“Mmmmm … yes,” she says, and I nod. We both unbuckle our seat belts and turn to face each other. I settle my tea in the cupholder and hold out both hands. Maryam rests her fingertips on mine and lets out a long, slow breath. She closes her eyes. “I feel lost,” she starts, and then she’s off. It’s something we’ve done for years, since our shared drama class where the teacher made us do all these bonding, trust-fall types of exercises. I think the teacher secretly wanted to be a guidance counselor. None of us came out of the class wanting to be thespians, but it was a good class. It taught us how to listen to each other.
I can’t give Maryam advice on how she should do her makeup—that would be like Nico trying to give soccer tips to Mia Hamm—but I can listen while she figures things out for herself. She talks about the different colors she tried, and how they all felt too juvenile, too trendy, too pop-star. She talks about how everything looks the same after a while. She talks about how worried she is for all of us, that this thing we’re trying to do will break us or change us into people we don’t want to be. She talks about trying to find a new line so her brows will feel interesting, and feeling stuck in the same looks she’s been exploring for years. Maryam isn’t telling me what she wants her face to look like—she’s telling me how she feels now, and how she wants to feel when her makeup is on.
After a few minutes, she lets out another big breath and she opens her eyes. I sit quietly, keeping my face as neutral as possible. She looks at me for a long time, then nods. “Okay,” she says. “I think I know what I’m gonna do.” She smiles at me, and as she does, magic washes across her face like the glow from a flashlight. This is Maryam’s magic: subtle and suffusive and luminous. Her lips go dark, plummy, and a gradient of grays spread over her eyelids. Her brows fill in, sculpted and long, higher and thinner than usual. By the time she’s finished, she looks like an older version of herself—regal. Imperious. She doesn’t check her work in the rearview mirror; instead, she looks at me. “What do you think?”
“Brilliant.”
She smiles, a tucked-in kind of smile that gives her deep dimples. “I know.”
* * *
The swim meet is already in full gear by the time we walk into the pool complex. It’s open-air, but surrounded by high concrete walls so that people can’t get drunk and sneak in and make out in the pool at night. The pool is enormous and blue-bottomed, with long strings of white buoys separating the water into lanes. The crowd is a sea of swim caps and sun hats, goggles and sunglasses. A long line snakes away from the tiny concession stand, where a student volunteer is selling Costco snacks and off-brand sodas to the families of the competitors.
Maryam and I climb all the way to the top of the bleachers, where we won’t get splashed by swimmers or deafened by overzealous swim-moms shouting encouragement to their kids. We look for Roya in the crowd—it’s hard to tell the swimmers apart when they’re all wearing caps and goggles, but she always stands out. To me, at least.
“There,” I say, pointing, and Maryam stands up to wave. She flings both arms over her head and flails them around, trying to get Roya’s attention. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout “GOOOOOOOO ROYAAAAAAAAA,” and half of the people in the complex turn around to stare at us. It’s worth the dirty look I get from the swim-dad in front of me, just to see the way Roya’s head tips back as she laughs at us. We cheer until she does a strongwoman pose for our benefit, her arms flexed in different directions to show off her biceps and triceps, which are rippling from the grueling hours of extra practice she’s been through in the past few weeks.
The coach points at Maryam and me and gives us an over-the-sunglasses death glare. We shut up before our hollering gets Roya in trouble. Her smile doesn’t fade even as the coach leans in and says something to her—probably telling her to keep her head in the game and not let her weirdo friends distract her. She’s only got one event at this meet, and I’m sure the coach wants her to make it count.
Maryam slides on a pair of huge sunglasses and leans her back against the railing behind us. Her brows arch over the top of the enormous dark glasses. She looks like a movie star. I tell her so and she flashes that deep-dimpled smile again. “Thanks for listening to me in the car,” she says. “It helped a lot. You’re a really good listener.”
It’s hard to tell because of the sunglasses, but I feel like she’s staring at me. She’s talking like there are layers of significance to her words, but I can’t begin to untangle what they might be, so I pretend not to notice. “Anytime.”
A whistle sounds and a group dives into the water. We watch them, even though neither of us can really tell what’s happening under the white froth of the water, and we can’t tell who any of the swimmers are, and we don’t really even know what they’re trying to accomplish other than go fast and don’t drown.
“You know I’m always happy to return the favor, right?” Maryam asks as the swim-dad in front of us stands up, blocking our view. He’s shouting something about shoulders. Does he think that his kid can hear him in the water?
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t look at her because I don’t know. I mean, I know she would listen if I asked. She would listen to me talk about whatever I need to talk about. I know she would probably give me good, kind advice.
But I don’t know if she’d be happy to do it. Maybe it would just be annoying to listen to me complain. I don’t know if it would burden her—or any of my friends—to hear about my insecurities, my worries. Aren’t I already asking enough of them all? They’re hiding a body for me. I can’t help but feel like I should deal with my emotions about it on my own. And if that’s hard, well … don’t I deserve to be alone with it? With what I’ve done? With what I feel?
But that’s a lot to say to someone, and if I told Maryam I was feeling that way, she’d probably try to comfort me, and that would just make it worse. So I say “yeah” one more time and stare at the chipped hearts on my fingernails.
Maryam looks at me and opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but she’s interrupted by another loud whistle and swim-dad’s defeated groan. The bleachers shake and rattle with the footsteps of people going down to the pool to comfort or berate swimmers.
“Excuse me.”
I look around Maryam and realize that the rattle of our row of bleachers wasn’t an overinvolved parent. It was Gina Tarlucci, walking along our row. She has a long lens on her camera—she’s probably here to take pictures for the yearbook. Her dress is green with white flowers, and her hair is in some kind of 1940s-ish style that would make Paulie’s jaw drop if she saw it. Maryam tucks her legs to one side to allow Gina to pass, but instead, our row rattles again as Gina steps down to the bench in front of us. She plops down onto the spot where swim-dad was sitting until a moment before. She looks pissed.
“Are you in on this whole thing too?” she asks Maryam.
Maryam looks at me, inscrutable behind her movie-star sunglasses. I shake my head. “No, Gina, she doesn’t have anything to do with any of your crazy conspiracy theories. Please leave us alone.”