A Very Large Expanse of Sea

Food was a fixture in our home, and in Persian culture in general. Mealtimes were gathering moments, and my parents never allowed us to break this tradition, no matter how badly we wanted to watch something on TV or had somewhere else we wanted to be. It had only occurred to me a couple of years ago, when a friend of Navid’s had come over for dinner, that not everyone cared about food like this. He thought it was kind of crazy. But this—here, on the table tonight—this was the extremely stripped-down version of a Persian dinner. This was how we set a table when we were really busy and no one was coming to visit. For us, it was normal.

It was home.

When I finally made it upstairs, it was past eight, and Ocean had hit peak panic.

I cringed as I clicked through his messages.

hey

you there?

this is ocean

i really hope this is the right number

hello?

this is ocean, your lab partner, remember?

it’s getting late and now i’m getting worried

we really have to finish this before class tomorrow

are you there?

I’d only gotten a cell phone a few months ago, and it had taken a great deal of begging—everyone I knew got theirs the year prior—before my parents finally, begrudgingly, took me to a T-Mobile store to get my very own Nokia brick. We had a family plan, which meant our limited bundle of minutes and text messages were to be shared by all four of us, and text messaging, though still kind of a brand-new phenomenon, had already caused me a lot of trouble. Somehow, in my excitement to experience the novelty of text messages (I’d once sent Navid thirty messages in a row just to piss him off), I’d gone way over our limit in the span of a single week, racking up a bill that caused my parents to sit me down and threaten to take away my phone. I realized far too late that I was being charged not only for the texts I sent, but also for the ones I received.

One glance at Ocean’s long string of messages told me a lot about the state of his bank account.

hi, I wrote. you know these text messages are expensive, right?

Ocean wrote back immediately.

oh, hey

i nearly gave up on you

sorry about the texts

do you have AIM?

AIM was how I figured we’d do most of our talking tonight. Sometimes kids used MSN Messenger to connect, but mostly we used the tried and true, the one and only, the magical portal that was AOL Instant Messenger. Still, I was always a bit behind on the technological front. I knew there were teenagers out there with fancy Apple computers and their own digital cameras, but we’d only just gotten DSL in my house, and it was an actual miracle that I had an old, busted computer in my bedroom that managed to connect to the internet. It took me like fifteen minutes just to turn the thing on, but eventually we were both logged in. Our names now lived in a little square messaging window all our own. I was really impressed Ocean didn’t have some kind of douchey screen name.

riversandoceans04: Hey

jujehpolo: Hi

I checked his profile automatically—it was practically a reflex—but I was surprised to find that he’d left it blank. Well, not blank, exactly.

It said paranoid android and nothing else.

I almost smiled. I wasn’t sure, but I was hoping this was a reference to a Radiohead song. Then again, maybe I was imagining something that wasn’t there; I really liked Radiohead. In fact, my AIM profile currently contained a list of songs I was listening to on repeat last week—

1. Differences, by Ginuwine

2. 7 Days, by Craig David

3. Hate Me Now, by Nas

4. No Surprises, by Radiohead

5. Whenever, Wherever, by Shakira

6. Pardon Me, by Incubus

7. Doo Wop (That Thing), by Lauryn Hill

—and only then did I realize that Ocean might check my profile, too.

I froze.

For some reason, I quickly deleted the contents. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t explain to myself, in the moment, why I didn’t want him to know what kind of music I listened to. It was just that the whole thing felt suddenly too invasive. Too personal.

riversandoceans04: Where were you today?

jujehpolo: Sorry

jujehpolo: I had a really busy afternoon

jujehpolo: I just saw your messages

riversandoceans04: Were you really breakdancing after school?

jujehpolo: Yeah

riversandoceans04: Wow. That’s cool.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t really know how to respond. I’d just looked away to grab my backpack when I heard, once again, the soft double ding that indicated I’d received a new message, and I turned down the volume on my computer. I checked to make sure my door was closed. I felt suddenly self-conscious. I was talking to a boy in my bedroom. I was talking to a boy in my bedroom. AIM made things feel unexpectedly intimate.

riversandoceans04: Hey I’m sorry for thinking you weren’t allowed to do things after school.

double ding

riversandoceans04: I shouldn’t have said that

And I sighed.

Ocean was trying to be friendly. He was trying to be a friend, even. Maybe. But Ocean was all the traditionally pleasant things a girl might like about a guy, which made his friendliness dangerous to me. I might’ve been an angry teenager, but I wasn’t also blind. I wasn’t magically immune to cute guys, and it had not escaped my notice that Ocean was a superlative kind of good-looking. He dressed nicely. He smelled pleasant. He was very polite. But he and I seemed to come from worlds so diametrically opposed that I knew better than to allow his friendship in my life. I didn’t want to get to know him. I didn’t want to be attracted to him. I didn’t want to think about him, period. Not just him, in fact, but anyone like him. I was so good at denying myself this, the simple pleasure of even a secret crush, that the thoughts were never allowed to marinate in my mind.

I’d been here so many times before.

Though for most guys I was little more than an object of ridicule, occasionally I became an object of fascination. For whatever reason, some guys developed an intense, focused interest in me and my life that I used to misunderstand as romantic interest. Instead, I discovered—after a great deal of embarrassment—that it was more like they thought of me as a curiosity; an exotic specimen behind glass. They wanted only to observe me from a comfortable distance, not for me to exist in their lives in any permanent way. I’d experienced this enough times to have learned by now that I was never a real candidate for friendship—and certainly nothing more than that. I knew that Ocean, for example, would never befriend me beyond this school assignment. I knew he wouldn’t invite me into his inner circle where I’d fit in as well as a carrot might, when pushed through a juicer.

Ocean was trying to be nice, sure, but I knew that his sudden sympathetic heart was born only of awkward guilt, and that this was a road that would lead to nowhere. I found it exhausting.

jujehpolo: It’s okay

riversandoceans04: It’s not okay. I’ve felt terrible about it all afternoon.

riversandoceans04: I’m really sorry

jujehpolo: Okay

riversandoceans04: I’ve just never actually talked to a girl who wears the headpiece thing before.

jujehpolo: Headpiece thing, wow

riversandoceans04: See? I don’t know anything

jujehpolo: You can just call it a scarf

riversandoceans04: Oh

riversandoceans04: That’s easy

jujehpolo: Yeah

riversandoceans04: I thought it was called something else.

jujehpolo: Listen, it’s really not a big deal. Can we just do the homework?

riversandoceans04: Oh

riversandoceans04: Yeah

riversandoceans04: Okay

And I’d turned away for five seconds to grab the worksheets out of my backpack when there it was again—the soft double ding. Twice.

I looked up.

riversandoceans04: Sorry

riversandoceans04: I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

Jesus Christ.

jujehpolo: I’m not uncomfortable.

jujehpolo: I think maybe you’re uncomfortable, though.

riversandoceans04: What? No

riversandoceans04: I’m not uncomfortable

riversandoceans04: What do you mean?

jujehpolo: I mean, is this going to be a problem? My headpiece thing?

jujehpolo: Is my whole situation just too weird for you?

Ocean didn’t respond for at least twenty seconds, which, in the moment, felt like an actual lifetime. I felt bad. Maybe I’d been too blunt. Maybe I was being mean. But he was trying so hard to be, I don’t know? Way too nice to me. It felt unnatural. And I just, I don’t know, it was making me mad.

Still, guilt gnawed at my mind. Maybe I’d hurt his feelings.

I drummed my fingers against the keyboard, wondering what to say. How to walk this back. We still had to be lab partners, after all.

Or maybe we didn’t. Maybe he’d just ask the teacher for a new partner. It had happened before. Once, when I’d been paired at random with another student, she’d just revolted. She flat out refused to be my partner in front of the entire class and then demanded to work with her friend. My teacher, flimsy pancake that she was, panicked and said okay. I ended up working alone. It was humiliating.

Shit.

Maybe this time I’d brought the humiliation upon myself. Maybe Ocean would revolt, too. My stomach sank.

And then—

double ding

riversandoceans04: I don’t think you’re weird.

I blinked at the computer screen.

double ding

riversandoceans04: I’m sorry

Ocean appeared to be a chronic apologizer.

jujehpolo: It’s okay

jujehpolo: I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that. You were just trying to be nice.

jujehpolo: I get it

jujehpolo: It’s fine

Another five seconds dragged on.

riversandoceans04: Okay

I sighed. Dropped my face into my hands. Somehow I’d made things awkward. Everything was fine, totally normal, and then I had to go and make it weird. There was only one way to fix this now. So I took a deep, sad breath, and typed.

jujehpolo: You don’t have to be my lab partner if you don’t want to be.

jujehpolo: It’s okay

jujehpolo: I can tell Mrs Cho tomorrow.

riversandoceans04: What?

riversandoceans04: Why would you say that?

riversandoceans04: You don’t want to be my lab partner?

I frowned.

jujehpolo: Uh, okay, I don’t know what’s happening.

riversandoceans04: Me neither

riversandoceans04: Do you want to be my lab partner?

jujehpolo: Sure

riversandoceans04: Okay

riversandoceans04: Good

jujehpolo: Okay

riversandoceans04: I’m sorry

I stared at my computer. This conversation was giving me a headache.

jujehpolo: Why are you sorry?

Another couple of seconds.

riversandoceans04: I don’t actually know anymore

I almost laughed. I didn’t understand what the hell had just happened. I didn’t understand his apologies or his confusion and I didn’t even think I wanted to know. What I wanted was to go back to not caring about Ocean James, the boy with two first names. I’d spoken to this kid for a total of maybe an hour and suddenly his presence was in my bedroom, in my personal space, stressing me out.

I didn’t like it. It made me feel weird.

So I tried to keep things simple.

jujehpolo: Why don’t we just do the homework?

Another ten seconds.

riversandoceans04: Okay

And we did.

But I felt something change between us, and I had no idea what it was.

Five

The next morning, my brother, who had a zero period and always left for school an hour before I did, stopped by my room to borrow the Wu-Tang CD I’d stolen from him. I’d been putting on mascara when he started knocking on my door, and he was now demanding I give him back not only his CD but his iPod, too, and I was shouting back that his iPod was far more useful to me during the school day then it had ever been for him, and I was still making this argument when I opened the door and he suddenly froze. He looked me up and down and his eyes widened, just a little.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

I let him inside. I gave him the CD he was looking for. He kept looking at me.

“What? ” I said again, irritated.

“Nothing,” he said, and laughed. “You look nice.”

I raised an eyebrow. This was a trick.

“New outfit?”

I looked down at what I was wearing. My sweater wasn’t new. But I’d bought these jeans from the thrift store last week and had just finished altering them. They’d been a few sizes too big for me, but the quality of the denim was too good to pass up. Besides, they’d only cost me fifty cents. “Sort of,” I said. “The jeans are new.”

He nodded. “Well, they’re nice.”

“Yeah. Okay,” I said. “Why are you being weird?”

He shrugged. “I’m not being weird,” he said. “The jeans are nice. They’re just, uh, really tight. I’m not used to seeing you in pants like that.”

“Gross.”

“Hey, listen, I don’t care. They look good on you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, I mean it. They look nice.” He was still smiling.

“Oh my God, what ?”

“Nothing,” he said for the third time. “I just, you know, I don’t think Ma is going to like seeing your ass in those jeans.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well she doesn’t have to look at my ass if she doesn’t want to.”

Navid laughed. “It’s just—sometimes what you wear doesn’t really match, you know? It’s a little confusing.” He gestured, vaguely, at my head, even though I hadn’t put on my scarf yet. Still, I knew what he was trying to say. I knew he was trying not to be judgmental. But the conversation irritated me.

People—and often guys—liked to say that Muslim women wore headscarves because they were trying to be demure, or because they were trying to cover up their beauty, and I knew that there were ladies in the world who felt that way. I couldn’t speak for all Muslim women—no one could—but it was a sentiment with which I fundamentally disagreed. I didn’t believe it was possible to hide a woman’s beauty. I thought women were gorgeous no matter what they wore, and I didn’t think they owed anyone an explanation for their sartorial choices. Different women felt comfortable in different outfits.

They were all beautiful.

But it was only the monsters who forced women to wear human potato sacks all day that managed to make headline news, and these assholes had somehow set the tone for all of us. No one even asked me the question anymore; people just assumed they knew the answer, and they were nearly always wrong. I dressed the way I did not because I was trying to be a nun, but because it felt good—and because it made me feel less vulnerable in general, like I wore a kind of armor every day. It was a personal preference. I definitely didn’t do it because I was trying to be modest for the sake of some douchebag who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. People struggled to believe this, because people struggled to believe women in general.

It was one of the greatest frustrations of my life.

So I shoved Navid out of my room and told him it was none of his business what my ass looked like in my jeans and he said, “No, I know—that’s not what I meant—”

“Don’t make it weird,” I said, and closed the door in his face.

After he left, I looked in the mirror.

The jeans were nice.

The days continued to dissolve, and quietly.

Aside from breakdancing, pretty much nothing had changed except that Ocean was suddenly different around me in bio. He’d been different ever since that first, and only, AIM conversation we’d had, over two weeks ago.

He talked too much.

He was always saying things like Wow, the weather is so weird today and How was your weekend? and Hey, did you study for the quiz on Friday? and it surprised me, every single time. I’d glance at him for only a second and say Yeah, the weather is weird and Um, my weekend was fine and No, I didn’t study for the quiz on Friday and he’d smile and say I know, right? and That’s nice and Really? I’ve been studying all week and I’d usually ignore him. I never asked him a follow-up question.

Maybe I was being rude, but I didn’t care.

Ocean was a really good-looking guy, and I know this doesn’t sound like a valid reason to dislike someone, but it was reason enough for me. He made me nervous. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to get to know him. I didn’t want to like him, which was harder than you’d think, because he was very likable. Falling for someone like Ocean, I knew, would only end badly for me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself.

Today he’d been trying really hard to make small talk—which I guessed was understandable, as it was otherwise really awkward to sit around for an hour saying nothing while you picked apart a dead cat—and he said, “So, are you going to homecoming?”

I’d actually looked up, then. I looked up because I was amazed. I laughed, softly, and turned away. His question was so ridiculous I didn’t even answer him. We’d been having pep rallies all week in anticipation of the homecoming game—it was a football thing, I think—and I’d been skipping them. We were also, apparently, having class spirit competitions, whatever that meant. I was supposed to be wearing green or blue or something today, but I wasn’t.

People were losing their minds over this shit.

“You don’t really do school stuff, huh?” Ocean said, and I wondered why he cared.

“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t really do school stuff.”

“Oh.”

There was a part of me that wanted to be friendlier to Ocean, but sometimes it made me really, actually, physically uncomfortable when he was nice to me. It felt so fake. Some days our interactions felt like he was trying really hard to overcompensate for that first error, for thinking my parents were about to ship me off to a harem or something. Like he wanted another chance to prove he wasn’t close-minded, like he thought I might not notice that he went from thinking I couldn’t even meet up after school to thinking I might show up at a homecoming dance, all in the span of two weeks. I didn’t like it. I just didn’t trust it.

So I cut the heart out of a dead cat and called it a day.

I showed up to practice a little too early that afternoon and the room was still locked; Navid was the one who had the key that would let us in and he hadn’t arrived yet, so I slumped down on the ground and waited. I knew that basketball season was starting sometime next month—I knew this, because I saw the posters plastered everywhere—but the gym was, for some reason, already busier than I’d ever seen it. It was loud. Super loud. Lots of shouting. Lots of whistles blowing and sneakers squeaking. I didn’t really know what was happening; I didn’t know much about sports, in general. All I heard were the thunderous sounds of many feet running across a court. I could hear it through the walls.

When I finally got into the dance room with the other guys, we turned up the music and did our best to drown out the reverberations of the many basketballs hitting the floor. I was working with Jacobi today, who was showing me how to improve my footwork.

I already knew how to do a basic six-step, which was exactly what it sounded like: it was a series of six steps performed on the ground. You held yourself up on your arms while your legs did most of the work, moving you in a sort of circular motion. This served as an introduction to your power move—which was your acrobatic move—the kind of thing that looked, sometimes, like what you saw gymnasts do on a pommel horse, except way cooler. Breakdancing was, in many ways, closer to something like capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian form of martial arts that involves a lot of kicks and spins in midair; capoeira made kicking someone’s ass look both scary and beautiful.

Breakdancing was kind of like that.

Jacobi was showing me how to add CCs to my six-step. They were called CCs because they were invented by a group of breakers who called themselves the Crazy Commandos, and not because the move looked anything like a c. They were actually body rotations that helped make my legwork a little more complex, and just, overall, made the whole routine look cooler. I’d been working at it for a while. I’d already learned how to do a double-handed CC, but I was still getting the hang of doing a one-handed CC, and Jacobi was watching me as I tried, over and over again, to get the thing right. When I finally did, he clapped, hard.

He was beaming.

“Nice job,” he said.

I just about fell backward. I was on the ground, splayed like a starfish, but I was smiling.

This was nothing; these were baby steps. But it felt so good.

Jacobi helped me to my feet and squeezed my shoulder. “Nice,” he said. “Seriously.”

I smiled at him.

I turned around to find my water bottle and suddenly froze.

Ocean was leaning against the doorframe, not quite in the room and not quite outside of it, a gym bag slung across his chest. He waved at me.

I looked around, confused, like maybe he’d been waving at someone else, but he laughed at me. Finally I just met him at the door, and I realized then that someone had propped it open. It happened, sometimes, when it got really hot in here; one of the guys would wedge the door open to let the room breathe a little.