The reading itself was a grand, sweaty affair. There was one woman with a giant tattoo over her chest that read FEMME RAGE in block letters, who read a feministy poem. I really liked it. I thought Soraya would have liked it, too. Jahan read a few quatrains—Rumi poems. The whole thing was intoxicating.

After the reading, everyone returned to drinking and smoking and socializing. Jahan went back behind the bar. He was wearing an oversized pink polo shirt. I remembered it was Wednesday, and I smiled.

“Nice Mean Girls reference,” I said, pointing at the shirt.

He looked at me confused.

I looked at him even more confused. “Please tell me you’ve seen Mean Girls.”

“That would not be an accurate statement,” Jahan said.

“Jahan.”

“Oh, give me a break.”

“Jahan.” I slammed my hands down on the bar. “You are literally participating in an inside joke from one of the greatest cultural phenomena of the twenty-first century, a masterpiece of American letters, and you have no idea.”

I explained the joke to him. Jahan asked me which character he would be, and I told him probably Damien, who was “too gay to function.”

“I take offense to that,” Jahan said. “I function perfectly fine.”

“That’s not the point! You’re missing the point!”

“Says the boy who missed the orgy scene in La Dolce Vita.”

“First of all, I was tired and falling asleep,” I said. “Second, there was no orgy! They just had a pillow fight. I might be a virgin, but I’m gonna need a little more than that if you’re going to call it an ‘orgy’ scene.”

“Is there an orgy in Mean Girls?”

“Um. No.” I thought for a second. “But there’s a scene where two of the girls transform into wild animals and fight over a hot guy?”

“Ooh, animal kingdom realness,” Jahan said, making little claws with his hands.

I laughed. “Seriously, Jahan. Do you know any pop culture?” I began to quiz him while he poured drinks at the bar, and the results were abysmal. He’d never heard of Selena Gomez. He couldn’t name a single Taylor Swift song.

“Not even Tay-Tay?” I said.

Jahan shook his head. “Not even . . . I’m sorry, but I refuse to acknowledge that nickname.”

“I think I’ve figured it out,” I said. “Look. I don’t know pop culture before the two thousands, and you don’t know pop culture after. That makes Britney Spears our cutoff.”

“What is this about Britney?” Pier Paolo, one of Jahan’s friends, elbowed his way to the bar. He was short and had curly black hair that bounced like springs.

“I’m a slaaaave for you.” Neil came up from behind and hooked an arm around my neck.

“Pier Paolo, Neil, have you heard of Selena Gomez?” Jahan asked.

Pier Paolo shrugged.

“Isn’t that the chick who dated Justin Bieber?” Neil said.

“Exactly!” I said, pointing a finger in the air. “See, I might not know Joni Mitchell and Cher—”

Neil unhooked his arm from my neck. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHO CHER IS?” he bellowed.