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“Yeah!” As she rang it up, her eyes kept darting over to him before she said,“¿Supongo que no eres mexicano?”

He didn’t understand what she meant, only that it was Spanish, which he was terrible at.“No comprehendo,”he managed.

“Oh.” She looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”

“Now you have to tell me,” he said.

She blushed before replying. “I was wondering if you’re Mexican.”

He got asked that a lot because of his darker skin tone and hair. “No. I’m Persian, actually.”

“Oh! So your family comes from Iran.”

Most people didn’t connect the dots like that. They heard Persian and thought of exotic princes from Arabian nights long ago or whatever. If he said he was Iranian instead, the Ayatollah and terrorism sprung to mind. He had learned that the hard way back in junior high, when his folks went to a parent-teacher conference. His mother had worn a hijab, as she often did when dressing up for formal occasions. She always looked pretty as hell. But somehow news of this had gotten around the school, like the very next day, and that’s when the other kids started teasing Omar and calling him names. The worst part is that he wasn’t sure how anyone found out. Did one of his teachers say something? He didn’t know who to trust after that. Aside from Anthony, who had never given him shit about his heritage.

“Yeah,” Omar said tersely. “My grandparents moved here from Iran.”

“Cool,” she said. “My parents are immigrants.”

That made him feel less vulnerable. “Oh yeah? From where?”

She studied him before responding. “Mexico. It’s nice you didn’t assume. Like I did.”

“Hey, us immigrant kids have to stick together. Especially in white-bread Kansas, am I right?”

She laughed and handed the cassette to him. “Be sure to let me know what you think of the album.”

“I will,” he replied. “Count on it.”

He was on cloud nine as he left the store, so caught up in the euphoria that he forgot his skateboard. When he popped back in to get it, he said, “Mind if I borrow this? I’m going to be late otherwise.”

“I’ll tell the original owner that I never saw it,” Silvia replied.

He smiled at her before leaving, and when she returned the gesture, he decided his love life wasn’t as hopeless as he’d feared.

CHAPTER 4

September 8th, 1992

Omar skated in a daze, his foot kicking on occasion to help him pick up speed. A lifetime of memories and associations allowed him to navigate on automatic, the active part of his brain preoccupied with thoughts of Silvia. Talking to her had felt good! Almost as easy as when he hung out with Anthony. He thought of a million questions he should’ve asked, or funny responses he wished had occurred to him at the time. He was tempted to turn around and go right back to the record store, no matter how desperate that made him appear. If he didn’t have the stupid paper to write with Ricky, maybe he would have.

Omar slowed, becoming aware of his surroundings. The small downtown area of Pride was lined with old houses. His mother once referred to them as Victorian. He didn’t know if that was accurate, only that the wooden homes had an excess of ornate details, most of them with a covered porch and a tower off to one side. He’d grown up in such a home, and while it was nice, sometimes he preferred the look of the more modern neighborhoods, like he was heading into now. The leaves above his head rustled as he glided beneath the trees, their shade helping to cool him as he occasionally glanced at a street sign, mostly out of habit. He could probably name the next ten streets ahead of him and not get one wrong. He only slowed to double-check the address that he’d written down last night while on the phone with Ricky. They had talked about potential ideas for their article, Omar insisting on killer robots. Then he reviewed the footage he’d recorded earlier while half-listening to Ricky rattle off a bunch of ideas. When the kid had finally run out of wind, Omar had said, “Killer robots it is.”

The two-story house he stopped in front of was low-key in a way that appealed to him—just a shoebox sitting on its smallest side with a pointed roof. The house itself was muted blue with faded maroon trim. The bushes and trees that clustered close made it appear cozy… or mysterious. Anyone could live there. Even a serial killer. Omar made two right angles with his thumbs and index fingers and used them to frame the shot. He loved location scouting. It always got his imagination going. The effect was ruined when he noticed the small Asian kid sitting on the front stoop while staring at him with eager eyes. The shorts and T-shirt he wore revealed skinny toothpick limbs.

Omar gave an upward nod. He kicked on the tail-end of his board, popping it up so he could grab the edge and carry it across the neatly trimmed grass. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did you get locked out or something?”

Ricky stared a moment longer before shaking his head. “I was waiting for you.”

Outside? So uncool. Unless his folks were a nightmare to be around. There were times when Omar would rather stay outside the entire day, no matter how bad the weather, just to avoid his family, and he actually liked them. He was surprised then, as Ricky led him inside to a cool dark interior, at just how silent the house was.

“Anybody home?” Omar asked, leaving his skateboard next to the front door.

“No. My parents don’t get home until later.”

“Nice. Can I get something to drink? I’m parched.”

Ricky led him to the living room and left him there. Omar walked around the perimeter instead of sitting, noticing the family photos above the fireplace. In most of them, Ricky was smiling from between two adults who must be his parents. They were all wearing skiing gear in one. A family vacation maybe. He turned to consider the living room, which was tidy and humble, like they cared more about comfort than impressing guests. Omar unslung his camcorder and set it on the coffee table before plopping down in a loveseat, so he wouldn’t have to sit next to a lowly freshman. His plan worked. Ricky chose the perpendicular couch after setting down two glasses of orange juice. An odd choice, but Omar wasn’t picky. He grabbed his and drank half of it down in a few gulps.