Flipping the Coin
CHAPTER 2
ROSHAN
High school started off badly. After all, why should ninth grade be any different from the others? On the way out the door to the bus, I heard my father say, “You’d better do well this year, Mitch. If you don’t, you’ll be off to military camp this summer.”
Military camp? I wondered. I couldn’t stand that! I needed my summers to collect butterflies and I was pretty sure they didn’t do that at military camp.
When I got on the bus, I sat near the front, because all the cool guys sat in the back, and if I tried to sit there, they’d give me shit. As it was, when guys walked by, some of them gave me a hard punch on the shoulder. That was pretty typical. They didn’t say anything, because I was too close to the driver. The verbal insults would come later.
As bad luck would have it, I had math, my worst subject, first period. Not only that, I drew a math teacher, Miss Walters, who, I later learned, did not comprehend why a student couldn’t understand something. And there was a lot about math that I didn’t understand. Furthermore, she could be very sarcastic. Although I didn’t “love” any of my teachers, Miss Walters was the worst.
When I entered the classroom, I sat near the back. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had math first period, she started the day with a quiz which, she said, was to find out if we remembered anything from last year. I struggled with the paper. I really wanted to do well. But by the time I passed the paper in, I knew I hadn’t.
In ninth grade, we had second year Spanish. When I was in middle school, we had had Spanish, and I was terrible at it. I simply couldn’t remember the vocabulary, and I’d done poorly. Now, the powers that be decided to torture me with another year of it. Our Spanish teacher’s name was Sign͂or Martinez. As he passed the books out and chatted amiably, he seemed like maybe he was a nice person. He called out our names and we told him our book numbers, which he wrote down on little chart. He also found our names on the seating chart he’d prepared and told us where he wanted us to sit. When he came to me, he gave me the desk front and center. I guess he must’ve looked at our old Spanish grades.
The rest of the day went like that. As usual, I sat alone at lunch. I knew I wasn’t good at languages or math or grammar. Reading remained my only credible subject. Unfortunately, science wouldn’t have much to do with entomology that year, although it was biology. At the end of the day, laden down with books, I rode the bus home. That night, I worked hard on my homework. I made flashcards for the Spanish vocabulary; I slaved over the math assignment. By then it was 10 o’clock and I hadn’t begun to read the assignment for English, let alone the one for history. I finally got to bed at 12:30.
The rest of the week went like that. By Friday night, I was exhausted. I went to bed at 9 and didn’t wake up until 10 the next morning. Even then, I didn’t feel like doing anything, so I just sat on my front steps and pouted, with Orion lying by my side.
Sometime later, a boy rode his bicycle down the other side of the street. I heard him put on his brakes, which squeaked, and then he rode slowly back towards me. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. His glossy black hair lay thickly in waves on his head and hung low across his forehead, in front of his ears, and down his neck to his shirt collar. His brown, nearly black eyes gazed out of a somewhat darker complexion than mine, as though he had a beautiful tan, but his face glowed and his smile showed gleaming white teeth. He wore a shy smile which seemed to be saying, “Okay, I think I could l like you if you like me.”
He smiled his gleaming smile and said, “Hi, I just moved into town. My name’s Roshan. What’s yours?”
I was almost tongue-tied. “Um, um… M… M… Mitch.” I was so embarrassed! But Roshan didn’t seem to notice.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Orion.”
“He’s cute. So, what grade are you in?”
“Ninth, and it sucks!”
“Oh dear, I was hoping maybe it would be better here. Anyway, I’m here, so I’ve gotta make the most of it. Well, gotta be off. Bye.” He waved and rode off, much to my disappointment.
I thought about Roshan all weekend. I spent most of my time in my bedroom working on my homework. Why do the bastards have to give homework on weekends!? I wondered. Unfortunately, Carl was too buy with football as well as schoolwork to help me with my math assignments. I did go out with Orion for a while each afternoon and we chased butterflies. Soon they would be gone, and we wouldn’t have that to distract us during the winter, but we would have lots of time to mount the specimens I had caught.
Monday morning, I sat on the bus in the seat right behind the driver, receiving the usual pounding on my shoulder. At the next stop, Roshan got on the bus and sat next to me, saying, “Hi, Mitch.”
“Hi,” I managed to say without stuttering. We chatted amiably about this and that until we got to school. Roshan had checked into the school on Friday afternoon, so he already had his schedule and locker number. I showed him where his homeroom was and said I’d see him later.
After I got seated in math, Roshan came in, handed a piece of paper to the teacher, and sat at the desk next to me. He smiled, waved to me, and accepted his math book from the teacher. Halfway through the class, I could tell he was a whiz at math. He was also in my Spanish class, but he spoke Spanish fluently, so Sign͂or Martinez told him the school would have to figure out what to do with him. After that, I didn’t see Roshan again until lunch. When I entered the lunch room, Roshan was already sitting at a table of boys and there was no room for me so once again I ate alone.
He was, however in my PE class, which I hoped might improve PE some for me. All I could do well in PE was run. I still hadn’t learned how to catch a ball or hit a ball or throw a ball. Usually the boys said that I threw like a girl, which was terribly embarrassing. Roshan’s locker was diagonally across from mine, and, while he was changing into his gym clothes, I got a swift look at his butt, which was bubbly- cute, and his back, which was developing some muscle.
The first thing we had to do in PE was run laps. That was fine with me. I tried to catch up and pass other boys as we ran, but when I came up to Roshan, I jogged beside him until the coach blew his whistle. After that, we practiced hitting a wiffleball with a plastic bat. Of course, I missed the ball most of the time. When I did hit it, it was pure luck. After I batted, I had to go to the other side of the gym and field the batted balls. Usually, I corralled them at the wall as I was seldom able to catch them in the air.
On the way home on the bus, Roshan again sat next to me. He told me his family was Iranian, although he had been born in this country. He told me he preferred the term Persian to Iranian. When I asked him what the difference was, he said that the country called Iran had been previously part of the Persian Empire and was known as Persia until the Shah was toppled in 1979. The Ayatolla Khameini had changed the government and had adopted the name Iran. Roshan’s family had quickly left Iran. His parents had been children then. They had met in this country and married young. His last name, Rajavi, was Persian, and he was descended from many important people in Persia. His first name, Roshan, meant, “The bright one,” he told me with a grin.
Roshan discovered that the bus stop where I got on was as close to his house as the one where he’d gotten on, so after the first day, we met at the bus stop and rode together to school. From then on, I didn’t begin each school day with a very sore shoulder.
One day, he asked me what I did for fun. I wasn’t sure that I dared to tell him, because he might laugh at me and call me a sissy and a fairy. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“Promise you won’t laugh at me?”
“I promise.”
“I catch and collect butterflies.”
I looked at him, afraid that he might burst out laughing despite his promise. Instead, he said, “That’s so cool. Can I see them sometime?”
“Sure,” I said, but I thought to myself that we’d have to find a time when my father wasn’t home.
Then I asked him what he did for fun.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
I laughed and said, “I promise.”
“I play the flute,” he said. “I love the sound and the music I can make.”
“Cool. Can I hear you sometime?”
“Sure. Why don’t you come to my house with me after school?”
So, at the end of the school day, Roshan and I got on the bus, rode to our bus stop, and then walked to his house. “Mom,” he called as we entered, “I’ve brought a friend from school who wants to hear me play the flute.”
A very attractive, well-dressed lady emerged from the back of the house and Roshan introduced us. She said she was glad he had made a friend already and she asked where I lived. Roshan told her how we had met when he rode his bicycle past my house.
We went into the living room, where there was a grand piano and a cello. A flute case lay on the piano. Roshan opened the case almost reverently, gently took out the pieces of his flute, and assembled it. Then he went to the piano, played a note, and tuned his flute to it.
He put his flute to his lips, closed his eyes, and began playing. I had no idea what the music was, but I did know that it was beautiful. He didn’t just play out the notes; he played with expression and his body moved gently as he played. When he stopped, I clapped and said, “That was beautiful! What was it?”
“It’s Fauré’s Sicilienne,” he said. “When I get better, my mother will play the accompaniment on the piano.”
“Better!” I exclaimed. “How could you play it any better?”
“Well, I need to follow the directions for volume and espressivo better.” Then, when I looked puzzled, he explained espressivo to me.
“Well I thought it was beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said and smiled his beautiful smile.. After he’d carefully put his flute away, he showed me around the house. I noticed some framed pictures on the living room wall, but they weren’t really pictures. They had very interesting lines and shapes in them. When I asked him what they were, he said they were Persian calligraphy, or stylized Persian writing. Then he told me that his father had made them.
His bedroom was very neat, and I knew I would have to neaten mine considerably before he came to my house. There was, of course, a computer on a table next to his desk. There were bookshelves, and a queen-sized bed. Unlike my bedroom, there were no dirty socks or underwear on the floor, no shirts draped over the chair, and not a speck of dirt or dust anywhere.
Finally, I had to go so that I could get home before my father did. We said goodbye and off I went, thinking hard about what I had heard and seen.
I decided that I needed to tell Roshan about my father before he came to my house. If I worked it right, he could come when my father wasn’t home. When I got to my bedroom, it was a complete disaster, so I spent an hour straightening it and cleaning.
The next day, on the bus, I asked Roshan if he would come to my house after school and he quickly agreed. Then I told him some things about my father, including the hitting and spanking. He looked amazed and then sad. He said he had never met anyone like that. I told him if my father came home unexpectedly, as he occasionally did, to just be very polite. Of course, I knew that he was always polite, but I just wanted to prepare him.
After school that day, I asked him again to come to my house. He looked doubtful at first, and I asked him if he was worried about my father. He nodded. “He won’t hurt you,” I said. “It’s only me he abuses. He’s fine with my brother.” Finally, he agreed. He pulled out his phone and told his mother where he’d be; he didn’t say anything about my father.
We went to the back door and walked into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Both the floor and the table were dirty. I was so used to that that usually I didn’t notice, but that day I was horrified.
I hurried him into the living room, where my mother was reading a magazine in an old, dirty, housedress. I did a quick introduction before I hurried Roshan up to my room. Orion was sleeping on my bed, but he deigned to wake up and greet us. Roshan was enchanted. He sat down on the bed beside Orion and patted him and talked to him, remarking of course on his ears and his big feet. He hugged and just loved the dog, saying that I was so lucky to have Orion. I had to agree, although I didn’t tell Roshan that often Orion was my only comfort.
I apologized for the state of the kitchen, but he told me not to. He said, “It’s okay, Mitch. Different people live different ways and that’s okay.” Then I showed him my butterfly collection, which he raved over.
“If you’d like, I can show you how to do it,” I offered.
“I’d love to,” he said, so we agreed that the next time he came over I’d show him how to use the net.
we talked about other things until it was time for him to leave. I wondered after he left if he would tell his parents about our house, but I decided he wouldn’t. He was too nice.
That night, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. I sighed, wondering, what does Roshan see in me? I’m ugly. I had a narrow face. My lips were too small, my nose was too big, and my ears stuck out. I guess my eyes were okay, but they were a boring brown, as was my hair, which was wispy and uncontrollable. I tried to do something with my hair, but it just flew back in place, and there was no way I could comb down my wild cowlick. I sighed and went to bed.
From that day on, we visited each other’s homes often. Sometimes we took Orion for walks or for runs in the field, chasing butterflies. I showed Roshan how to use the net and how to kill and mount his butterflies without damaging them. He did meet my father once, but only briefly. After Roshan left, my father growled, “Why can’t you be polite like that!?”
Just one more put-down!