exclaims. “All the nurses and residents were so impressed!”
Mom is smiling giddily, no doubt envisioning her daughter in scrubs, rushing around performing complicated, miraculous surgeries and still being home at night to see the perfect kids she’ll have with her perfect husband. They’ll all play board games together on weekends, set up low-key barbecues, maybe have golden retrievers named Rusty and Scout. Whenever I go over to visit my sister and her dashingly handsome and successful husband, they’ll ask me what I’m up to, and I’ll tell them I’m feeling pretty good since I moved into a bigger box off the side of the highway. Much better digs than that dump in the Store 24 parking lot. They’ll offer me something to eat and I will hoard things, stuffing bread and raw hot dogs in my pockets for later, frightening my nephews and nieces.
The dogs will growl and try to scare me off, but they won’t know the things I’ve seen, won’t know what scrapes I’ve gotten into. That’s when I’ll realize I’m allergic to dogs. My eyes will water, turn fiery red, and my face will break out in hives, blinding me in a puffy, dirty, homeless, lesbionic state. Cowering in the grass of their beautiful backyard, my mother will cry out:
“Oh, if only she were good at science like you, Nahal! If only she dated Greg back in high school! My poor, poor Leila!”
“Leila,” Nahal says.
I twitch as if I’ve been hit by lightning. “I don’t want to be homeless!” I shout.
“Jeez. Leila, what’s your problem?” Nahal and our parents stare at me.
“Nothing. Sorry.” I slump in my chair.
“What are you talking about, Leila
joon
?” Dad begins to laugh and everyone else joins in, my spontaneous outburst diverting some attention from Nahal at least, though not for the right reasons.
“I guess I was just rehearsing for the play. If I get a part,” I say.
“What play? What about soccer?” Mom is clearly concerned that I will no longer be forced to work out, and will gain weight.
“I quit soccer and auditioned for the school play instead. I’ll find out this week if I made it.”
“So you might not even have a part?” says Nahal.
Why are you even here, Nahal? I think.
Don’t you have any friends?
“No. I just said I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’ll find out this week.”
“What will you do if you don’t get a part?” Mom chimes in, hoping there will be some other masochistic physical activity after school.
“I guess I’ll help behind the scenes or something. I thought it might be fun to do something different. Why is everyone giving me a hard time?”
“Leila, calm down. We just want to know what’s going on in your life,” says Nahal like she’s my mother.
Nahal, shut up, and stop condescending to me just because you don’t have a social life.
“The play is
Twelfth Night,
” I say. “It’s Shakespeare. So really, it’s educational—and you’re always saying how education is the most important thing,” Hopefully this will shut everybody up.
“If it’s something you like, Leila
joon,
then we will support you no matter what. We will sit in the front row every night with flowers.” Mom smiles and puts more salad on my plate.
“ If she gets a part,” my premenstrual sister says. I can’t believe Nahal and I are even related. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t commented on the situation. He usually chimes in about how important school is and how he hopes other activities won’t get in the way of my already mediocre science grades. But he just frowns and chows down more saffron chicken and barberries. Dad and I don’t have much in common, but our few similarities are strong. You can read exactly how we’re feeling from our facial expressions and we can’t hide our emotions at all. Nahal, of course, is the first to mention it.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Why does she even call him “Daddy” anymore? She’s not four.
“I just don’t see why Leila would seriously
Mom is smiling giddily, no doubt envisioning her daughter in scrubs, rushing around performing complicated, miraculous surgeries and still being home at night to see the perfect kids she’ll have with her perfect husband. They’ll all play board games together on weekends, set up low-key barbecues, maybe have golden retrievers named Rusty and Scout. Whenever I go over to visit my sister and her dashingly handsome and successful husband, they’ll ask me what I’m up to, and I’ll tell them I’m feeling pretty good since I moved into a bigger box off the side of the highway. Much better digs than that dump in the Store 24 parking lot. They’ll offer me something to eat and I will hoard things, stuffing bread and raw hot dogs in my pockets for later, frightening my nephews and nieces.
The dogs will growl and try to scare me off, but they won’t know the things I’ve seen, won’t know what scrapes I’ve gotten into. That’s when I’ll realize I’m allergic to dogs. My eyes will water, turn fiery red, and my face will break out in hives, blinding me in a puffy, dirty, homeless, lesbionic state. Cowering in the grass of their beautiful backyard, my mother will cry out:
“Oh, if only she were good at science like you, Nahal! If only she dated Greg back in high school! My poor, poor Leila!”
“Leila,” Nahal says.
I twitch as if I’ve been hit by lightning. “I don’t want to be homeless!” I shout.
“Jeez. Leila, what’s your problem?” Nahal and our parents stare at me.
“Nothing. Sorry.” I slump in my chair.
“What are you talking about, Leila
joon
?” Dad begins to laugh and everyone else joins in, my spontaneous outburst diverting some attention from Nahal at least, though not for the right reasons.
“I guess I was just rehearsing for the play. If I get a part,” I say.
“What play? What about soccer?” Mom is clearly concerned that I will no longer be forced to work out, and will gain weight.
“I quit soccer and auditioned for the school play instead. I’ll find out this week if I made it.”
“So you might not even have a part?” says Nahal.
Why are you even here, Nahal? I think.
Don’t you have any friends?
“No. I just said I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’ll find out this week.”
“What will you do if you don’t get a part?” Mom chimes in, hoping there will be some other masochistic physical activity after school.
“I guess I’ll help behind the scenes or something. I thought it might be fun to do something different. Why is everyone giving me a hard time?”
“Leila, calm down. We just want to know what’s going on in your life,” says Nahal like she’s my mother.
Nahal, shut up, and stop condescending to me just because you don’t have a social life.
“The play is
Twelfth Night,
” I say. “It’s Shakespeare. So really, it’s educational—and you’re always saying how education is the most important thing,” Hopefully this will shut everybody up.
“If it’s something you like, Leila
joon,
then we will support you no matter what. We will sit in the front row every night with flowers.” Mom smiles and puts more salad on my plate.
“ If she gets a part,” my premenstrual sister says. I can’t believe Nahal and I are even related. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t commented on the situation. He usually chimes in about how important school is and how he hopes other activities won’t get in the way of my already mediocre science grades. But he just frowns and chows down more saffron chicken and barberries. Dad and I don’t have much in common, but our few similarities are strong. You can read exactly how we’re feeling from our facial expressions and we can’t hide our emotions at all. Nahal, of course, is the first to mention it.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Why does she even call him “Daddy” anymore? She’s not four.
“I just don’t see why Leila would seriously
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