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310 pages, Hardcover
First published October 16, 2018
I didn’t understand how anyone could be so violently angry with me for something I hadn’t done, so much so that they’d feel justified in assaulting me in broad daylight as I walked down the street. I didn’t want to understand it. But there it was.
I worried that if I spoke or screamed my anger would grip both sides of my open mouth and rip me in half. So I said nothing.
I was stuck in another small town, trapped in another universe populated by the kind of people who’d only ever seen faces like mine on their evening news, and I hated it.
“I’m just—I’m sick and tired of trying to explain to the world why racism is bad, okay? Why is that my job?”
My parents had made sure to make an entirely separate, six-course meal for this friend of mine who’d never tried Persian food before, and they’d sat there and stared at him as he ate, and every time he said he liked what he’d eaten they would look up at me and beam, proud as peacocks, finding in Ocean further proof that Persian people had invented only the best things, including the best food.
But I knew Ocean and I were thinking the same thing. I could feel it in the subtle shifts of his body. I heard it in his sudden, slow inhalations. In the tightness in his breath when he leaned in and whispered, “Where the hell did you come from?”
But I had never, ever touched someone and felt like this: like I was holding electricity inside of me.
But it never mattered what I said anymore. People talked over me, they talked for me, they discussed me without ever asking my opinion. I'd become a talking point; a statistic. I was no longer free to be only a teenager, only a human, only flesh and blood—no, I had to be more than that.
I was an outrage. An uncomfortable topic of conversation.
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.
"It—yeah," he said, and blinked, distracted. "It kind of—" he took a sharp, sudden breath — "I'm sorry," he said, "I just—"
He took my face in his hands and he kissed me, kissed me with such intensity that I was flooded, at once, with feelings so painful I made a sound, an involuntary sound that was almost like crying. ...
I missed you, he kept saying, God, I missed you, and he kissed me again, so deeply, and my head was spinning, and he tasted, somehow, like pure heat. We broke apart, fighting to breathe, holding on to each other like we were drowning, like we'd been lost, left for dead in a very large expanse of sea.
don't give up on me, he wrote.
And I never did.