hips and looking at everything that could be wrong. Now I am the one. My chest is too big and my hips are wide. Can that be fixed? Jamshid is flat chested, but he also has small hips. It’s like he was meant to be a boy. The mirror seems pretty convinced that I was meant to be a girl.
Maybe if I just flatten my breasts a little. Flatten them a lot. I put on one of Baba’s white button-up shirts, and it’s so big that I look swallowed up. I roll up the sleeves at the cuff. Next are his slacks, black and too long for me, but I put them on. Tucking in my shirt, I imagine Nasrin in the background, getting out of the shower and complaining about how she has nothing to wear for a party we have to go to. Women are insufferable. I can think that as a man.
She will tell me to wear the black sport coat and say she’s glad I don’t have too much facial hair. It’s a fantasy, but I relish it as I pull my hair back and put it under a fedora I know my baba hasn’t worn since his school days. I look at myself again. It doesn’t work. I’m a girl. I close my eyes, wishing I could transform into a tall, handsome man with strong wrists and shoulders. There’s Nasrin behind me in a dress, picking lint off my shoulders and telling me that we are going to be late for whatever stupid social occasion her mother has roped us into. I open my eyes.
“Sahar?” I freeze as I see Baba’s reflection in the mirror. He’s home early from the workshop! How didn’t I hear him come in? Damn him for being so quiet!
“It’s for one of Nasrin’s music videos! They need a boy for the dance routine!” I have become such a fast liar. If I don’t cry, he might actually believe me.
“Oh,” Baba says, looking at me. Even if he doesn’t believe my lie, he wouldn’t believe the actual reason I am in his clothes. I have never been afraid of Baba. I know some girls in my class have deeply religious fathers with strict rules. Other girls have fathers who discipline them physically. Baba is so gentle that it has turned pathetic these past few years. I think about how Goli khanum’ s family mourned their loss of a son. I don’t know if I could put Baba through that. Though he’s so deep in his grief, I doubt he would notice I was gone.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he says.
I take off the hat and look at my reflection again. “No. I suppose not. But it’s important . . . for the video project.” I want to get out of these clothes. I don’t know what he is trying to accomplish by just standing there.
“Nasrin is always getting you to do these crazy things.” He chuckles, but the sound makes my eyes well up. I can’t let him see me cry.
“I’m going to change . . .” I whisper, and he nods, turning his back and walking into the kitchen. Tears fall from my eyes, and I try not to make too many gurgling noises. My nose runs as I look at how big this shirt actually is on me.
“I can make dinner tonight, Sahar. What would you like to eat?” Baba hasn’t cooked a meal in five years. The shock is enough to stop my tears.
“Um, aab gosht would be fine if you have lamb?” I know we have lamb. I do all the grocery shopping.
“That sounds fine. You like aab gosht !” he calls. I don’t actually. But it’s simple to make. Whenever Baba offered to cook, Maman and I would ask him to make it. Everyone in my family always spares one another’s feelings. It leaves little room for honesty. I put my jeans back on and hang the too long trousers back in Baba’s closet along with his shirt. They look better on the hangers than they do on me. How do Jamshid and Parveen look so natural, so confident? Maybe if— when —I go through the surgery, I will look the part too. Maybe.
“Mrs. Mehdi called me. She says there is a party for the bride and groom this Friday.” Baba keeps opening and shutting the cabinet doors as he calls to me, and I can tell he’s struggling to find the ingredients.
“Don’t those two have enough parties?” I call
Maybe if I just flatten my breasts a little. Flatten them a lot. I put on one of Baba’s white button-up shirts, and it’s so big that I look swallowed up. I roll up the sleeves at the cuff. Next are his slacks, black and too long for me, but I put them on. Tucking in my shirt, I imagine Nasrin in the background, getting out of the shower and complaining about how she has nothing to wear for a party we have to go to. Women are insufferable. I can think that as a man.
She will tell me to wear the black sport coat and say she’s glad I don’t have too much facial hair. It’s a fantasy, but I relish it as I pull my hair back and put it under a fedora I know my baba hasn’t worn since his school days. I look at myself again. It doesn’t work. I’m a girl. I close my eyes, wishing I could transform into a tall, handsome man with strong wrists and shoulders. There’s Nasrin behind me in a dress, picking lint off my shoulders and telling me that we are going to be late for whatever stupid social occasion her mother has roped us into. I open my eyes.
“Sahar?” I freeze as I see Baba’s reflection in the mirror. He’s home early from the workshop! How didn’t I hear him come in? Damn him for being so quiet!
“It’s for one of Nasrin’s music videos! They need a boy for the dance routine!” I have become such a fast liar. If I don’t cry, he might actually believe me.
“Oh,” Baba says, looking at me. Even if he doesn’t believe my lie, he wouldn’t believe the actual reason I am in his clothes. I have never been afraid of Baba. I know some girls in my class have deeply religious fathers with strict rules. Other girls have fathers who discipline them physically. Baba is so gentle that it has turned pathetic these past few years. I think about how Goli khanum’ s family mourned their loss of a son. I don’t know if I could put Baba through that. Though he’s so deep in his grief, I doubt he would notice I was gone.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he says.
I take off the hat and look at my reflection again. “No. I suppose not. But it’s important . . . for the video project.” I want to get out of these clothes. I don’t know what he is trying to accomplish by just standing there.
“Nasrin is always getting you to do these crazy things.” He chuckles, but the sound makes my eyes well up. I can’t let him see me cry.
“I’m going to change . . .” I whisper, and he nods, turning his back and walking into the kitchen. Tears fall from my eyes, and I try not to make too many gurgling noises. My nose runs as I look at how big this shirt actually is on me.
“I can make dinner tonight, Sahar. What would you like to eat?” Baba hasn’t cooked a meal in five years. The shock is enough to stop my tears.
“Um, aab gosht would be fine if you have lamb?” I know we have lamb. I do all the grocery shopping.
“That sounds fine. You like aab gosht !” he calls. I don’t actually. But it’s simple to make. Whenever Baba offered to cook, Maman and I would ask him to make it. Everyone in my family always spares one another’s feelings. It leaves little room for honesty. I put my jeans back on and hang the too long trousers back in Baba’s closet along with his shirt. They look better on the hangers than they do on me. How do Jamshid and Parveen look so natural, so confident? Maybe if— when —I go through the surgery, I will look the part too. Maybe.
“Mrs. Mehdi called me. She says there is a party for the bride and groom this Friday.” Baba keeps opening and shutting the cabinet doors as he calls to me, and I can tell he’s struggling to find the ingredients.
“Don’t those two have enough parties?” I call
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