She is in my Social Studies class. Sometimes we would say hi to each other, but she seemed snobby. She has thick whitish-blond hair. It’s always smooth and fluffy and she is constantly playing with it. Sometimes she lifts it up and when it falls it’s like water cascading down her back.

I sit behind her if she takes the front-row seat that I like, and when she plays with her hair, some falls on my desk. Her hairs are so shiny, like plastic, and if you make a double knot, you can tie pencils together with them.

The first time I really talked to her was today. Mr. Napolitano was reviewing for our test on world capitals.

“Jordan, DJ?”

“Amman, Mr. Napolitano.”

“Good. Of course, that was an easy one for you.”

“Burkina Faso, Pat-a-cake?”

Patricia didn’t move and I knew she didn’t know the answer because she doesn’t even know the European capitals.

“Patricia?”

I leaned forward and whispered, “Ouagadougou.”

“Wagdoogoo.”

“Very good, Pat-a-cake. I can see you have been studying.”

When class was over, Patsy turned around and thanked me. “Do you want to eat together?”

“Sure,” I said.

We talked awhile and she’s nice. Her eyes are so blue.

Ma got mad because I have had a new school friend for three weeks now and I haven’t had her over for dinner.

“You shamed?” she asked me in English, which made me feel pretty bad because it’s sort of true. It’s not that I’m ashamed, but there are things that an American wouldn’t understand, like my mother’s language or my father’s yelling.

I invited Patsy over for dinner anyway, but I hope Ma cooks American food because I don’t think Patsy and her blond hair will like our food too much.

17 SORAYA Fancy-Dance Man

17SORAYAFancy-Dance Man

Some people can’t hide who they are, can’t lie and paint a prettier picture, because who they are is smeared on their faces. I can’t pretend I’m fourth-generation Italian-American because my hairs are too thick and my eyes dance too much. Losing a country is what makes your eyes dance, is what my uncle Haydar told me once. That works for him because he has lost his country. Even though we come from the same place, and I am from the grandfather who was his father, I have been here too long with a father who wants to be too successful for my country to be lost.

My eyes dance because I am alive, but I don’t tell Haydar that ... or Riad al-Ghareeb, Fancy-Dance man, who struts across the world from one girl to another, pouring stories into their too sweet coffees and drugging them with his too green eyes.