If You Could Be Mine by Sara Farizan Page A

back. Nasrin told me about this one during one of our last “study sessions.” Our head scarves came in handy to hide the bite marks on our necks. Nasrin has been putting lots of makeup on her neck to cover her bruises. I relish them. She’s mine and I don’t want her to forget it. But we need to stop. If Reza were to catch us, if anyone were to catch us, we would be done for. The love bite on my neck could one day be replaced by rope burn.
    I pull a T-shirt over my head and notice the way my hips and breasts are showcased. I’m such a girl.
    I walk into the kitchen, where Baba is stirring chickpeas and potatoes. He’s facing the stove, with his back to me. “If you want to buy a dress you can. I’ve been commissioned for a piece, and you never treat yourself.” Dress shopping. He doesn’t know me at all. I wipe my eyes and nose, and fan my face to give myself air. I don’t want him to ask more questions. I slump in a chair by the kitchen table, don’t comment when I see he hasn’t added salt.
    Baba turns to me, still stirring. “There you are,” he says. “My clothes don’t even look good on me, never mind on a beautiful girl like you,”
    Why is it now that he is choosing to be a parent? “I’m not beautiful.”
    “You aren’t?”
    “Baba, please don’t humor me. I’ve had a long . . . month.” More like a long few years.
    Baba stops stirring the pot and turns to look at me again. My face feels hot. Baba has never made me angry before. Maman and I always had arguments. Sometimes Baba would mollify us. Sometimes he would bow out gracefully and let us deal with our issues. Maman and I would fight about little things, like how often I could play with Nasrin. Most of our arguments were about Nasrin, now that I think about it.
    “You’re a beautiful girl,” he says.
    I’ve never felt that way. I don’t feel comfortable in my skin, and that has nothing to do with my gender. Growing up around Nasrin made me pale in comparison. But I never cared because I felt beautiful being her friend. She chose me.
    The pot boils over. Baba backs away quickly before water splashes on him. I rush to the stove and lower the heat. I look at him. He can’t even boil water. He takes his manhood for granted. What I could do as a man. Who I could be in this country . . . I would leave him in the dust. My jaw clenches. I can change. I don’t have to be stuck like this.
    “It has been a while since I’ve cooked,” he says.
    “Five years. It’s been five years since you’ve cooked.” I turn off the stove and watch the boiling bubbles pop in the pot. Maman died five years ago of a heart attack. Her smoking probably didn’t help. I told her to stop. She just smiled sweetly and told me not to worry so much. That’s what we do. Smile and not worry so much. Riot in the street? Smile and don’t worry so much. See the swinging bodies in the square? Smile and don’t worry so much. Can’t be with the person you love because it’s against the law? Smile, damn it.
    “I’m not very good in the kitchen,” Baba says.
    “You don’t try! At anything!” He balks at my yelling. His hesitation only eggs me on. “I do everything! I do everything to remind you that we’re still living, and you don’t care to participate.”
    Baba doesn’t protest. Most fathers would tell me to shut up or send me to my room. He sits and lowers his head to his hands, running his fingers through his hair. I should back off, but I’ve had enough. Someone needs to feel my rage.
    “Maman left one child behind, not two! You’re supposed to take care of me. Why won’t you take care of me?”
    “I don’t know.” It’s the best and most honest answer he’s ever given me. He looks lost. He looks like he’s been kicked in the face. He makes it difficult to be angry with him. I look back at the bubbling pot on the stove.
    “You forgot to add salt,” I say, and as soon as I do he’s up and finding the salt in one of the cabinets. He adds