Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel (3 page)

“Sweetie, it’s time to get up.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble as I open my eyes. Mom leaves and I curl back up again. Waking up for school is painful for me. This is step one of our regular routine.

When she comes back, she’s a little more direct. “Honey, you really have to get up, or you’ll be late.” I know she’s right, but I just can’t get myself to do it.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I say, tugging the comforter over my head.

By the third time the niceness is over. “Leila, you are going to be late! You always do this! You should be more responsible. When I was your age I walked miles to school . . .” etc.

The reward for getting out of bed is the shower. I’m absolved of the previous day’s sins, wondering if today might take a different turn, if I can reinvent myself, if I can maybe get myself to be more interested in soccer. Then I towel off and forget about it.

Mom usually has what she wants me to wear laid out on my bed, like I’m four, but I appreciate it. I don’t have any fashion sense, and with our dress code it’s nice to know I have an endless supply of khakis. Boys have to wear collared shirts, tucked in, slacks, and a tie. Girls can’t wear jeans or any skirt above the knee, but some do it all the time. I put on makeup so any zits are hidden, I put product in my hair so it won’t kink and frizz out, and I button up my J.Crew shirts, pale yellow or white. It’s a costume that lets me blend in as best I can, in spite of my tan skin and black hair.

On Thursdays we have class assembly first thing. Tess’s dad, Mr. Carr, runs the show for the junior class along with Ms. Taylor, and they make announcements while everyone ignores them, busily finishing homework or memorizing notes scribbled on index cards for a quiz later on. Today, though, no one is doing anything but looking at the front of the room. Mr. Carr is introducing a new student, and this girl will have our attention for as long as she wants it.

It’s clear the class has never seen anything like her before.
I’ve
never seen anything like her before. She’s wearing a black turtleneck, jeans (which are against dress code), and black heels. She looks like she just walked out of a Garnier Fructis shampoo commercial. She is stunning. Her honey-tinted skin and long dark hair have Robert Peters and others in his group nudging one another, and Ashley Martin sizing her up, taking note of her latest threat.

“Okay, class, we have a new student. Her name is Saskia Lansing and she has just moved here from Switzerland. Saskia, would you care to introduce yourself?”

“Ugh. I hate when Dad does this,” Tess whispers in my ear. “It’s always so embarrassing, putting someone on the spot.” I just wait for Saskia’s voice.

“Hello, everyone. I’m very pleased to meet all of you. I’ve heard a lot of excellent things about your curriculum. Please take pity on me and invite me to lunch for a chat. I’m interesting and charming, I promise.”

Saskia smiles and seems so comfortable in her own skin. She looks and acts like she’s in her twenties. Poised but not rigid, refined but not stuck up. The announcements keep coming out of Mr. Carr’s mouth, and I can feel Tess squirming, unable to deal with whatever her dad is saying.

I can’t keep my eyes off Saskia. I’m sure she’ll end up dating Robert and start wearing short pink skirts and Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Maybe she’ll even wear one of those ugly acid pink-and-green “we’re off to the country club” outfits. Then they’ll go to prom together, get married, have babies and—oh my God, she’s looking at me. Crap, what do I do? Do I avert my eyes? No, it’s too late for that. Okay. Smile, but not too eager, just a subtle—oh my God, she’s smiling back. I look around, thinking maybe she’s smiling at someone behind me. I turn back to her and she smiles again, this time more widely at my confusion.

Assembly ends and Tess and I wait for everyone to file out. Saskia is talking to Mr. Carr as though they’re old colleagues.

“Ah, ladies, this is Saskia. Saskia, this is my daughter, Tess, and her friend Leila Azadi.”

“Oh, I love your hair! It’s so dark, like mine,” Saskia says to me. She smiles as she shakes my hand. “Let me guess, you’re Armenian?” I’m a bit taken aback, as no one at school really asks about my heritage.

“Persian, actually.” Most people then say, “Oh, like the
Shahs of Sunset
?”

“I love Rumi’s poetry! So gorgeous, I wish I could read the original Farsi,” Saskia says. She knows about the Persian poet Rumi? It’s like finding a magical unicorn in a high school full of cattle.

“Tess is going to show you around this period,” Mr. Carr says. I had completely forgotten that Mr. Carr and Tess were standing with us.

“Actually, Dad, maybe Leila can tour Saskia around. I have homework I still need to finish.”

“Well, take good care of her, Leila. Let her know what Armstead is all about.”

Saskia widens her eyes at me and I try my best not to throw up.

Act cool. Just act cool and don’t let on that you think she is gorgeous. “And over there is the science building but language classes are in there too, which doesn’t really make sense since it’s a science building but I guess language is a science in itself and you know it takes a certain amount of practice and all.”

“You don’t have to be so nervous, you know. It is just a campus.” Saskia grins as I blush.

“Sorry. I’m not really good at giving tours.” Especially giving tours to a really good-looking, Rumi-loving, soon to be “cool” kid.

“Nonsense. You’re doing a wonderful job. I now know what teachers to avoid, which boys will try and get into my pants, and what every building is for. But I don’t know much about you.” Me? She wants to know about me?

“There’s not much to tell. After selling off my share in the drug cartel, I’ve been undercover at this high school. I’m actually thirty-three but nobody knows. Don’t tell.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

I wish my secret were safe with you. God, stop that! She’s probably straight. I wish I had gaydar. I wish it were something you could pick up in a store.

“So what’s Switzerland like?”

“Very beautiful, but we were only there for about six months. Dad has to move a lot with his work. He’s also in the drug business.”

I look at her as though she’s kidding, but her face is dead serious.

“Oh . . . wow. Um . . . well . . . people need to get high, I guess.” She laughs again.

“He’s in pharmaceuticals, silly. He promises this is our last move, but I’m not so sure.”

As we talked during our walk around campus, I learned that her dad is Dutch, and her mom is Brazilian, which accounts for her exotic looks and hazelnut skin. She speaks Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, and some French.

“Do people always ask you where you’re from?” Saskia asks me. I know exactly what she means.

“Because I’m ethnically ambiguous? Absolutely,” I say, and she giggles. “Mostly, people think I’m Latina and speak to me in Spanish. When I tell them I don’t understand, they think I’m denying my heritage or something.” This gets her to laugh tremendously. I want to continue to hear it. “Then I say ‘No, Middle Eastern,’ and the response is always
‘Lo siento,’
like I’ve got it really bad.”

“You’re adorable,” she says as she wipes her eyes.
I am?
“I get asked all the time, too, and now I’ve lived in so many countries, I never know how to answer people. I just say I’m from outer space and see how they react.” I should try that next time. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about this stuff. Tess and Greg don’t get it, because people see basic white or black when they look at them. It’s the ambiguity that throws people; they want to know which box to put you in.

“I like you,” Saskia says offhandedly. “Let’s see if we’re meant to be friends. Favorite movie?”

“How can a person just pick one?”

“Easy,” she says. “Mine’s
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Now you have to answer,” she says matter of fact.

“There’s no way to choose one! I can’t even choose which Hitchcock movie I like the best!”

“That’s easy, too. It’s
Suspicion,
” she says.

“You’re absolutely wrong about that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to go with
Psycho
like other Hitchcock novices,” she says while covering her pretend yawn with her hand. I hold my chest in faux shock.

“How dare you!
Strangers on a Train
is far superior.” I’m impressed. Greg is only into sci-fi and Tess likes her
Planet Earth
documentaries. Saskia’s favorite writer is Anaïs Nïn, she listens to Puccini and Cat Power, and she hopes to start a branch of Amnesty International at Armstead.

The more she talks, the more I feel like the cartoon character Goofy, as in “Gawrsh, she’s purrrty!” All that’s missing are the tweeting birds flying around my head.

“It must be cool getting to start over again,” I say. She doesn’t answer for a while after that. I guess it’s not so cool. “Do you know what you might want to do for an after-school activity?” I try.

“Mr. Carr told me
Twelfth Night
auditions are this week.”

“The last play I was in was in the third-grade musical, and they made me the narrator because I was the best at reading. That and I can’t sing.”

“There’s no singing in
Twelfth Night,
” she coos. I could be an actress if she wanted—I mean, if I wanted. It isn’t that I am opposed to acting—I act every day like I’m fairly well-adjusted. It’s the having-an-audience-watching-you bit that terrifies me.

Saskia links arms with me as we walk, and I imagine this is how Dorothy coaxed the Cowardly Lion into going to Oz. Saskia smells of enchanted fruits that God hasn’t created yet. “It would be nice to have a friend audition with me,” she says. “And we are friends now, I hope.” Hyuck! Say something coherent, Goofy! The bell rings as we enter the main building.

She lets go of me and her arm brushes mine. This is normal, a normal thing to happen between friends. Arms brushing. This shouldn’t cause butterflies, which may or may not be indigestion. I’m sure it’s just indigestion from staring at her gorgeous face and listening to her amazing life.

“Thank you for showing me around, Leila.”

“Thanks for getting me out of study hall.” I smile and she moves forward, giving me a kiss on each cheek. I’d gone through this motion before, especially at Persian parties when you have to kiss old, fat Persian men and women who have mentioned how much weight you’ve gained, but this was a completely different kind of double kiss. I want to stay near her forever but rip myself away out of fear. Oh, don’t do this! Your cover will be blown.

“I’ll see you soon, I hope,” Saskia says before she walks away, and I stay in place as Armstead’s best and brightest scurry about to their next classes. I guess I have a crush at school now.

I’m so screwed.

I am in a Saskia haze as I make my way to English class. Ms. Taylor is having us critique one another’s creative writing essays before we pass them in on Friday. I’m thinking about how I much prefer our creative writing assignments to analysis of whatever book we’re reading as I open the classroom door . . . and find Mr. Harris quickly backing away from Ms. Taylor. His cheeks redden and she awkwardly smooths a strand of hair behind her ear. I guess I’m early.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” I blurt.

I close the door quickly and sag against the wall, pretending that didn’t just happen. Mr. Harris walks out of the room and smiles at me.

“Just borrowing some chalk, Leila. I’ll see you in class.”

He takes long strides down the hall. There is no chalk in his hand. I walk into the room and Ms. Taylor has her back to me, erasing the chalkboard.

“Hi, Leila! Just wiping these chalkboards down. They get so filthy.” I bet they do.

“Sorry I’m early,” I say.

“Oh no, it’s fine! Early bird gets the worm and all that. Mr. Harris was just asking me about my syllabus format. He’s thinking of using it for next term.”

I don’t say anything. They really need to work on their story. Ms. Taylor breathes in heavily and turns toward me. She walks over to her desk and leans against it.

“Who am I kidding? You’re a smart girl, Leila. I suppose you’ve gathered—”

“I know you and Mr. Harris are dating. It’s kind of obvious. No offense or anything.”

“No it’s . . . it’s fine. We’re just not ready to be public, because kids talk, and then parents talk . . .”

“Ms. Taylor, it’s okay.”

“It’s just a small community. You know how it is.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” I say seriously.

“Thank you. I appreciate that very much.”

She smiles—that glorious smile—and I tear my eyes away, reaching into my backpack for my English binder. The bell rings and the rest of the class meanders into the room, all heading for their usual seats. Robert Peters has a full Gatorade bottle, and Tess pops out her retainer and wipes it off before inserting it in her mouth again.

“Okay, class, please take out your essays. You know the drill—I pair you off and you critique. Remember, constructive criticism, please! This is a supportive environment and your final essays are due this Friday.”

Ms. Taylor has started pairing people off when Lisa Katz walks in, late as usual.

“Lisa, please take a seat next to Leila and work together.”

Lisa looks at me with trepidation and I shrug. She sits down at the desk next to mine. I don’t think Lisa even brings a notebook or binder to school anymore; it’s just one other thing she has to remind herself to do. Since her brother’s death, she hasn’t really cared about school much. She already has to remember to breathe. I think that’s enough for her these days.

“I forgot we had to do this today,” she whispers. “I can still read your essay, if you want.” Well, with
that
kind of enthusiasm . . . I hand her my essay and I read a history paper I wrote for another class.

“Let’s just play pretend,” I whisper.

Lisa nods and I begin to proofread my paper on the Byzantine Empire for the third time while she reads my essay. I wrote an essay set in apartheid-era in South Africa, focusing on a young girl on the day Mandela was freed—and I’m worried I bit off more than I can chew. I glance every so often at Lisa to see how she reacts to the story. I get nothing.

After Lisa finishes reading, she hands back my paper without making eye contact. “You have some grammatical errors and your imagery with the bird is a little cheesy. What’s the point of it?” She really doesn’t kill with kindness.

“It’s symbolic.” The birds flying at the end! It’s symbolic of freedom!

“It’s lazy. But other than that, it was pretty good, Lei.” She hasn’t called me that in years.

“Thanks.” I should leave it at that since we barely speak to each other anymore. It just hurts me to see her so neutral about everything. When we were younger she was always excited to play, no matter what the game or activity was. She was the best Connect Four player; we’d play for hours on end while I described the plot of the original Star Wars trilogy. Now she looks like she doesn’t have an ounce of play in her. I want to talk to her about it, but it feels like our friendship was a lifetime ago. “I really liked your paper, too,” I say, straight-faced.

“Really? You liked how I talked about the thing? You know, the one where something happens to the thing?”

“Yeah. That. Totally,” I say with a sly smile.

She smirks and sticks a piece of gum in her mouth, then offers me one, too. Everyone continues to discuss one another’s work. I don’t really know what to say to Lisa. She was always quiet as a kid, and I don’t know what she’s interested in other than soccer and whatever Ashley is into.

“You excited for your party tomorrow?” I ask, taking the piece of gum.

She frowns slightly and pulls her bangs in front of her eyes. “Should be thrilling,” she says.

“Can I bring anything?”

“No, it’s all taken care of. The DJ, the catering, the bartender serving nonalcoholic drinks only to be spiked later . . . That’s nice of you, though.”

Ms. Taylor says time is up. The gum in my mouth is getting bitter. It tastes kind of good that way.