If You Could Be Mine (7 page)

“I’m sorry if I reacted poorly. You’re just the first person I met who, um, well . . . you know,” I say, now working hard to maintain eye contact. I need her to trust me if I am going to ask for her help.

“You’re not the first person to react the way you did. Some people have reacted much worse,” she says as she discreetly raises one of her sleeves. I see two circular scars, the diameter of a cigarette on her arms. “I made the mistake of not being up front with a boyfriend. He wasn’t the gentleman I thought he was.”

Before I can stop myself I rub two fingers over one of the scars. I know it was the right thing to do because her arm relaxes. I meet her gaze, and she leans her head to one side, assessing my intentions.

“He was stupid.” It isn’t the most articulate thing I could say, and it probably shows I am very much seventeen, but she smiles, and I think maybe this whole thing might not turn out as badly as I feared. I withdraw my hand from her arm and she pulls down her sleeve.

“It’s fine. He has a very fat and ugly wife now.”

I laugh and she chuckles lightly. I hope we can be friends. It feels nice to laugh again. I sense that it may be too soon, though, to start throwing questions at her about her change from male to female.

“That party was crazy,” I say sheepishly. I am sure she is used to crazier nights, especially if she is close with Ali.

“I usually don’t go,” she says. “I’m not crazy about associating with those kinds of people.” I suppose she means the party animal, druggie types.

“Ali had these two women drive me home. A mother and daughter.”

Her eyes widen in horror.

“He didn’t! Oh, those two—they are always so careless about everything.” She explains that they aren’t actually mother and daughter, but it’s easier to conceal their business if they pretend to be.

I nod as though I knew that already, but only because I don’t want to seem naive about absolutely everything. Since the night the supposed mother-daughter duo dropped me off, I look for their car everywhere I go. I just want to make sure the daughter is okay. I didn’t even learn her name, but something about her has stayed with me. I’ve even been carrying a little book of Persian poetry in my bag to give to her if our paths cross again.

Parveen and I discuss everyday things. She works at a bank but didn’t let them know that she is trans because she is afraid the bank might fire her. She explains she is lucky that she passes. She asks about school and what I plan to study. When I talk about our dissection lab in biology, she looks squeamish, so I cut it short and explain that I am interested in being a surgeon. She says she owes her life to her surgeon because she was desperately tired of being trapped in the wrong body.

“How long did you feel that way?”

“Since I was very little. I always felt uncomfortable. I used to dress in girls’ clothes and then I felt at ease. My parents didn’t mind in the beginning. They found it funny. It was only when I wanted to leave the house in girls’ clothes that they got nervous.” It reminds me of when I told Maman I wanted to marry Nasrin when I was six. After Maman told me to never bring it up again, I buried the thought deep in my mind, but that never felt right. I wanted to be with Nasrin all the time.

“Did you try to be, like, um . . . I mean, couldn’t you just stop?” I know it’s a stupid question. I wish I could stop loving Nasrin, but I can’t. It must be sort of the same thing for Parveen.

“I had a beard when I was a teenager,” she says. “It was so scratchy and terrible.”

The mother sitting near us with her daughters abruptly stands, telling her children to get ready to go. She rushes them and doesn’t put away their trays. She takes the two girls by the hand and sneers as she makes a hasty exit. My face feels hot, and Parveen shrugs.

“Eavesdropping is unbecoming,” Parveen says, loud enough for the woman to hear her. She doesn’t seem upset by the woman’s reaction. I wonder how often she finds herself in these situations. I wouldn’t be so brave, I think. Then again, if I had the girl of my dreams with me, maybe I wouldn’t care what anyone said. I finally own up to being hungry, and Parveen laughs and says she has a bit of an appetite, too. We order two combo meals.

Sometimes when I eat hamburgers I pretend I am living in the West. I heard that Europeans treat fast food like gourmet, and Americans just keep getting fatter and fatter. That’s probably why Americans always seem so happy. I sometimes pretend I live in Los Angeles. Nasrin’s aunt and uncle live there, and they send pictures. They have three cars and it’s always sunny. Where they live almost everyone speaks Farsi, and they celebrate New Year’s with great pomp and circumstance, like in Tehran. They see American movie stars in supermarkets and get their gas pumped by our exiled pop singers. Nasrin eats that stuff up. It must be nice living somewhere that has all different kinds of people. How do they manage all that diversity?

Parveen takes ladylike bites into her hamburger, and I feel like an impolite buffoon. I am sure I have ketchup all over my mouth. She wipes her mouth with a paper napkin, and her large hand is front and center in my view again, reminding me why I’m here.

“I guess I was curious because I think I’m different,” I say, and her eyebrows arch in interest. I’m still not sure I can tell my secret, but I can allude to it. “I feel uncomfortable in my body, too.” This isn’t untrue. It’s just not for the reasons she might assume. Parveen seems to recognize something in me as she again leans her head to one side. I know what it is to be different. And she knows I know.

“Does Ali know about how you feel?” He knows I’m in love with Nasrin. He doesn’t know that I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be with her.

“No. I haven’t told him,” I say. Lying by omission isn’t so hard. I should go into politics. “I guess I just want to learn more about—well, about stuff. You know, make informed decisions and things.” There is so little time before the wedding. I don’t really have time to decide whether I am making the right decision. Parveen considers me, scrutinizing me to see if I’m being honest. I had better sell this. “I’m desperate. I know, you don’t really know me, but I don’t know where else to go.” My voice wavers and I’m trembling a bit. Parveen’s face softens.

“There’s a group meeting in three days, if you would like to come. You can see if their stories speak to you.” She pulls a pen from her red clutch purse and writes the address and the time of the meeting on a paper napkin. I have to keep reminding myself to be brave. I can do this for Nasrin. I can do this for us. Parveen takes one last bite from her burger, and then plops more than half of it back on her tray. She shoves the tray away in disgust, and her lack of appetite makes me feel fat since I ate all of mine in record time.

“The sacrifices we make to be beautiful.” Parveen sighs.

Sacrifices.
How many before you get what you want? I should probably go on a diet. Then again, if I go through with this I will probably need to bulk up. I won’t be as tall as Nasrin’s groom-to-be, but if I gain some muscle maybe I could take him in a fight. Unlikely, but it’s a nice dream. Before Parveen and I leave the restaurant, I buy a burger to take home to Baba. I have bigger things on my mind than cooking.

7

I RUN ALL THE
way from my school to Nasrin’s and stop to catch my breath in front of the gated building. I haven’t seen her in a few days. Her house is a zoo, with all the preparations her mother continues to make and Dariush’s habitual lounging about the house. He occasionally fixes a car, though it is always for someone who can’t afford to pay him on time. Cyrus is usually wearing a suit and follows Mr. Mehdi around like a clueless chicken, pecking at his father’s heels when they go to the pistachio factory. I don’t want to run into Reza. I may throw up on his shoes. Or confess that I get in heated kissing sessions with his bride-to-be.

I see Nasrin come out of the building with a swarm of girls. She is the only one who has changed out of her school uniform into a casually draped head scarf and a stylish manteau. I’m shocked there are no teachers around to stop her. The other girls surround her like she is royalty, and it is easy to see why. That damn giant diamond on her finger. She never wears it when I come over. All the girls chatter around her, but she doesn’t look at any of them. She looks only at me. It is in these moments that all the heartache seems worth it. She smirks and I duck my head, trying to hide my blushing cheeks from her friends.

As soon as her friends see me, they treat me like I am the German ambassador able to give them a visa. Nasrin has informed them how important I am, though without giving them the real reason why. We walk along the sidewalks that line the busy street, and I listen to the girls chatter about bouquets, caterers, and hotel reception halls. Nasrin, in their eyes, has “made” it. Nasrin and I walk in sync with each other, holding hands. It is not uncommon for women to hold hands or for men to hold hands—it’s all seen as innocent. Holding someone of the other gender’s hand? . . . Well you’d better be married. Two of Nasrin’s flock leave, and two more are left with us. These two girls are new to me, and I assume they are fascinated with Nasrin’s pending nuptials or just with Nasrin in general. I notice one of them eying her with a look that is a little more than friendly. She’s lovesick, poor dear. Do I look like that when I’m around Nasrin? Allah forbid, I hope not.

Because I’m in a Nasrin haze, I don’t notice the police car. Two officers get out of the car and head straight for Nasrin.

“Is there a reason your elbows are showing?” the first officer asks, and my heart momentarily stops. It isn’t the first time I have seen these confrontations. I don’t want them to hurt Nasrin. Her two remaining admirers have run away, and I stand next to Nasrin, looking at her forearms that have three-quarters sleeves. I wish she wasn’t such a slave to fashion. Her dark green coat is tight fitting, and she’s carelessly let the three-quarter sleeves slip above her elbows. As usual her loose scarf barely covers the back of her head. I would rather her wear an Afghani burqa slathered in garlic juice than be put in danger.

The thing I don’t understand about Nasrin is her disregard for consequence. She looks the first officer in the eye, meeting his brooding, predatory gaze, and she plays the complete innocent.

“My clothes shrank in the wash!” she lies. “I didn’t have time to change.”

I notice the policeman’s gun in his holster. He reaches for his baton and thumps it in his hands. I inch myself in front of Nasrin.

“Sir, her mother is sick, and my friend is terrible when it comes to domestic tasks. She put the dryer on too high,” I say in the most desperate of tones. The policeman sneers, clutching his baton in his meaty hand. The larger policeman behind him looks at me. I don’t recognize him at first. He is wearing sunglasses and a military hat. But when he folds his arms in front of his chest, I recognize him as Farshad, the bouncer at Ali’s party. He recognizes me, too, and his mouth twitches.

“Your friend looks like a whore,” he says. It’s not uncommon for a policeman to say something like this. I want to rip his eyeballs out of their sockets with my fingernails. The worst scenario would be if Nasrin is arrested. Girls have gone into prison virgins and come out broken. I will be damned if I let that happen to her.

“She isn’t very smart, sir,” I say. I hear Nasrin harrumph behind me. She shouldn’t take it personally. I’m only trying to save her skin. She can be so childish sometimes.

“You are dressed fine, sister,” the other policeman says. “You should give your whorish friend some fashion tips.” Although I am terrified, I can’t help but also feel offended. Is he calling me homely? I’m in my school uniform, a baggy, dark blue coat that reaches to below my knees and a tight head scarf that lets only my face poke through. Should I have put on some more makeup?

“Normally she is dressed just like I am,” I explain. “Her mother is sick and doesn’t have time to check her before she leaves the house. We are going straight home and this will never happen again, I swear.” The first policeman grips his baton again, and that reminds me of a girl at school who got caught at a party with alcohol. After a conversation with an overzealous officer, two of her fingers were fractured and purple, and both hands were covered in bruises.

“Let me take care of them,” Farshad says. His torso is even more imposing in the daytime. I don’t know if he’s going to help us or hurt us. If Farshad does hurt us, Ali will find out about it, but I don’t know the nature of their arrangement. The smaller but more menacing policeman moves aside for Farshad, and he takes both Nasrin and me by one arm. He pushes us into the backseat of his police car and slams the door behind us. Nasrin is in tears, hysterical and yelling my name over and over again. I watch Farshad pat the other policeman on one shoulder, and then the second man smirks and walks into a restaurant.

Bystanders look at us through the window of the police car. Some are sympathetic, while others just enjoy a good show. Nasrin covers her face with her hands and I rub small circles on her back, assuring her everything is going to be okay. Farshad enters the car, buckles up, and starts the engine.