From the Stonewall Honor–winning author of Like a Love Story comes a sweeping story of three generations of boys in the same Iranian family. Perfect for fans of Last Night at the Telegraph Club and Darius the Great Is Not Okay .
2019. Moud is an out gay teen living in Los Angeles with his distant father, Saeed. When Moud gets the news that his grandfather in Iran is dying, he accompanies his dad to Tehran, where the revelation of family secrets will force Moud into a new understanding of his history, his culture, and himself.
1978. Saeed is an engineering student with a promising future ahead of him in Tehran. But when his parents discover his involvement in the country’s burgeoning revolution, they send him to safety in America, a country Saeed despises. And even worse—he’s forced to live with the American grandmother he never knew existed.
1939. Bobby , the son of a calculating Hollywood stage mother, lands a coveted MGM studio contract. But the fairy-tale world of glamour he’s thrust into has a dark side. Set against the backdrop of Tehran and Los Angeles, this tale of intergenerational trauma and love is an ode to the fragile bonds of family, the hidden secrets of history, and all the beautiful moments that make us who we are today.
Quote:“Come on, double six,” Baba whispers as he shakes his dice cup like it’s an instrument. My father turns everything into music. “Parvaneh, come here. I need you.” On cue, Maman enters, holding a blueprint in her hands. Without being asked, she blows into Baba’s dice cup.
“I’m done for,” I say with a rueful smile.
Maman moves behind me. She puts a hand on each of my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “Don’t worry, I’ll blow on your dice too. I have enough luck for both of my favorite men.”
Baba rolls his dice. As expected, he rolls a double six. He removes four chips off his side of the board with an impish grin. “Your move, son.”
I hold up my dice cup for Maman to blow into. When I shake the dice, it sounds nothing like music. Baba may have taught me how to hit the right keys on a piano or pluck strings on the tar, but he’ll never teach me how to be an artist. That’s not who I am. Peyman says all children must become the opposite of their parents in at least one important way, and I think he’s right. Except sometimes I feel like the opposite of my parents in every way. I roll a two and a one. “Oh, come on,” I yell in mock exasperation. “I’m never going to catch up now.”
“Come to my side again, Parvaneh.” Baba smiles slyly. “Your luck only seems to work for me.”
“Don’t you dare, Maman,” I plead.
Just in time to save her, the doorbell rings. I move to stand up, the old wooden chair creaking under me. “Keep playing, I’ll get it,” Maman says.
“If it’s my student, will you ask him to wait in the study?” Baba asks as he rolls a three and a two, then grimaces.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Looks like your luck’s running out.”
I hear Maman open the door and greet Peyman warmly. Their footsteps head toward us, the rhythm changing when they move from the creaky wood floors to the colorful rug that depicts a story from The Shahnameh. “Who’s winning?” Peyman asks when he enters. He’s wearing a black peacoat and holding a large covered tray.
“We’re tied one game each,” I tell him. “But Baba is about to go down. What’s in the tray?”
“Homemade yakh dar behesht for you.” Peyman hands the tray to my mother.
Maman peeks inside before placing the tray down on the long wooden dining room table. “Please tell your mother she doesn’t need to cook something for us every time you come over.”
“I can tell her, but she won’t listen.” Then, with a meaningful gaze toward me, Peyman says, “We should go, Saeed. We don’t want to be late.”
