Darius the Great Is Not Okay(37)

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

“Thanks.” Dad nodded at Babou and went back into the living room.

I played with the hem of my shirt and waited for the tea to finish.



* * *





When I got to the living room, Captain Picard had already started the opening narration.

And Dad was sitting on the couch with his arm around Laleh.

“Uh.”

“Sorry, Darius,” Dad said. “But you’ve seen it before. And your sister was so excited to watch.”

I blinked. It didn’t make any sense.

Star Trek was supposed to be me and Dad’s special thing.

What was he doing, watching it with Laleh?

I mean, it was inevitable that Laleh would acquire a taste for Star Trek—eventually. She was my sister, after all. And Stephen Kellner’s daughter. It was in her genetic makeup.

But I thought I would get to keep that bit of Dad to myself for a little while longer.

It was the only time I ever got to be his son.

The credits faded out, and the episode title came up. “Sins of the Father,” which was about Worf going back home to face accusations that his father had committed treason.

It seemed weirdly appropriate.

“Come sit,” Dad said.

He patted the couch beside him.

“Um.”

We were supposed to get along in Iran.

But did that mean we had to cancel the only time we actually spent together?

Maybe it did.

I sat against the edge of the couch and balanced my tea on my kneecap, but Dad reached out and pulled me closer. He left his arm across my back for a second.

“Your shoulders are getting broad,” he said.

Then he let go of me and leaned over to kiss Laleh on the forehead.

And I sat with Stephen and Laleh Kellner as they watched Star Trek.





THE KOLINAHR DISCIPLINE



It wasn’t even dawn when a voice began chanting.

It was far away, tinny, like the speakers in a drive-thru.

But it was beautiful, even if I couldn’t tell what it was saying.

When it faded away, I didn’t go back to sleep, because Mom knocked on my door.

I pulled the covers closer around my neck. I had on my boxers, but still.

“Yeah?”

“Oh. You’re up.”

“Yeah. The chanting woke me. The call to prayer. Right?”

Mom smiled. “The azan.”

“It’s beautiful.” I’d heard it the last couple of days, but I never got a chance to ask about it. And it felt different, waking up to it instead of hearing it while I was making tea or eating lunch.

“I forgot how much I missed hearing it.”

“Yeah?”

Mom turned on the light. The Dancing Fan chose that moment to fall over.

We both stared at it for a second.

Mom shook her head. “I can’t believe Babou still has that old thing.”

“You always say Yazdis don’t throw anything away.”

Mom snorted. “Come on. You’d better get dressed. Your grandfather wants to hit the road in half an hour.”

“Okay.”



* * *





The sun was still kissing the horizon when I stepped out of the house. I pulled the hood of my jacket up to warm my ears.

Everything was quiet.

Everything, that is, except the house behind me, where Mom was shouting at Laleh to get her shoes on, and Mamou was shouting at Mom to remember the water bottles and snacks.

Dad bumped his elbow against me, his hands deep in the pockets of his gray Keller & Newton jacket.

“Um.”

The shouting inside was drowned out by the sound of a thousand furious wasps as Babou drove the Bahrami family vehicle up to the curb.

Ardeshir Bahrami drove a dull blue minivan that looked like it had come from a different age of this world. It was boxy and angular, and it poured so much smoke out of its exhaust pipe, I was certain the Forges of some Dark Lord were firing deep within its catalytic converter.

I wondered if they had emissions tests in Iran. It seemed impossible the Bahrami family vehicle could pass any sort of inspection.

Babou stopped in front of the house, but the cloud of smoke kept going, enveloping the minivan in a black shroud before dissipating into a thin trail of intermittent puffs.

I decided to call it the Smokemobile.

I would have christened it, but the sale of alcohol was illegal in Iran, so there was no bottle of champagne to smash upon its blue hull. I could have used a bottle of doogh—the carbonated yogurt beverage that True, Non-Fractional Persians enjoyed—but (a) it usually came in plastic bottles, which would not shatter, and (b) it would have made a terrible mess.

Babou stepped out and leaned over the hood. “Fariba-khanum!”

Mamou dragged a half-asleep Laleh out of the house and deposited her in the Smokemobile. Dad buckled her in, while Mamou ran back inside.

“Fariba-khanum!” Babou shouted again.

Mom came out next, hoisting a bag of snacks.

“I can take that.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

I stuck the snacks in the trunk and contorted my way into the backseat next to Laleh, but then Mom turned around and ran back inside too.