 Hi, thank you for being here. I'm gonna read the beginning of my new novel, and I'm not gonna tell you anything about it, so. Here we go, it's called Bloom. I come home a little high from school, and my mom has made a whole pan of french fries. She says they're for my brother, Bob Ack's water polo team potluck, and that I can only have a few. It makes more sense when she says this because my mom would never make a whole bucket of fries with me in mind. They're thickly sliced and brown all over like how she used to make them when I was little, and she didn't try to dictate every bite of food I took. My mom plays the Persian radio too loud when I come home. I know what you're thinking, the radio is good. The radio plays music and is a lively and entertaining machine, but it's not that at all. She's obsessed with this program where the saddest Persians from all over the world call in and ask the psychologists questions. My mom is lonely these days, I get it. Her dad's gone and her husband is living in another fucking country. But come on, live your life. That's what my grandfather would have wanted. If you knew the man at all, he would have wanted you to embrace the time you have left to take more walks, breathe deeper, get a pet squirrel. But all this woman does is shop. I mean, how many open-toed sandals with two inch heels does one person need? How many polka-dotted blouses? She usually shows me her shopping achievements when I come home from school, like a little kid sharing her pasta-covered art project for the day, and I have to resist the urge to say, you already have that shirt. It's the same fucking shirt as the one from last week. I know it sounds like I'm being tough on her, but it's becoming harder and harder to watch, especially because it's only her and me in the house these days. My brother is as whitewashed as it gets, so he's on the water polo team and spends most of his time after school or at practice or with the team. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Even if he was here, he wouldn't notice anything at all. I don't know what it is about me, but even when I'm not high, I'm hyper-aware of everyone's issues, and he's so self-centered that it just passes right by him. You think it would be easy for her to tell all these years I've known myself, but the thing is, I don't look like a typical girl who likes girls. I mean, I don't dress super feminine or anything like that, but I have long, curly hair. I flat iron every single day, so it almost comes down to my back. I wear makeup, never lipstick, but always mascara, and even when I wear baggy t-shirts, which is often my boobs are so big you can make them out underneath. I take care of myself, and she probably thinks lesbians all have short haircuts and look like they're trying to be men. I hover over the stove and eat the fries slowly, pouring ketchup carefully onto each one. I'm letting the grease soak my fingers up as some mom weeps to the psychologist about how her son has just come out to her and how she thinks it's just unnatural and dirty. How could such a thing be happening to her son? I try not to make too much noise because I know if she hears me, she'll tell me to stop, that they're not for me. Don't I know my limits? Doctor, it's dirty, the woman says. These things are dirty. The psychologist isn't such a bad guy. He's actually pretty real with the lunatics who call in. And he tells this woman, he says, Lady, he's your son and nothing will ever change that. My mother's putting on a crimson nail polish and she barely looks at me, so I think maybe she doesn't notice my crime, but then she says, Rano June, only a few. And then my mother says something that almost makes me lose a fry. Poor woman, she says. I stand there for what feels like a whole day like fucking eons, my brain crackling inside me, my stomach begging for more fries. I know she's not head over heels about the concept. I've heard her talking sometimes about her friend, Laudan's gay neighbor in West Hollywood, who throws ragers in the middle of the week and how inconsiderate and selfish she is. But like most controversial things in life, we've never had a real conversation about it. The words come out from my mouth without much thought. Why? Why is she such a poor woman? She finally looks up at me and in her face I think I see something like malice, dragon-like, but maybe it's just the weed getting to me. The neighbor's child being gay I can handle, but not my own, not ever you. After that, I pretty much eat the whole pan of french fries. And let me tell you, it's a big pan, more like a cauldron used for feeding a tribe of people. My mom finally notices what's really going on and says I'm being disgusting and what will Baba take to the potluck now. You don't know your limits, Rana. You have to know when to stop, she says. If you don't want me eating them, then don't make them, I say. And I go to my room where my walls are covered with posters of Tupac and slam the door hard. I blast Tupac's ambitions as a writer, which is my go-to song when I want to fucking scream and lay down on my bed and dream about kissing girls because in a few months I'll graduate from high school still a virgin, not even a kiss to show for myself. The offer has come up a whole bunch of times, but never from the right source, which I'd say is probably the most important part. The boys at my school with their wax eyebrows and designer jeans and Persian pride and gold chains around their necks, they're under the impression that just because our parents come from the same country, that I'll automatically want to fuck them. Rana, they say, come ride with me. Come in my car. I have sweet rims and a bomb system. I'll give you a ride home, which is code for please give me a blow job and maybe I'll take you to In-N-Out on the way home because I'll be lucky and no animal style because that would just be pushing it. I know this because I know girls who've been stupid enough to agree and have been kicked out onto the middle of and terrible of our sobbing because they pretended they were ignorant of the secret language. These boys try to lure me in, but I must resist such attempting offer because I'm no skank. And like I already said, I like girls. I like everything about them. The way they're asked to slide from side to side is to walk as if their bodies own that air. The delicacy used for every movement from sharpening pencils to carefully peeling their used up nail polish off with their teeth to kicking the ball in the soccer field to the way they run their hands through their hair constantly as if always on the lookout for lice. Their insecurities turn me on and if I don't get with one soon I think I might just have a fucking heart attack and die. The next day after school I'm sitting across the kitchen table from her and she gave herself the manicure she gave herself just yesterday and does it all over again. Didn't you just have that color on, I ask? Yes, but it chipped. Why don't you just redo that one nail then? Then it will be all off, Rana June. It will look strange. Mom, you could have been something is what I want to say. Mom, there are people burning themselves alive just to be heard and you can barely tell me something true. But instead she looks up at me and examines me in that way only mothers can. Always with the best intentions but always song you in half with just one glimpse. She has this way of always sitting straight that makes me feel like a little girl and even without any makeup on she's more beautiful than I will ever be. Her nose is thin and pointy. Her hair perfectly blown out without much effort. Her lips are full and eyes even fuller. Lately at night she likes to go on drives alone and clear her head and I insist on coming with her but she says no it's fine. She just needs to be alone and even on these late night drives she's wearing pretty blouses and high heels and in the morning her eyes are puffy from lack of sleep and she yawns too much and feels not like herself. What? What is it? I ask now because I'll fucking break under this gaze. I know I will and I wonder if she can see through all my bullshit and knows I dream of fucking girls in open fields and bathroom stalls on kitchen sinks on basketball courts. The hold our moms have on us I'll never completely understand. Sina hot heili bozog shodan your breasts have gotten too big she says in Farsi. I look down at my breasts my thin white tank top revealing the outline of everything that lies underneath. The women's got a point because they've definitely grown at an exponential rate since the last time I bought a bra which was over a year ago and little pockets of fat stick out of each cup. How can you wear a bra that doesn't fit? It's not nice for a young girl like you. I shrug it off because I don't think it's such a big deal but my mother seems horrified by it. She's done applying the quick drag coat and blows on each nail now blinking quickly while she does it. I look down at my own nails bitten down, the skin raw and chewed off. You should be more aware of these things she says. Boys notice it Rana June you don't want to look sloppy. No one likes a sloppy girl. Thank you guys.