not to cringe. It feels like there is a mouse jumping on a trampoline inside my stomach.