“I’m Spanish,” Jesse said hastily. I think he was a little anxious about being surrounded by so many gorgeous women—-at least, I think they’re gorgeous. I know I am—-one of whom was Persian, and all of whom had overheard our argument in my room.
He didn’t have anything to be concerned about, however. My girls had his back. And mine.
“That’s okay,” Parisa assured him. “With hair and eyebrows like that, you could pass.”
“He’s taken, Par,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but maybe I could just borrow him to take home for the holidays,” Parisa purred. “My mom would be so happy.”
“Or you could just quit dating a gangbanger who sexually abuses women, deals drugs, and traffics stolen goods,” suggested Valentina, the lesbian women’s studies major. “Or would that interfere with your plan to get back at your dad for not buying you that BMW you wanted for high school graduation?”
Parisa smiled and shrugged her slinky shoulders. “It was a Porsche. And Ray’s not as bad as his friends. Besides, he’s got a really big”—-she glanced at Jesse, saw my warning glance, and smiled harder—-“motorcycle.”
Valentina rolled her eyes and poured herself another V and C. We’d all agreed this is the best cocktail, because it not only tastes good, but the cranberry juice allegedly helps ward off urinary tract infections.
“Getting back to the subject at hand,” I said, with a cough. “You say the Farhats live over in Carmel?”
“Right. There’s a really big Persian community there.” Parisa handed me the address on a piece of her Pomeranian puppy–shaped notepad paper. “Well, not as big as in Los Angeles, but, like, big enough.” She explained to Jesse, as if he were a child, “Most -people think of carpets or kittens when they hear the word Persian, but we’re actually an ethnic group from north of the Persian Gulf.”
Jesse smiled at her politely. “Yes, I know. Thank you for clarifying that, though.”
“Oh,” she gushed. “Not a problem.”
I tapped her on the shoulder. “So do you know what the deal is with this Zack kid?”
“Yeah, totally. It’s Zakaria, not Zack. I mean, his Westernized name is Zack, but in Persian it’s Zakaria. His parents are friends with my parents, and I’ve been to their house a few times. That kid is so spoiled—-I mean, that’s true of a lot Persian kids, but he’s even more spoiled than most because he’s the youngest, and his family is, like, mega rich. His dad’s a heart surgeon. And they’re super good friends with the Ahmadis, the parents of that girl who died last month. I think they were even distantly related—-second cousins, or something. I was at the funeral, and Zakaria’s mom was bawling her eyes out. Well, we all were, because it was so sad. Jasmin was just a kid, and some guy killed her. How does that even happen?”
“Ask your boyfriend,” Valentina suggested.
Parisa ignored her. “But Mrs. Farhat was especially upset. And Zakaria, too. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time so no one could see how red his eyes were.”
“Aw,” said Melodia. She was the girl whose family didn’t allow her to speak to men outside of her religion. Obviously, this was not a rule she actually followed when her family was not around. “That’s so sad.”
Jesse and I exchanged glances. I knew what he was thinking. Zack had kept his glasses on to hide the fact that his eyes were red from crying . . . or something else.
“So do you know what kind of car this Zack kid owns?” I asked Parisa.
“What kind doesn’t he own? Last time I was there, he had, like, three cars . . . a Jeep for the beach, a Beamer for school, and a pickup truck for whatever the hell kids like that do with pickup trucks.”
Kill girls who aren’t interested in them, apparently.
“Thanks, Par,” I said, stuffing the address in the pocket of my jacket. “This is a huge help.”
“I don’t understand why you guys are going over there now,” Lauren, the witch, said. “Not that I’m ungrateful to the mother goddess, because we need the rain, but there are flash flood warnings everywhere, and they’re advising -people to stay off the roads.”
“Yeah,” Melodia said. “This is a good night to stay in, not go out.”
I couldn’t tell how much of this was genuine concern on their parts, or a desire for us to stick around so they could listen some more through the door, and hear the drama through to the end. I wasn’t sure how much they’d already learned. Not enough, evidently, to know that I could speak to the dead, but enough to know that Jesse and I were on the outs for some reason.
I understood—-and could even sympathize with and appreciate—-their interest. Real--life drama is infinitely preferable to most of what we see on TV. That stuff is so unbelievable.
I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, however, for a variety of reasons. We had a soul to save, not to mention a life.