Veil of Roses by Laura Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online

library, where my English class meets.
    I lock the door behind me, lock Maryam’s wrought-iron gate behind me, and then set out. I inspect each house and yard as I pass it, deciding which ones I would like to live in someday. Maryam’s house is truly the most beautiful, although any of these houses would be fine with me.
    I turn out of the neighborhood on Country Club Road, cross Sixth Street, and continue walking to Third Street, which is a bicycle route. I am now in what’s called Sam Hughes neighborhood. I pass an elementary school and stop for a moment to watch the boys chase the girls and the girls chase the boys. Chase. It seems to be the most popular game. The squeals and shrieks and laughter tickle my soul and cause me great happiness.
    I have been walking for twenty-five minutes now.
    I cross Campbell Avenue, a busy boulevard, and am now officially on the campus of the University of Arizona. It is so open compared to universities in Iran. I marvel at the women, with their tanned skin and white teeth and blond hair and sleeveless tank tops, walking along, talking on their cell phones, and eyeing the men just as much as the men eye them.
    I didn’t count on my solid two-inch boots hurting so much. They are Naturalizers, and Maryam said they were comfortable. But they are new, and I find that to avoid limping I must stop often to let my feet rest. My enthusiasm for this adventure is fading to dread. I have a long way to go. I finished my twenty-ounce bottle of water ten minutes ago, and I am thirsty again.
    I will not call on Maryam to rescue me. I must never even mention it to her or she will not let me walk to class again. Okay.
Okeydokey,
as Ardishir says whenever Maryam asks him to do something around the house. America is all about live and let live. No one has minded that I’ve been taking photographs of houses that I like with the camera Ardishir has lent me. I took a picture of a teenage boy with three earrings hanging from his nose. I took a picture of a barefoot black man with no shirt and long braided hair riding a unicycle and playing a flute. No one has approached me to yank my camera from me. No one has yelled at me to hurry along or demanded to know what I was doing. I have been left alone on the streets, unmolested, for what feels like the first time in my life.
    If I were braver, I would bend down and unzip my boots. I would pull them off and walk barefoot. I can just imagine the relief! I would wiggle my poor toes. I would pull off my socks as well, because if they get dirty then Maryam would know what I have done.
    Maryam.
    She would disapprove. She would say it is low-class, beneath our family.
    I leave my boots on. I owe her that much, and so much more.
    Yet as for my thirst, I know I can solve this problem. Once I leave campus and cross Park Avenue, I find myself at Main Gate Square on University Boulevard. I see the Starbucks ahead. Maryam has pointed this out to me, as perhaps a place I would like to enjoy a drink on my way to class.
    I study the stickers on the door to make sure I am obeying all the rules.
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.
I am glad for leaving on my boots.
    Make This Your Neighborhood Starbucks.
Okay, I think. It is good to have neighborhood places. In Iran, we had so many
bazaaris,
shopkeepers who would look out for us, remember how many people are in our family and how much meat to give us, share with us the news of the day, that sort of thing.
    I pull open the door and step inside. I clasp the straps of my backpack with each hand and look around. There is an unlit fireplace. Two men play chess, speaking not at all. A table by the window separates two easy chairs. One is occupied by a woman about my age, who curls her legs under her on the chair. She highlights the passages of a text and chews on the highlighter when it is not in use. In the other chair sits a woman of perhaps Korean heritage, chatting quietly into a cell phone. All four of these people have drinks beside