“Manam bayad beram,” my mom said. I have to go, too. She shot me a sympathetic glance. “I’ll pick you up after school, okay?”

I acknowledged this with a distracted goodbye and darted back into my room. I changed into jeans and a thermal at breakneck speed, nearly stumbling over myself as I grabbed socks, a hair tie, my scarf, and my half-zipped backpack. I flew downstairs like a maniac, screaming Shayda’s name.

“Wait,” I cried. “Wait, I’m ready! Thirty seconds!”

I hopped on one foot as I pulled on my socks, slipped on my shoes. I tied back my hair, knotted my scarf à la Jackie O—or, you know, a lot of Persian ladies—and bolted out the door. Shayda was at the curb, unlocking her car, and my mom was settling into her minivan, still parked in the driveway. I waved at her, breathless as I shouted—

“I made it!”

My mom smiled and flashed me a thumbs-up, both of which I promptly reciprocated. I then turned the wattage of my smile on Shayda, who only rolled her eyes and, with a heavy sigh, granted me passage in her ancient Toyota Camry.

I was euphoric.

I waved another goodbye at my mom—who’d just turned on her car—before depositing my unwieldy bag in Shayda’s back seat. My sister was still buckling herself into the driver’s side, arranging her things, placing her coffee mug in the cup holder, et cetera, and I leaned against the passenger side door, taking advantage of the moment to both catch my breath and enjoy my victory.

Too late, I realized I was freezing.

It was the end of September, the beginning of fall, and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the new season. The weather was inconsistent, the days plagued by both hot and cold stretches, and I wasn’t sure it was worth risking Shayda’s wrath to run upstairs and grab my jacket.

My sister seemed to read my mind.

“Hey,” she barked at me from inside the car. “Don’t even think about it. If you go back in the house, I’m leaving.”

My mom, who was also a mind reader, suddenly hit the brakes on her minivan, rolled down the window.

“Bea,” she called. Here. “Catch.”

I held out my hands as she tossed a balled-up sweatshirt in my direction. I caught it, assessed it, held it up to the sky. It was a standard-issue black hoodie, the kind you pulled over your head. Its only distinguishing features were the drawstrings, which were a vibrant blue.

“Whose is this?” I asked.

My mom shrugged. “It must be Mehdi’s,” she said in Farsi. “It’s been in the car for a long time.”

“A long time?” I frowned. “How long is a long time?”

My mom shrugged again, put on her sunglasses.

I gave the cotton a suspicious sniff, but it must not have been abandoned in our car for too long, because the sweater still smelled nice. Something like cologne. Something that made my skin hum with awareness.

My frown deepened.

I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, watched my mom disappear down the drive. The hoodie was soft and warm and way too big for me in the best way, but this close to my skin that faint, pleasant scent was suddenly overwhelming. My thoughts had begun to race, my mind working too hard to answer a simple question.

Shayda honked the horn. I nearly had a heart attack.

“Get in right now,” she shouted, “or I’m running you over.”

December

2003

Three

When it rained like this people often shot me knowing glances and friendly finger-guns, said things like, “Lucky you, eh? Einstein over here doesn’t even need an umbrella,” finger-gun, finger-gun, eyebrow waggle. I’d always smile when someone said something like this to me, smile one of those polite smiles that held my mouth firmly shut. I never understood this assumption, this idea that my scarf was somehow impervious to water.

It was discernibly not.

My scarf was discernibly not neoprene; it did not resemble vinyl. It was silk, an intentional choice, not just for its weight and texture but for the sake of my vanity. Silk caressed my hair during the day, made it smooth and shiny by the time I got home. That anyone thought my hijab capable of withstanding a thunderstorm was baffling to me, and yet it was a logic maintained by a surprisingly large number of people.

If only they could see me now.

The rain had drenched my scarf, the skin of which was now plastered to my head. Water ran in rivulets down the sides of my neck, my hair heavy, dripping. A few rebellious strands had come loose, harsh winds whipping them across my eyes, and though I made to tuck them away, to pull myself together, my efforts were more habit than hopeful. I was no fool. I knew I was going to die of pneumonia today, possibly before my next class even started.

I was a senior in high school but on Monday and Wednesday evenings I took a multivariable calculus class at the local community college. It was the equivalent of taking an AP class. The units were transferrable, helped inflate my GPA.

My parents were into it. Most parents were into it.

But my parents, like many Middle Eastern mothers and fathers, expected it. They expected me to take multivariable calculus as a senior in high school the way they expected me to become a doctor. Or a lawyer. A PhD would also be accepted, though with decidedly less enthusiasm.

I looked up again, at the opposition.

The rain was falling harder now, faster, but there was no time to take shelter. If I wanted to get to class on time, I had to be walking now. I knew I’d spent too long after school hoping someone would come get me, but I couldn’t help it; my hope was greater on Mondays and Wednesdays. Greater because I hoped for more than a ride home—I wanted to be spared the long walk to the college, two and a half miles away.

I was tempted to skip.

The temptation was so palpable I felt a tremble in my spine. I imagined my sodden bones carrying me straight home and my heart stuttered at the thought, happiness threatening. Cars flew past me, spraying me with dirty water, and I wavered further, shivering in soaked jeans and sopping shoes. I was a smudge with a dream, standing at a literal crossroads. I dreamed of going left instead of right. I dreamed of hot tea and dry clothes. I wanted to go home, home, wanted to sit in the shower for an hour, boil my blood.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t miss class because I’d already missed a day last month, and missing two days would drop my grade, which would hurt my GPA, which would hurt my mother, which would break the single most important rule I’d made in my life, which was to become so innocuous a child as to disappear altogether. It was all for my mother, of course. I was ambivalent about my father, but my mother, I didn’t want my mother to cry, not for me. She cried enough for everyone else these days.

I wondered then whether she’d look out the window, whether she’d be reminded, in a rare moment, of her youngest child, of my pilgrimage to calculus. My father, I knew, would not. He was either asleep or watching reruns of Hawaii Five-0 on a television stapled to a partition. My sister would certainly not be bothered, not with anything. No one else I knew would even know to come for me.

Last year, my mother would’ve come.

Last year, she would’ve known my schedule. She would’ve called, checked in, threatened my sister with violence for abandoning me to the elements. But in the wake of my brother’s death my mother’s soul had been rearranged, her skeleton reconfigured. The crushing waves of grief that once drowned me had begun, slowly, to ebb, but my mother— Over a year later my mother still seemed to me not unlike sentient driftwood, bobbing along in the cool, undiluted waters of agony.