At the front of a middle school classroom in
Oklahoma, a boy named Khosrou (whom everyone calls "Daniel") stands,
trying to tell a story. His story. But no one believes a word he says.
To them he is a dark-skinned, hairy-armed boy with a big butt whose
lunch smells funny; who makes things up and talks about poop too much.
But
Khosrou's stories, stretching back years, and decades, and centuries,
are beautiful, and terrifying, from the moment he, his mother, and
sister fled Iran in the middle of the night, stretching all the way back
to family tales set in the jasmine-scented city of Isfahan, the palaces
of semi-ancient kings, and even the land of stories.
We bounce
between a school bus of kids armed with paper clip missiles and
spitballs, to the heroines and heroes of Kosrou's family's past, who ate
pastries that made them weep, and touched carpets woven with precious
gems.
Like Scheherazade in a hostile classroom, author Daniel
Nayeri weaves a tale of Khosrou trying to save his own life: to stake
his claim to the truth. And it is (a true story).