“He’s Ismaili, you know,” she announced.

“What? No way!” he said, bowled over. He’d never heard of an Ismaili poet or any Ismaili artists, for that matter. Authors, painters, musicians, actors. Nobody. As if they didn’t exist. But it made sense. You can’t make a living as an artist. So what’s the use of it?

“He converted for Pir Shams. Well, that’s what some people say. But he’s definitely Muslim. They were lovers, maybe, or Pir Shams was just his mentor,” she said, scribbling in the margin of the book. “There are different versions of the story.”

He was astounded by her openness. No one he knew talked about lovers or gay relationships. He felt he could say anything to her and it would be okay.

“Here.” She tucked a bookmark into place then handed him the book. “Borrow it.”

“No, that’s okay,” he said even as he took the book. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return it to you.”

“How about Thursday at the Beauty Salon?”

“The beauty salon?” Suddenly, he felt conscious of his body the way he did in the locker room at school. He remembered how some of the jocks at school called him a sissy boy. “I’m not into beauty stuff!” he blurted out.

“I bet Prince has manicures and pedicures. I mean, look at him.” She pulled her T-shirt taut. “He’s hot! But I’m not talking about that kind of salon, anyway. This salon is French. The n is pronounced nasally.” She repeated the word for him, enunciating slowly. “We read poetry, watch films, look at paintings. Anything beautiful,” she said with a glint in her eye. “We meet every Thursday at the Forrest Lawn library. Four o’clock sharp.”

“Hey, Shaf!” Arzeen called from the bottom of the bleachers, waving her arms frantically. “Pappa’s here.”

Shafina bolted up. “I gotta go.”

Ashif stood up, too, his eyes fixed on the image of Prince on her T-shirt. He was in a leather jacket and chains, straddling a Harley. He was also pouting at the camera and his eyes were lined with kohl. She thinks he’s hot? The thought confounded him, and for the first time, he considered a new idea. Maybe he could be attractive, too.

“Oh, and you’ll need one of these for the salon,” she said, tapping her beret.

“I’ve got no plans to be in Paris any time soon.”

“Try Kmart,” she said with a wink.

He watched as she stepped down the bleachers, the pleats on the back of her skirt swishing like a mermaid’s tail.

“How many members do you have?” he called after her.

“Two now,” she said, turning back with a smile.

His legs shook with a nervous excitement. He sat down, cradled the book. He’d never met anyone like her. He felt as if he’d been wading in a river all this time when suddenly, he was at its mouth, gushing into the ocean. He flipped open the book. His eyes landed on the line of a poem, underlined in brilliant blue.