“Well it’s your fault for having intercourse with him and it’s your fault for writing this delirious essay!” my father yelled.
“How irresponsible of you! Who are these men you’ve been sleeping with? And Robert? Robert! Of all people! Do you know he could have killed you?” my mother burst out.
“It’s great that you guys had a murderer at our dinner table then!”
“We didn’t know at the time. That was before the episode!”
“The episode” as Max and, consequently, my parents called it, was the reason Robert eventually stopped showing up at our place. Without anyone knowing, he’d obtained an appointment with two powerful Jewish Hollywood producers and pitched them his new solo film idea: Holocaust 2: The Party’s Just Getting Started—a horror movie about Jewish zombies who organized raves in Dachau. The producers, who, thanks to Max, were faintly interested in the project Robert was working on with my father, were horrified and vowed Robert would never set foot in their offices again. Robert showed up a few days later and threatened them with a blunt razor saying they were making a big mistake. He was arrested, but his father—the downtown LAPD officer on crutches—got him out with the paperwork from the insane asylum where he had been locked up weeks earlier. The producers were so disgusted by Robert and the whole event that they stopped responding to my father’s calls. He was back to square one, without prospects.
From my bedroom that night I heard Max at the dinner table.
“She’s turning into a nymphomaniac! Keep her home,” he commanded, explaining to my parents what people did to their kids in America when they got suspended from school.
I sneered at him from under my blankets. “Nymphomaniac” was a bit strong, I thought, but it served a purpose. For the first time since we arrived, my parents were worried. I finally heard them consider the possibility of having made the wrong choices. They feared their daughter was turning into a sex maniac. Their son got beat up regularly in school for not having a group to hang out with. He was known by the nickname “the Italian Tomato.” It was one thing to be part of a racial minority. It was difficult and you were discriminated against, but at least you knew you were backed up by those who shared your origins. But Italians had no reference points and were hard to classify.
“You can’t just let these kids float. They need rules. Eugenia has to be grounded,” Max explained. “This sex rampage is a cry for help. Take away her private phone,” he ordered them.
“She doesn’t have one,” my father replied.
“Then take away her TV!”
“It’s broken,” my mother admitted.
“Take away her monthly allowance.”
“Umm…she doesn’t have one.”
“Well, just keep her inside the house, then,” Max groaned impatiently.
“Keep?” my mother said. “She’s always home. I don’t know when she even had time to meet all these boys.”
I liked hearing their concerned voices. I liked that people were gathered around a table to talk about me—even if it was about the best form of punishment for my wild spree.
—
On my fourth night of being grounded, I lay in bed struck by the sudden awareness that I’d missed Azar’s birthday. She had been alone on her special day—no balloons, no friends. The thought of her by the track, waiting for me to show up with the kitten balloon, was devastating. I would tell her I was sick. I would tell her a tragedy occurred. Better a late balloon than no balloon. I’d make it up to her.
I slipped into a dirty pair of sweatpants and tennis shoes, snuck out through my bedroom window, and walked to the twenty-four-hour party shop on Sepulveda that Henry had introduced me to. The Taiwanese kids at the register were sucking nitrous from balloons, laughing. A different kind of partying went on in the back of the store compared to what was showcased in the front. I bought my usual bubble tea, a pack of cigarettes, and a pink-and-silver balloon with puppies for Azar. They didn’t have kittens.
With the string wrapped around my wrist, I was headed home feeling festive when I heard an insistent honk on the road.
“Is it your birthday or somethin’?” a voice shouted at me.
A metallic blue BMW pulled up to the curb. I peered in.
It was Arash. Without thinking I opened the door, stuffed the balloon inside, and jumped in.
“I missed your cousin’s birthday and I promised her a balloon. I’ll bring it to school on Monday.”
“When are you going to stop hanging out with that weirdo?”
“Never. Don’t be mean.”
We were happy to see each other, but we didn’t want to say it.
“So is it true you got suspended?”
“Yes, and now I’m grounded.”
“So what are you doing walking around?”
“My parents think I’m in my room. They won’t check. They don’t really notice when I run away. It’s very convenient.”
Arash’s car moved past my house. I didn’t tell him where I lived and didn’t ask him to stop. I just wanted to stay with him without having to think about anything.
“You seem happy to see me,” I teased him.
“It’s Saturday night. You’re lucky I had no plans,” he said with his usual cocky tone, but his eyes had a little warm light burning in them and I told him I was happy to see him too.
Arash was dressed up. Beneath his Yankees cap, the gel on his hair had turned strands of it into rigid, oily spikes and he had layers of gold on his chest.
“Why are you so dressed up if you have no plans?”
“My stupid homeys flaked on me ’cause they scored some pussy.”
“Oh.” I looked down and leaned back against the seat.
We drove by the Sound City Studios hoping to catch a rock star on a cigarette break, but the parking lot was empty. The smoke from the Budweiser factory next door was sickly and Arash kept driving. We reached the far eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley at Chatsworth, an old agricultural community flanked by the Santa Susana Mountains. We stopped the car in front of Stoney Point, a huge set of boulders on a hilltop, a classic Valley hangout spot for kids. The rocks were etched with marijuana-leaf drawings.
We climbed to the top and Arash spread his hooded sweatshirt on the ground. We sat overlooking the flat lights of Chatsworth and the black mountain range to the east. Arash exhaled into the sky and took my hand.
“This is a good place for weirdos like you.” He smiled.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said leaning against him, too tired to fight back.
“What the fuck you wearing?” he said, noticing my sweatpants.
I looked down, embarrassed. “I wasn’t planning on going out.”
“So that’s your home-alone outfit?”
“Oh no, that one’s much worse!”
Arash giggled.
A warm night wind blew on our faces, thick with smog fumes from the end of the day. I inhaled everything and kissed him hard. I kneeled over on automatic pilot and pushed him back on the rock, ready to go down on him, but Arash put his hand on my forehead and lifted it.
“Stop,” he said and pulled a strand of hair away from my eyes.