Darius the Great Is Not Okay(46)

I didn’t tell Laleh that.

Sohrab followed me back to my room as I put away my shirt and money. “I got you something, Darioush,” he said.

“You did?”

I felt terrible. I hadn’t gotten Sohrab anything.

How could I have predicted I would make a friend in Iran?

Sohrab produced a small package, wrapped in advertisements from an Iranian newspaper. He tried to hand it to me, but I remembered the appropriate Social Cue.

“I can’t,” I said.

I wasn’t just taarofing.

I couldn’t stand how selfish I felt.

“Please.”

“Really.”

“Go on, Darioush. Taarof nakon.”

He shoved the present toward my chest.

Resistance was futile.

“Okay, Sohrab. Thank you.”

I peeled the paper off and a silky white shirt slithered onto my hands. It was a soccer/non-American football jersey, with a green stripe across the shoulder, a red one across the chest, and the lightly drawn outline of a cheetah’s head on the stomach.

“Wow,” I said. The smooth jersey slid through my fingers as I inspected the logo on the chest.

“It’s Team Melli. Iran’s national team. From the World Cup.”

I pulled the jersey over my head—the collar of my Persian Casual shirt stuck up underneath—but still, I felt like a real Iranian. Even though the cheetah’s head stretched over my stomach.

“I love it,” I said. “Thank you.”

I blinked a couple times, because I didn’t want Sohrab to notice my mood was performing a severe Slingshot Maneuver. I knew soccer/non-American football jerseys weren’t cheap. Sohrab could have used that money on some new cleats for himself, but he had gotten me the jersey instead.

“Are you okay, Darioush?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I blinked some more. “It’s just really, really nice.”

It made me feel like I belonged.

“I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry, Sohrab.”

Sohrab squinted at me. “Don’t be. I wanted to surprise you.”

Sohrab’s mom appeared in the doorway behind her son, camera in hand.

I used the distraction to wipe at my eyes and sniff a bit.

“Sohrab! You gave him the shirt.”

“Baleh, Maman.”

“I love it. Thank you, Khanum Rezaei.”

“It was all Sohrab.”

“It’s perfect.” I glanced over at him.

Sohrab’s mom held up the camera. Sohrab threw his arm over my shoulder and smiled into his mom’s telescoping lens.

“Yek. Doh. Seh.”

I tried to smile, but I probably just looked surprised. Or constipated.

No one ever threw their arm over my shoulder the way Sohrab did. Like it was perfectly fine to do that sort of thing to another guy. Like that was a thing friends did to each other.

Sohrab had no walls inside.

I loved that about him.

Khanum Rezaei snapped a photo and checked it. She leaned her head way back and looked over the top of her glasses. “It’s good!”

“Thank you,” I said again. “So much.”

“Sohrab knew you would like it.” She squinted at me and slipped out into the hallway.

Sohrab was still leaning against me, patting my shoulder.

“This is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.”

Sohrab squeezed my shoulder again and rubbed the back of my head.

“I’m glad you like it, Darioush.”



* * *





We ate at sunset.

Our family did not have to fast, but Mamou wanted to make sure Sohrab and his mom were not left out. Mahvash Rezaei—that’s what Mom called her, Mahvash-khanum—was so complimentary about everything, I thought Mamou was going to throw the rice server at her to get her to stop talking.

There weren’t enough tables and chairs for all the Bahramis (plus two Rezaeis) gathered, so we stood around, holding our plates and eating one-handed as best we could. Laleh ignored all the stews and rice and went straight for the bowl of cucumbers, which she ate whole, like candy bars.

“Darioush-jan,” Dayi Jamsheed said. “You don’t like khiar?”

“Um. Not really.” I didn’t understand the point and purpose of cucumbers. The taste wasn’t bad, but they had this weird slimy texture that I couldn’t get over.

“You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

“You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.



* * *





Dad was in the kitchen, funneling dishes into the dishwasher as fast as they came.

I rinsed off my plate and then started helping with the rest, piled up in the sink.

“Good dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to help. I got it.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Mamou said how much you help with the dishes. She said you’re sweet.”