If You Could Be Mine Page 2

  “When did you get so big, Sahar?” Baba asks quietly.

  I want to say, “While you were sleeping through life,” but I don’t. My father is a carpenter and works on construction sites, mostly making furniture. When Maman was alive, he made the most beautiful pieces. Hope chests for a bride on her wedding day, chairs and tables that the well-to-do would commission. His pieces always have some imperfection now.

  “I’m not so big, Baba. You’re still taller than I am.”

  Baba smiles and runs his hand through his gray hair. He got old so fast. Mr. Mehdi looks like he hasn’t aged since Nasrin and I were little, but Baba looks like he could be my grandfather.

  “You’re studying very hard?” He knows I am. It’s just that we don’t have much else to talk about.

  “Yes. I wish the test would just come already so I would know my future,” I say, already nervous about the math portion that waits for me in June.

  His knowing look makes me suddenly shy. “No one knows the future,” Baba says. “Anyone who thinks they do is mistaken. Remember that, my love.”

  We sit in silence for a minute before I decide to set the table. Sometimes I feel like I should set a place for Maman, because her presence is everywhere.

  I feel guilty that I wish it wasn’t.

  2

  MRS. MEHDI INVITED MY father and me to dinner, and when I asked Nasrin all week what that was about, she wouldn’t say. She changed the topic immediately. It’s impossible to get Nasrin to share anything when she doesn’t want to. She’s hiding something from me. She’s never done that before.

  Baba has on his best suit. He looks handsome for an old man. I’ve asked him to talk to Mr. Mehdi about sports, since Mr. Mehdi hates any mention of politics. Baba doesn’t really talk about anything, but I make sure he will stick with sports exclusively.

  I’m wearing my hot pink dress under my manteau, a thin frock that makes sure my bare arms are covered and that my ankles don’t show. The pink dress is Nasrin’s favorite, so I don’t mind, but I hate wearing high heels. I don’t know who invented high heels, but that person should be maimed with goat shears in the square. It was probably a man. My dress has a V-neck showing enough of my chest that I’m not so stuffy but not so much that I’m perceived as a loose woman. The plunging necklines on Nasrin’s dresses can make her seem loose, which makes me uncomfortable. A bad reputation can be deadly.

  When I ring the doorbell, it doesn’t take long for Mrs. Mehdi to open the gate and welcome us with open arms. “Nasrin! Our favorites are here!” she yells, and hugs me. She’s squeezing really tight, which means she’s excited. I bought Mrs. Mehdi apricot-colored alstroemeria, symbolizing friendship and devotion, but the flowers look like they are starting to wilt.

  “Salam, Mehdi khanum,” Baba says with the utmost formality.

  When Mrs. Mehdi lets go of me, she leads us into her home. Most people in Tehran live in newer apartment buildings, but the Mehdis have this old house. It’s very Persian, with large columns and a pointed doorway like you would see in a mosque, but the inside is very Western, with all modern furniture. The Mehdis even have a pool, surrounded by a few cherry trees. I would never leave this house.

  When we enter the living room, everyone stands up, and I smile at Dariush and Cyrus. I look for Nasrin but can’t find her. Mr. Mehdi nods warmly at me. Many of Nasrin’s uncles, cousins, and extended family are here. There are others I don’t recognize, but I am sure they are friends of Mr. Mehdi.

  Soraya, the Mehdis’ servant, takes the flowers I brought and offers tea to my father and me. There’s alcohol on a nearby table, Efes beer from Turkey and vodka. The Mehdis have always smuggled alcohol in, but I have never asked Nasrin how. My father and I decline the tea, but I smile at Soraya in appreciation. She is now in her sixties, and her daughter, Sima, who is about Dariush’s age, goes to Tehran University, much to the Mehdis’ chagrin. Sima was raised on the same estate as their children but was expected to grow up to be a servant, like her mother. I always admired Sima and her studying, and we got along. Nasrin used to get jealous, which on some strange level pleased me.

  Soraya and Sima are from Afghanistan, and Soraya has an accent that people sometimes make fun of at parties, but I never do. My dad has a slight Turkish accent since he’s from Tabriz, and it doesn’t embarrass me even though kids sometimes make fun of the Tabrizi accent. I say hello to Soraya, and she smiles broadly. Even though three of her teeth are missing, it’s one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve seen, not counting Nasrin’s.

  Mr. Mehdi is acting hyper and looking for something. “Where is that girl?” he asks his wife.

  “She’s still getting ready. Sahar, can you get her from the bathroom?” Mrs. Mehdi asks me, and I nod in compliance.

  I go directly to the bathroom and knock on the door. “Nasrin? It’s me.” She doesn’t answer, and I jiggle the handle.

  “I’m sorry,” she says weakly.

  “Sorry for what? Let me in.” I’m starting to worry. After what feels like an eternity, Nasrin opens the door. She is biting her lower lip, and she reaches for me, to squeeze my hands. Whatever is worrying her, it must be bad. She turns on her blow dryer, for the noise. We’re in for a private conversation.

  “Sahar . . . You’ll always love me, right?”

  “Of course. I always have, why should that change?”

  “Everything is going to change. Tonight.” I look at her with curiosity, and she wipes at her eyes. “I don’t love him. Know that.”

  Don’t love him. Him.

  Who is she talking about? Why would everything change? The way she’s looking at me, so sad and hopeless. There’s a ring on her finger. Why is there a . . . Oh no. Oh no, no, no. My face crumples, and I fall to my knees, putting my arms around her waist.

  “But you’re too young! You haven’t finished high school yet!” I sob and feel her fingers in my hair.

  “It’s been decided.” She tries to lift me up, but I am not leaving the ground. If I stand up, if I can stand up, it makes everything real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. “Sahar, get up. We have to get out there.”

  “We were supposed to have more time! You were supposed to give me more time . . .” She tries to pull me up again, and I let her. Everyone at the party will wonder where we are. She wipes my eyes and turns us both to the mirror. We wash our faces, and she carefully dabs at her eyes so she won’t spoil her makeup—but everyone will be able to tell we were both crying. We will have to pretend that they are tears of joy. That will be hard for me. Nasrin has always been the better actress. We stare at each other in the mirror. When the bride and groom get married, they sit in front of a mirror, looking at each other as a couple. This is the closest we will get to doing that.

  “He’s a good man. I trust him. He makes sense.” What she doesn’t say is: “We don’t make sense.”

  “I can’t do this,” I say.

  “You have to. You’re my best friend. You have to look happy.”

  I know what she means. I have to act my part. Otherwise, it will look suspicious.

  “How long have you known about this? How could you agree to it?”

  “Stop! I don’t have time for this now. Please.”

  God, we were supposed to have more time.

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I say.

  “Just play happy for an hour. I’ll tell my mother you aren’t feeling well.” She turns off the blow-dryer.

  I take a deep breath and look her in the eye. I lean in and kiss her, hoping that it will change her mind. Hoping this whole thing is a dream and a kiss will wake us up like Sleeping Beauty times two. When we pull away for breath, our foreheads pressed together, we’re still listening to the hum of the crowd outside. She rushes to the door and walks out, her shoulders back, head held high, and a smile on her face. I follow moments later.

  When I reenter the living room, Mr. Mehdi has his arms around a handsome, tall man. His thick hair is jet black, and he wears a navy blue cus
tom-fitted European-cut suit as though he were born in it. He has kind eyes, strong wrists with a Rolex on one, and broad shoulders that Nasrin can lean on. I hate him.

  “This handsome young doctor will be the newest addition to our family!” Mr. Mehdi announces. “He has asked for Nasrin’s hand, and she has accepted!”

  The crowd erupts in cheers, and a feral cry no one hears leaves my mouth. I watch people approach the happy couple, kissing both of them on their cheeks, wishing them well with many children. I catch Soraya’s eyes, and she approaches. I ask for a glass of vodka and soda. She offers it, and I drink it quickly, placing the glass back on the tray. The vodka burns going down. She laughs, and I pat her shoulder.

  I make my way to the couple, the way everyone expects me to.

  Nasrin beams at me. I could slap her. Her smile is so artificial. Her fiancé doesn’t even notice, because he doesn’t know her the way I do.

  “Reza, this is my best friend in the whole universe.”

  I look at the man next to her, and he regards me with great affection. He must be in his early thirties, and I want to call him a pedophile. But Nasrin is eighteen—younger girls have gotten married.

  “The famous Sahar! You are all Nasrin can talk about!” Reza exclaims.

  For once I am glad men aren’t supposed to touch women outside their family. If he ever hugged me, I would knee him in his sheep balls. I shouldn’t think that. It’s rude. I think about it again. Though doing so gives me no comfort.

  “Well, you are certainly a surprise!” I inform Reza. I can see Nasrin’s smile falter.

  “Well, we wanted to keep things secret. I didn’t know if she would agree when I first came to visit a month ago,” Reza says. She met him a month ago! She didn’t tell me? I could scream. He looks at her with love, and she just stares at me with a big, stupid grin.

  I bet Angry Grandpa would laugh in my face. Disappointed Grandpa would just tell me to go pray. I grab Nasrin’s shoulders and kiss her sloppily on both cheeks. I hug her and whisper in her ear.

  “He’s very handsome.” I say it with venom, and I feel her stiffen. When I back away, I look up at him. He’s so tall. “I’ll let you two deal with the mob.”

  Reza chuckles. I feel Nasrin’s eyes on me, but I turn around and look for my father. I tell him I will be in the bathroom.

  In the bathroom I spot the Western-style gold-colored toilet the Mehdis insist on having instead of the squat toilet installed in the floor of most homes. I throw up in it. Twice.

  3

  MY BED IS THE only place where I feel safe. After school I come home every day and lie here, thinking about the engagement party. It was a week ago, maybe two—I’ve lost track of time. Only when the call to prayer sounds from neighboring mosques do I know time has passed. Nasrin was so calm about everything. Does she even care about what happens to me? And to us? I was just something to keep her busy until the Superman of suitors came forward. He is so handsome, and tall. I’m short and only just learned how to make my one eyebrow into two. He is a prince, and I am a frog. A hairy frog that is due for an eyebrow wax and breast reduction, with a sexual orientation that will get this frog imprisoned sooner or later.

  I go to a different school than Nasrin, which is a blessing because I have no interest in seeing her or her friends at school. Nasrin attends a school where a lot of rich families send their children. I go to a high school that takes only students who do well on the entrance exam. It’s hard to get in, you have to be smart. Money can’t buy you a place at a special school—or at a university, for that matter. Nasrin’s friends at school are probably cooing over her, asking what kind of dress she will have. Nasrin will love the attention, showing off her ring in between math problems she needs help solving. I don’t feel betrayed by her. I just don’t know how I am supposed to move forward. There is a knock on my door.

  “Baba, I’m still not feeling well,” I say.

  “God, you sound depressed! Let me in!” Ali calls.

  “The door is open,” I mutter.

  Ali makes a grand entrance, holding plastic shopping bags in the air like he is Haji Firooz bringing gifts on our New Year’s.

  “Sahar joon! It’s been too long.”

  I get up and kiss Ali on both cheeks. He takes my arms and gives me a look up and down. “You look awful.” He’s right. I slump back down on my bed, and he quirks an eyebrow at me. He notices the framed photograph of Nasrin and me on the floor by my bed.

  The photograph was taken when we were both four. My maman took the photograph on the Mehdis’ property. When Maman used to look at the photograph, she would comment on how much Nasrin and I looked like Mrs. Mehdi and her. Our mothers were childhood friends, both from wealthy families. They went to school together, attended the same parties, did practically everything in tandem. After the revolution Maman’s family’s wealth diminished. Her family was still well off, but Maman’s brother inherited most of the money, and Maman was expected to marry an affluent suitor. The problem was that she picked Baba, who was not what her family had envisioned. Ali’s father reaped the benefits of Maman’s disappointing choice and kept the family money, telling Maman she had found a husband to provide for her.

  I wonder what life would be like if Maman had received her share of the family wealth. For one thing Nasrin and I would probably be going to the same school. The curriculum at my school is rigorous. Nasrin’s school just makes sure the students pass. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad that I was in love with her if I had money. I could buy Nasrin away from her parents.

  Ali picks up the frame and regards the photograph with a smirk. “You two, always together,” he says. “It’s kind of nauseating.” Ali puts the framed photo on my dresser and looks at it again. “I heard she’s getting married. Leaving you alone.” His eyes meet mine, and I am trying to figure out what he knows.

  “When I’m a doctor I can find my own groom,” I say, and he grins the way he always does when he knows more than he is saying. He opens up the plastic bag and tosses me a DVD. There is a woman on the cover, sitting on top of a building with heart shapes around her. Ali has been selling DVDs, CDs, and other banned items. He doesn’t need the money, but it keeps him popular in certain circles. The DVDs for sale in stores are censored and have to be deemed appropriate. Nasrin and I watched a legal copy of Lost once, and all the bodies had been digitally covered in black. Where there were supposed to be scantily clad men and women, everyone had computer-imposed black sleeves and pants. It’s too bad. I would have liked to see Evangeline Lilly in a bikini.

  “Watch that when your father isn’t around.” Ali chuckles and sits down on the bed next to me.

  “What’s it about?”

  “A love story. It’s good. It has subtitles because no one would dub it.” If no one would dub it, that means the American Persians don’t approve of this movie, either. It must be—no, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t.

  “Hamjensbazi? Gay stuff?” I ask, and Ali looks at me with sympathy.

  “Sahar, it takes one to know one.”

  I stand up and hurl the DVD to the floor. “You’re wrong! I’m not like you! Going to your cafés and parties! What you do is wrong, and I am not like you. You think everything is a game, but it isn’t. What happens if the secret police or guard finds this trash on you? You never think about any consequences.”

  Ali doesn’t look bothered. He looks at me like I am clueless. He picks up the DVD and places it on the dresser next to the photo of Nasrin and me.

  “I just thought you needed to talk to someone. I know this isn’t much of a life we have here, but we still have to live it.”

  We still have to live it. Even when Nasrin is gone, we still have to live it. My face contorts in ways I can’t control, and Ali wraps his arms around me. The spurts and gasps begin. I let everything out and I think about my mother, how she told me when I was six to ignore my desire to marry Nasrin. Even if Maman were alive, I couldn’t talk to her about Nasrin.

  When my sobs subs
ide, I back away from Ali’s chest. His shirt looks like a used tissue. He must love me because even though clothes are important to him, he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m sorry about your shirt,” I say as I wipe my eyes.

  “Eshkal nadare—it doesn’t matter. I need to go shopping soon, anyway.”

  I sit back on the bed, and Ali continues to stand. I need him to know that I’m still not really like him. I don’t drink or do drugs. I think his haircuts are sometimes stupid, and I don’t want to live a secret life. I just want to be like everyone else and have a home with the person I love.

  “Does it show? I mean, how long have you thought that I—”

  “I can tell from how Nasrin looks at you sometimes. Like you’re a kabob she wants to bite into.”

  “You’re disgusting.” I laugh. If Nasrin has looked at me that way, I have never noticed. I’ve always felt that I’m the one who’s been so swept up in her, but I guess Ali sees something I don’t.

  “She’s not the only girl in the universe,” he says. No. But she’s the only girl in my universe. He wouldn’t understand. He has never been in love. “Come by my place Friday. I’m having some people over.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, it will be tame. I’m not going to throw you to the lions right away.” Friday is my day off from school, and Nasrin and I have always spent it together. I have other friends, but they’re schoolmates. I can’t talk to them about how I’m really feeling, not the way I could with Nasrin. Last Friday I stayed in my room all day. Nasrin called, but I couldn’t make myself talk to her. Baba answered the phone and told her I was studying. I know I can’t do that again, or Baba might get suspicious. That is, if he’s paying attention. So I could use a distraction, and a part of me is curious about Ali’s world. I’ve seen glimpses and heard his stories, but to be in it would be something else. Plus it would be something I can brag about to Nasrin.