Like a Love Story(11)

“Nothing,” Saadi says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Saadi and Art enter the dining room. It’s the first time I have seen Art out of the school uniform, and now the rest of him matches his lavender hair. His jeans are ripped at both knees and splattered with paint. He wears a sleeveless black T-shirt, with zippers at both sides and a decal of a woman with big hair on it. And his combat boots have thick heels on them, so when he walks in, it sounds like my mom sounds when she enters a room. He has a camera around his neck, a fancy one with a big lens.

“Family, this is Art,” Saadi says. “We have to work on a science project.”

“Hey, family,” Art says, waving his right hand, revealing a single fingernail painted black.

“Hello,” Abbas says. He stands up and shakes Art’s hand politely. “I’m Abbas, Saadi’s father. You are a classmate of his?”

“Oh yeah, we’re real close,” Art says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“This is my wife, Mina,” Abbas says, and my mom dutifully stands and shakes Art’s hand. “And you must know my other son, Reza.”

I freeze for a moment. I do every time Abbas refers to me as his son, which I am clearly not. Nothing about me says that I belong in his world of high finance and high-rises.

But I know it’s my turn to stand dutifully, and I do. “Hello, Art,” I say, and I approach him to shake his hand.

“Hey, Reza,” Art says. When he shakes my hand, he holds it a little too tightly, and I catch a hint of the smell of his armpits. His sleeveless shirt has sweat stains on it, inevitable if you are outside for more than a few seconds. Smelling him makes me uncomfortable, and I pull my hand aggressively away from his. He looks at me funny when I do, but I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“Are you hungry, Art?” my mom asks. “We have stew and rice. Have you ever had Persian food?”

“We’re going to study,” Saadi says.

“It’s okay,” Art says. “I don’t eat meat anyway. I don’t believe in killing living things. Except Jesse Helms.”

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 before Quantum Leap is 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 the fabric 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?”