Darius the Great Is Not Okay(47)

Dad almost blushed at that.

Almost.

“She told your mom I was going to spoil her. She said men in Iran don’t do dishes.”

“Oh.”

“I’m glad to do it, though. Your grandmother has enough on her plate.” He angled another dish into the dishwasher and chuckled. “Proverbially speaking.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think of your uncles?”

“They’re . . . I don’t know. Dayi Jamsheed told me I wasn’t Persian. Because I don’t like cucumbers.” I handed Dad the last plate and started gathering the forks and spoons. “And Dayi Soheil called me fat.”

Dad nearly dropped the plate.

“He what?”

“Well. Not really. He just, like, patted me on my stomach. But that was the implication.”

“I think he was just being affectionate, Darius.”

Stephen Kellner always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.

Everyone except me.

“There you are,” Mom said. She closed the door behind her and took the silverware from me. “You two get out there. I’ll take care of it.”

But Dad said, “I don’t mind, love.” He glanced at the door. “Spend time with your brothers.”

For a moment, I wondered if Dad was trying to avoid the living room. If he was avoiding the critical mass of Bahramis by taking shelter in the kitchen.

But that was impossible.

Stephen Kellner never avoided anything.

“Let me,” Mom said. She hip-checked Dad out of the way with a smirk, but then she stood on her toes to kiss him on the temple. “Go on.”

“Okay. Come on, Darius.”

He hooked his arm around my shoulder and led me back into the living room.



* * *





After dinner, Dayi Jamsheed’s kids pushed all the furniture in the living room against the walls, leaving the large red and green carpet in the center of the room for us to dance on.

Dayi Jamsheed had four kids: his sons Zal and Bahram, and his daughters Vida and Nazgol.

First off: My cousin Nazgol got her name from the Farsi word for flower.

She was not a Ringwraith—a Nazg?l—and I was pretty sure she had never read The Lord of the Rings, so it wasn’t like I could joke about it with her.

Second: Dayi Jamsheed must have been part-übermensch himself. The decision to name his son Bahram Bahrami must have sprung from the same well of Teutonic Nihilism that led Stephen Kellner to choose Grover as my middle name.

What kind of name is Darius Grover Kellner?

It was like I was destined to be a target.



* * *





Here’s the thing:

All Iranian songs have the exact same drumbeat.

Maybe only True, Non-Fractional, Cucumber-Loving Persians can tell them apart.

At first, only the ladies danced. They formed a circle, swaying their hips and flipping their wrists and taking tiny steps in intricate patterns on the floor. Mamou had this stained glass partition separating the living room from the dining room, and the light filtering through it cast constellations of color across my family’s faces.

Khanum Rezaei found her way to the center of the circle, where she danced with her headscarf in hand, flicking and flailing it around to the beat. Laleh laughed and tried to copy her, though my sister’s flailing was somewhat more violent.

Sohrab and I hung back in the corner. He had this cool way of snapping by clasping his hands and rubbing his index fingers against each other, but no matter how I tried I couldn’t get it, so I tapped my foot along instead. We swayed together, laughing and bumping shoulders.

It was the most fun I had ever had.

The song changed again, to one I recognized because it got played at Persian parties back home. It sounded like the infernal spawn of a Persian drum beat and a dozen Celtic fiddles.

Mamou screamed, “I love this one!” at the top of her lungs. She leaped into the middle of the circle to join Mahvash Rezaei and Laleh. The three of them kicked their feet, jumped and stomped, so vigorously they rattled the photos on the walls.

Sohrab joined in next, dragging me by the arm, and I jumped and laughed and tried to follow, but I was about as graceful as an android when it came to dancing.

Mamou took my hand, and I took Sohrab’s, and we made a chain until we were all dancing and spinning and stomping and jumping and smiling.

But even as I laughed, I thought about how Mamou and Mrs. Rezaei and Sohrab had danced this dance together before. How they had celebrated Nowruz together before.

How Mamou had kissed Sohrab on both cheeks and invited him inside for tea before. More times than anyone could count.

My chest imploded. Just a little bit.

I hated how Sohrab had a larger share of my grandmother’s life than I did.

I hated how jealous of him I was.

I hated that I couldn’t make it through a Nowruz party without experiencing Mood Slingshot Maneuvers.

But then Sohrab caught my eyes and smiled so wide at me, his eyes all crinkled up, and I smiled back at him and laughed.

Sohrab understood me.

And I understood him too.

And it was pretty much the most amazing thing ever.



* * *





In the kitchen, I found Dad sitting with Dayi Jamsheed, Dayi Soheil, and Babou, all with little plates of tokhmeh in front of them, playing an intense game of Rook.