A Very Large Expanse of Sea

But it scared me so much.

In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether my fever wasn’t simply a consequence of this, of him, of this whole situation, because the more he spoke, the more delirious I felt. I felt my head swimming, my mind slowly evaporating.

I closed my eyes. “Ocean,” I finally whispered.

“Yes?”

“I—I just—”

I stopped. Tried to steady my head. I could hear him breathing. I could feel him waiting for something, anything, and I could feel my heart ripping open and I realized there was no point lying about this. I thought he deserved to know the truth, at least.

“You’re not imagining it,” I said.

I heard his hard exhale. When he spoke, his voice was a little rough. “I’m not?”

“No. You’re not. I feel it, too.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. We just sat there in the silence, listening to each other breathe.

“So why are you pushing me away?” he said finally. “What are you afraid of?”

“This,” I said. My eyes were still closed. “I’m afraid of this. There’s nowhere for this to go,” I said to him. “There’s no future here—”

“Why not?” he said. “Because of your parents? Because I’m some random white guy?”

My eyes flew open and I laughed, but it made a sad sound. “No,” I said. “Not because of my parents. I mean, it’s true that my parents wouldn’t approve of you, yeah, but not because you’re a white guy. My parents wouldn’t approve of any guy,” I said. “In general. It’s not just you. Anyway, I don’t even care about that.” I sighed, hard. “It’s not because of that.”

“Then why?”

I was quiet for too long, but he didn’t push me to speak. He didn’t say a word. He just waited.

Finally, I broke open the silence.

“You’re a really nice person,” I said to him. “But you don’t know how complicated something like this would be. You don’t know how different your life would be with me,” I said. “You just don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the world is really awful, Ocean. People are super racist.”

Ocean was quiet for a full second before he finally said, stunned, “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Yes.”

“Well I don’t care what other people think.”

My head was overheating again. I felt unsteady.

“Listen,” he said softly, “This doesn’t have to be anything serious. I just want to get to know you better. I just— I mean I accidentally ran into you and I haven’t been able to breathe straight for hours,” he said, his voice tight again. “I feel kind of crazy. Like I can’t— I mean— I just want to know what this is,” he said finally. “I just want to know what’s happening right now.”

My heart was beating too hard. Too fast.

I whispered, “I’ve been feeling the same way.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” I said softly.

He took a deep breath. He sounded nervous. “Could we just—can we maybe just spend some time together?” he said. “Outside of school? Maybe somewhere far, far away from our disgusting lab assignment?”

I laughed. I felt a little dizzy.

“Is that a yes?”

I sighed. I wanted, so badly, to just say yes. Instead, I said, “Maybe. But no marriage proposals, okay? I get too many of those as it is.”

“You’re making jokes right now?” Ocean laughed. “You’re, like, breaking my heart, and you’re making jokes right now. Wow.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was smiling.

“Wait—what did that yeah mean? Is that a yes to hanging out with me?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’d really like to hang out with you.” I felt at once nervous and happy and terrified, but I could feel my temperature spiking again. I really felt like I might pass out. “But I should go,” I said. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

We hung up.

And I didn’t get out of bed for three days.

18

Eighteen

I was basically immobile the rest of the week. The fever finally broke on Friday, but my mom still made me stay home. I tried to tell her I was fine, that I had no other symptoms, but she didn’t listen. I’d never developed a cold. I had no aches and pains in my body. I felt nothing but the heat in my head.

I felt a bit like my brain had been steamed.

Ocean had texted me, but I’d had so few moments of clarity that I never got around to texting him back. I figured he’d find out, one way or another, that I was still sick, but I never imagined he’d seek out my brother.

Navid came to visit me on Friday, after school. He sat down on my bed and flicked me in the forehead.

“Stop,” I mumbled. I turned, buried my face in the pillow.

“Your boyfriend was looking for you today.”

I turned back so fast I nearly snapped my neck. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Navid raised his eyebrows. “Well, uh, I don’t know what you did to this kid who is apparently not your boyfriend,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you.”

“Shut up,” I said, and turned my face back into the pillow.

“I’m not kidding.”

I flipped him off without looking.

“Whatever,” Navid said. “You don’t have to believe me. I just thought you should know. He’s worried. Maybe you should call him.”

Now I frowned. I readjusted slowly, folding a pillow under my neck, and stared at my brother. “Are you for real right now?”

Navid shrugged.

“You’re not threatening to kick his ass?” I said. “You’re telling me to call him?”

“I feel bad for the guy. He seems nice.”

“Um.” I laughed. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Navid said, and stood up. “And I’m only going to give you one piece of advice, okay? So listen closely.”

I rolled my eyes.

“If you’re not interested,” he said, “tell him now.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Navid shook his head. “Just don’t be mean.”

“I’m not mean.”

My brother was already at the door when he laughed. Hard. “You are brutal,” he said. “And I don’t want to see this dude get his heart shattered all over the place, okay? He seems so innocent. He clearly has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”

I stared at Navid, dumbfounded.

“Promise me,” he said. “Okay? If you don’t like him, let him go.”

But I did like him. The problem wasn’t knowing whether or not I liked him. The problem was that I didn’t want to like him.

I could already see the future. I could imagine us going out somewhere, anywhere, and someone saying something awful to me. I could imagine his paralysis; I could imagine the awkwardness that would wash over us both, how we’d try to pretend it hadn’t happened, even as I was filled slowly with mortification; I knew how such an experience would, inevitably, make him self-conscious about spending time with me, how he’d one day realize he didn’t want to be seen with me in public. I could see him introducing me to the people in his world, see their thinly veiled disgust and/or disapproval, see how being with me would make him realize that his own friends were closet racists, that his parents were happy to make general pleasantries with the nonconforming among us so long as we never tried to kiss their children.

Being with me would puncture Ocean’s safe, comfortable bubble. Everything about me—my face, my fashion—had become political. There was a time when my presence only confused people; I used to be just a regular weirdo, the kind of unfathomable entity that was easily disregarded, easily discarded. But one day, in the aftermath of a terrible tragedy, I’d woken up in the spotlight. It didn’t matter that I was just as shaken and horrified as everyone else; no one believed my grief. People I’d never met were suddenly accusing me of murder. Strangers would scream at me in the street, at school, in the grocery store, at gas stations and restaurants to go home, go home, go back to Afghanistan you camel-fucking terrorist.