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wipes her face one last time, having forgotten the smell of the mud wall or the tickle at the base of her throat. Now she has a story to tell, one that she has memorized over countless wide-awake nights in her bed, and that now Ponneh wants to hear. It begins like this:
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    The important thing to know about America is that over there every citizen is at least as rich as my baba. But the key is that you have to be a citizen. That’s the one thing our relatives in America want most. They talk about it all the time in their letters and on the phone with Baba. My maman and Mahtab are just immigrants now, so they are probably very poor. In a few years they will get their citizenship and they will be rich again. That’s the way it all works. You start off as a taxi driver or a cleaning woman, like the people in Taxi. Then you get your citizenship, go to a good university like Harvard, and you become a doctor like in M*A*S*H . Then, when you’re done saving the soldiers, you might go to Washington for your medal and, if you’re smart enough and get the best grades, even meet a shahzadeh and get your picture in Life magazine. It is all possible.
    When Mahtab first arrived in America, she had to get used to the new rules, and that was probably the hardest part for her— because here, in Cheshmeh, the Hafezis are the most important family. But in America, she will have to work her way up. Don’t worry, though, because Mahtab can handle a challenge better than anyone.
    Now, here are some things you already know:
First, you know that going to America was a very quick decision for Maman and Mahtab. None of us saw it coming. So it’s fair to say that it was full of last-minute losses: Iranian money being so worthless (if you believe Baba), and degrees from important Iranian colleges so useless because, over there, they have Harvard. And so, in America, Maman has no job and no money. Mahtab’s life is very different now. No more pocketfuls of forgotten toys and spare change. No more shelves bursting with illegal books. No more new dresses to show off to best friends. Probably no more best friends.
The second thing you already know is that in America television is free and music is free, and everyone wears cowboy hats and eats hamburgers for dinner. So even though they’re poor, they have a good life, except for the hamburgers, which Maman thinks are made of garbage. They watch television together every night from their shared bed, which is probably set up in the living room of a tiny apartment—like Baba’s cousins in Texas who wrote asking for money for a bigger house.
During their first week in America, when Mahtab asks Maman why their stews are full of lentils instead of lamb, why she has to join the public library for her books, why they sleep in the same bed, Maman just says, “We haven’t earned anything here.”
Isn’t that just the sort of thing Maman would say? She used to say that to us when she took away one of our toys. You have to earn it back. Maman takes a break from cooking dinner to have afternoon tea. She gives a long speech about how she will get a job and Mahtab will go to school, and they will both learn very good English and save money of their own. But Mahtab doesn’t like to hear this, you see. She wants to go back to Cheshmeh and live off Baba’s money and be comfortable. She misses me and wants us to be together again. She doesn’t like writing secret letters, and she thinks it’s unfair that she was chosen to go to America when she could have done just as well in Cheshmeh.
But then Maman comes up with one of those Smart Girl Quests she used to make up for us about working hard and being self-sufficient women. “This life may seem bad, but do you want to know the best part?” she says. “The rule in America is that people get to choose how rich or poor they are. It’s totally a matter of choice.”
You can’t blame Mahtab for being suspicious, but I’ll tell you that what Maman is saying