A Very Large Expanse of Sea(36)

I rolled my eyes.

“If you’re not interested,” he said, “tell him now.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Navid shook his head. “Just don’t be mean.”

“I’m not mean.”

My brother was already at the door when he laughed. Hard. “You are brutal,” he said. “And I don’t want to see this dude get his heart shattered all over the place, okay? He seems so innocent. He clearly has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”

I stared at Navid, dumbfounded.

“Promise me,” he said. “Okay? If you don’t like him, let him go.”

But I did like him. The problem wasn’t knowing whether or not I liked him. The problem was that I didn’t want to like him.

I could already see the future. I could imagine us going out somewhere, anywhere, and someone saying something awful to me. I could imagine his paralysis; I could imagine the awkwardness that would wash over us both, how we’d try to pretend it hadn’t happened, even as I was filled slowly with mortification; I knew how such an experience would, inevitably, make him self-conscious about spending time with me, how he’d one day realize he didn’t want to be seen with me in public. I could see him introducing me to the people in his world, see their thinly veiled disgust and/or disapproval, see how being with me would make him realize that his own friends were closet racists, that his parents were happy to make general pleasantries with the nonconforming among us so long as we never tried to kiss their children.

Being with me would puncture Ocean’s safe, comfortable bubble. Everything about me—my face, my fashion—had become political. There was a time when my presence only confused people; I used to be just a regular weirdo, the kind of unfathomable entity that was easily disregarded, easily discarded. But one day, in the aftermath of a terrible tragedy, I’d woken up in the spotlight. It didn’t matter that I was just as shaken and horrified as everyone else; no one believed my grief. People I’d never met were suddenly accusing me of murder. Strangers would scream at me in the street, at school, in the grocery store, at gas stations and restaurants to go home, go home, go back to Afghanistan you camel-fucking terrorist.

I wanted to tell them I lived down the block. I wanted to tell them I’d never been to Afghanistan. I wanted to tell them I’d only met a camel once, on a trip to Canada, and that the camel was infinitely kinder than the humans I’d met.

But it never mattered what I said anymore. People talked over me, they talked for me, they discussed me without ever asking my opinion. I’d become a talking point; a statistic. I was no longer free to be only a teenager, only a human, only flesh and blood—no, I had to be more than that.

I was an outrage. An uncomfortable topic of conversation.

And already I knew that this—whatever this was with Ocean—could only end in tears.

So I didn’t call him.





19

Nineteen

I didn’t think I was doing the right thing by ignoring him again, I really didn’t. I just didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t have all the answers. I cared about Ocean, and in my own, confusing way, I was trying to protect him. I was trying to protect the both of us. I wanted to go back to being acquaintances; I wanted us to be kind to each other and call it a day.

We were sixteen, I thought.

This would pass.

Ocean would go to prom with a nice girl with an easily pronounced name and I would move on, literally, when my dad inevitably got a higher-paying job elsewhere and would announce, proudly, that we’d be moving to an even better city, a better neighborhood, a better future.

It would be fine. Or something akin to fine.

The only trouble with my plan, of course, was that Ocean did not agree with it.

I showed up to Mr. Jordan’s class on Monday, but I almost certainly failed that particular session because I said nothing, all period, and for two reasons: 1. I was still getting over the inexplicable heat in my head, and 2. I was trying not to draw attention to myself.

I didn’t look at Ocean in class. I didn’t look at anyone. I pretended not to pay attention because I hoped that Ocean would take the hint and stop talking to me.

It was a stupid plan.

I’d only just escaped the classroom, and I was darting down a deserted corridor when he found me. He caught my arm and I turned around. He looked nervous. A little pale. I wondered what I looked like to him.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” I said.

He still hadn’t let go of me; his fingers were wrapped around my forearm like a loose bracelet. I stared at his hand. I didn’t actually want him to let go, but when he saw me staring he startled. Dropped my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For whatever I did,” he said. “I did something wrong, didn’t I? I messed something up.”

My heart sank. Flatlined. He was so nice. He was so nice and he was making this so hard.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I promise.”

“No?” But he still looked nervous.

I shook my head. “I really have to go to class, okay?” I turned to go, and he said my name like a question. I looked back.

He stepped closer. “Can we talk? At lunch?”