I don’t know why, but every time Jahan used a Farsi word or mentioned being Persian, I did a little cartwheel inside. He didn’t keep his halves separate. He was Iranian. He was gay. He was all of that in the same breath. I’d never met someone like Jahan, a double whammy like me, who embraced both sides—every side—of himself.

Interrogation Room 38

Soraya

MY FRIEND MADISON’S brother goes to Amir’s high school, and she told me her brother and his friends all hung out in the food court of the mall. So that’s where I went. It took me a couple of days after I made that discovery, though, since I had morning-to-night rehearsals. We were learning the choreography to “Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats.” I was pretty drained at the end of those days. Maybe I was still processing what I’d learned about Amir.

Anyway, I made it to the mall eventually. The food court was sad. I don’t know how else to say it. If this was where high school seniors hung out, I would prefer to just stay in middle school. The lighting was terrible, and all the tables were cluttered and plain white. It was about as basic as a Starbucks frappuccino.

The seniors were in the back. They were clustered together. I nervously talked to a few of them. Most of them didn’t know Amir, until one girl looked at me kind of funny and then looked over and said I should talk to this one guy Jake.

“Did you know my brother?” I asked him. “Amir.” He looked at me with beady eyes. He had annoyingly twisty hair. He looked at me like he recognized me. “You should talk to Jackson Preacher,” Jake said quietly.

As I walked away, I felt like he was watching me.

Twenty-Seven Days Ago

THE TV WAS blasting at full volume when I woke up on Jahan’s couch. It sounded like one of those MTV-style reality competition shows: “. . . and a grand prize of one hundred thousand doolahs! With extra-special guest . . .”

“Buongiorno, sleepyhead,” Jahan said. He leapt over the couch and sat down on my knees.

“Ouch!” I yanked my feet out from underneath him. “What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon,” a voice with an Italian accent said.

“What? Ugh,” I groaned. Slowly, I rubbed my eyes and looked around the living room. Someone was sitting in the armchair. A girl. Maybe Jahan’s roommate? I couldn’t remember if Jahan had a roommate. “Buongiorno,” I said to her.

She and Jahan kept their eyes glued to the TV.

“What is that?” I asked. My head hurt. Miraculously, there was a glass of water on the coffee table, next to my phone.

“RuPaul’s Drag Race,” Jahan said. “It’s our Sunday church.”

I took a big sip of water, and it was like the pearly gates of heaven had opened in my mouth. I picked up my phone and saw that I had a text from Neil, whose WhatsApp profile picture—at some beach, leaning forward, smiling—woke me up in other ways.