Chapter 8
Zain and I walked along the main road for a few minutes in silence.
We passed small independent stores selling trinkets and gift cards, an organic supermarket, and a Mexican restaurant.
I didn’t know what to say, not now that my accusations had been brushed off.
I stole a glance at Zain, who was looking ahead, his jaw strong and tight, like he was holding back saying something.
I gazed straight ahead, too, trying to hold my nerve, until I couldn’t anymore. “Where exactly are we going?” I asked.
“An arcade. It’s around the corner. You down?” he asked.
I side-eyed him and was met with a small smile. God, he was confusing. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“I mean, are you going to tell me what really happened yesterday? Or are you hoping me beating you at Tekken will make me forget?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you won’t be beating me at Tekken.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, which seemed to only amuse him further. “I’d put money on the fact that I will.”
Zain obviously didn’t know I had a little brother who had a penchant for vintage video games. I’d had more than enough practice playing Tekken, though Ehsan argued that I just smashed all the buttons until I won. That didn’t stop me from being victorious, so my method was ultimately very effective.
“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” he said.
I shook my head. “You’re distracting me.”
“From?”
I groaned in frustration. “You know what.”
He sighed. “Later. I’ll tell you everything later. For now, have fun in your new city.”
I kicked a rogue soda can from the sidewalk to the gutter. “Okay, fine.”
And that was when I saw it. In the window of a vintage shop: a nylon Prada backpack. I stopped in my tracks, despite the situation. It took Zain a beat to notice, and he came back to my side, looking from my shocked face to the object of my affection.
“I can’t believe it,” I muttered.
“What?” he said, and then, realizing, added, “This is about a purse?”
“Now definitely isn’t the time, but it’ll get snapped up. Just give me a minute.”
“Sure, whatever,” Zain said, looking amused. “I’ll wait outside.”
I went into the store; it was tiny and curated, each piece unique and beautiful in its own way. But I was a girl on a mission, so I asked to see the bag and the shopkeeper cooed that it had just come in that morning.
The bag was black, the nylon smooth, the silver triangle Prada logo shining under the fluorescent lighting. This would be perfect for university. Then I looked at the price tag: $200. It wasn’t cheap by any means, but for Prada, it was very reasonable. Suspiciously so.
“Is this…real?” I asked.
The shopkeeper looked vaguely offended for a second before evidently realizing why I was asking. “Of course. There is a rip in the lining, and the strap is fraying, so it’ll need to be fixed—that’s why it’s discounted. It normally retails for much more.”
I looked at the offending issues. I had taught myself how to sew and hem my trousers (being five foot four, it’s necessary). This was nothing I couldn’t handle.
“I’ll take it,” I said, feeling my heart race as it often did when I found something great—and this was my best secondhand find yet. Sure, it would be a dent in my savings, but some things were worth it.
I left the store feeling high—forgetting, momentarily, about everything.
Zain was leaning against the shop wall.
“So,” he said as we continued walking. “You like bags?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I mean, I personally don’t have that reaction to them,” he said, smiling.
“It’s like a historic artifact. It’s from the noughties, and the nylon line was so popular that Prada brought it back and is selling them for thousands. It just needs a little TLC and then it’ll be perfect again.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He raised both hands in the air. “So tell me, did you always live in England?”
“Yeah,” I said, but then backtracked. “Well, I was born in Iran and came over to the UK when I was like six, but I don’t remember anything from when I was younger.
And I haven’t been back since.” Whenever I spoke about Iran, I felt the need to add disclaimers.
I never felt Iranian enough. I might have looked it, but I was so distanced from the place racists said I should go back to.
His eyes brightened. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you’re Iranian, too.”
Too?
“You’re Iranian?” I asked.
With his sandy blond hair, he didn’t give immediate Iranian vibes, but now that he said it, I got it. His dark eyes, thick lashes, strong cheekbones…
“Yeah. I moved when I was younger. My family is from Shiraz.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking? I was born in Shiraz.”
He shook his head, smiling broadly. “Can you speak Farsi?”
A woman with a stroller and a small dog came down the sidewalk, and Zain stepped out of the way, behind me, to let her pass.
When he returned to my side, I said, “Not really. I can understand it, but I struggle to speak it.” I had picked up words and phrases from hearing my parents speak to each other, but if I were to try to speak it, I had the proficiency of a small child.
Whenever I met other Iranians, I felt shame that I didn’t know much of my language. “Can you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Only because my aunt refused to speak to me in English.”
“I mean, I can say some things,” I quickly added, though I didn’t think swear words, “yes,” “no,” and “thank you” really counted.
“There’s not many of us Iranians here in Denver,” he said. “LA, on the other hand, is known as Tehrangeles. It’s where all the Iranians went after the revolution.”
“That sounds cool,” I said. Of course Dad had moved us to yet another place with few Iranians.
Zain stopped outside a large warehouse. On the pavement was a chalkboard sign.
ARCADE MANIA
OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK
“Why did you want us to come here, again?” I asked. “Rather than answer my questions?”
“You seemed like you could use some perking up.”
“I’m not a charity case,” I shot back before I even considered what I was saying. All I knew was that I’d had enough pity at school after Mum died.
“I’m not saying you are,” Zain said, stepping closer to me. He bent down a little to look me in the eye. “Are you trying to back out because you don’t think you can beat me at Tekken? Because that’s what it feels like.”
“You’re very cocky,” I said, stepping around him to enter the arcade.
My eyes had to work overtime to adjust from the bright sunshine to the darkness inside.
There were no windows; the only light came from the arcade machines.
To my left was a claw machine filled with Mario Kart and Hello Kitty plushies.
To my right were multiple rows of car racing games.
I had been to arcades before back home, but they were much smaller and more low-key.
Different songs clashed over each other, with people our age playing Wack A Mole and driving games and others doing dance games. I could have sworn they did double takes when they saw Zain. He appeared unfazed by this, leading the way to the fighting game he (wrongly) thought he would best me at.
There were three Tekken arcade machines: Tekken 3, Tekken 5, and Tekken 7. Without any discussion, we agreed to play the newest, Tekken 7.
After paying, we got into position on either side of the machine, hands hovering over our joysticks.
“Ready?” Zain asked.
“Of course.”
He pressed the red start button, and it was time for the character selection.
There was one character in the game—Jin—who I wondered if he would pick.
But that would be too big a hint, right?
He hovered over him for a few beats before picking a different character: King, a buff man wearing a tiger mask.
I wasn’t sure if I was reading too much into his character choice, but my observing him meant I had less time to pick my character, as the countdown was at ten seconds.
I quickly selected Julia, my favorite. She was Native American, and I’d liked her the most growing up because she was the most Iranian-looking female character…
which was somewhat sad, in hindsight. I had a special move with her down, which I planned to use against Zain. It never failed.
Once we began to fight, I held back a little, not wanting to embarrass him by winning immediately. That meant it was close for one round until he won. He flashed me a half-smug, half-pitying smile. Absolutely not.
The next round, I enacted my move: a crouching kick.
I repeated this move, and his character couldn’t stop tripping up.
I continued kicking as his health went down, chunk by chunk, until I won.
I did the same thing again for the final round.
He didn’t even have a chance. He had hit me once in two rounds.
Zain cleared his throat. I kept my gaze calm and steady on the machine to avoid bursting into laughter.
“I did say…” I started.
“No, we need a rematch,” he said quickly—and would say five more times. He lost every game. Each round, he grew more and more frustrated.
“You can’t just keep doing that move!” he ground out, hitting the machine each time he lost.
“Why can’t I?” I asked as I concentrated on doing exactly that move on repeat.
Once the games had ended, Zain leaned against the arcade cabinet, head pressed against the side of it dramatically, conceding his loss.
“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.” His biceps strained against his T-shirt in this stance, and my gleeful high at winning turned into something else.
I found myself dry-mouthed. I redirected my attention to the few people who were still here.
People weren’t looking over anymore, if they ever had been.
I wasn’t sure if I was hyperaware of their gazes only because I was a newcomer in the city.
“I mean, I did tell you.”
He straightened up then, opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he was interrupted by a loud voice calling “Zain!” That was when a group of boys came over. They were all broad and tall like him, and the one who had called his name put his hands around Zain’s shoulders.