Page 9 of Like a Love Story
My mom and Abbas flinch at that, more than a little offended, as if his clothes and hair were not enough.
“And yeah, I’ve had Persian food. My parents have lots of Persian friends. Kind of inevitable when you live on the Upper East Side post-1979.”
“Who are your parents?” Abbas asks. “Do I know them?”
“Dad, I want to be done studying beforeQuantum Leapis on,” Saadi says. “Can you let us go, please? And he’s Bartholomew Emerson Grant VI, so he passes whatever test you’re giving him.”
I stare at Art, wondering what the significance of his name is, what special lineage he comes from. I zone out as the conversation speeds up—Abbas is excited by this newfound piece of information. The sounds become hazy. All I see is Art, like I can hear his heartbeat through thefabric of his tank top, underscoring the conversation.
Oh of course I know your father. We’ve never done a deal together, but we’ve tried.
Probably for the best.
Tell him I say hello. And your beautiful mother.
What a lovely coincidence. We’d love to have your family over for dinner.
And I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandfather. What a man!
The expression on Art’s face seems to question whether the death of his grandfather was a loss at all. I know that ambivalence. I felt it when my mom told us about my dad. By that point, I hadn’t seen him in four years, not since we left Tehran. And I felt a hollow sadness, a sharp pain, but also relief. We could start over.
“He was a great man,” Abbas continues, perhaps hoping for some response from Art.
Art does respond now, but not about his grandfather’s greatness. “This is the raddest dining room I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Could I take a picture of it?”
My mother stands up. “Oh, of course,” she says, exceedingly polite. “We will just get out of the way.”
“No, no, you’re a crucial part of it. All of you.”
My mom sits back down. Art raises his camera to his face, closes one eye, and focuses. The four of us sit, smiles frozen on our faces, and wait for him to click. “Brilliant,” he says, with a fake British accent.
Then Saadi pulls Art out toward his bedroom, leaving me alone with Abbas and my mom.
“I wonder why Bartholomew Grant allows his son to dress like that,” Abbas says.
“American parents are so different,” my mom says. “They let their children get away with murder.”
“Murder is one thing,” Abbas says. “Purple hair is another thing altogether.”
My mom laughs, and I get a glimpse of what she sees in him. Maybe it really is more than money. I also find myself wanting to defend Art, and I don’t know why, because I too hate his purple hair, and his dirty high-heeled boots, and his sweaty armpits.
“Well, thank God, none of us have children like that,” my mom says. “We have wonderful children.” She tousles my hair and smiles as she says this, and I realize she probably has not told Abbas a shred of truth about my older sister and all her issues.
“We do,” Abbas says. “We are very lucky.”
I force a smile, and I remind myself to be grateful. “I feel very lucky too,” I say, and my mom beams. “I also feel full. May I be excused?”
“Of course,” my mom says.
Before leaving the room, I give my mom and Abbas a kiss on each cheek and thank them for dinner.
I’m in my room readingThe Odyssey, and I can hear the faint voices of Saadi and Art in the room next door. I can’t tell what they’re talking about, and although the subject matter of their conversation is probably restricted to the mundane details of their homework, I still wantto hear everything. I try to refocus on the book, but I’m on page one of over two hundred, and I’m not exactly feeling focused. I think about my own odyssey, from Iran to Canada to New York. I find myself turning the page without even remembering a thing I have just read. I used to be a reliably good student, always capable of getting the straight As that my mother desired from me. But now, finding myself unable to read a single page, I wonder if maybe I was only good because I was compensating for my sister’s perpetual problems. If she hadn’t been around to scare me into behaving, would I have studied as hard, or tried as desperately to please my mom? I turn another page. I’m still not paying attention, even though I highlight a sentence or two in an effort to convince myself I’m still diligent.
Then the door opens. No knock. I assume it’s Saadi, but Art walks in, and I jump back in surprise.
“Whoa,” he says. “I’m not Freddy Krueger. You weren’t jerking off, were you?”
“Um... no,” I say. I hold upThe Odysseyand push it toward him, just in case he has bad eyesight or something. “I was reading. For school.”
