Darius the Great Is Not Okay(48)

Rook is a card game that, as far as I can tell, is encoded into all True Persians at the cellular level. At any gathering of four or more Persians, it was certain at least one would have a deck of cards tucked into their breast pocket.

In Rook, you played in pairs, partnered with whoever sat across from you. Through some quantum-mechanical entanglement, Dad and Babou had ended up as teammates.

I couldn’t believe Stephen Kellner was playing Rook.

I couldn’t believe he was playing with Ardeshir Bahrami.

I couldn’t believe he looked like he was actually having fun.

Stephen Kellner having fun with Ardeshir Bahrami.

I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to play Rook, not really, and last I’d heard, neither did Dad. At Persian parties we’d stand together in the corner, watching all the older Persian men play, laughing at the arguments that inevitably ensued even if we couldn’t understand a word that was said.

Babou grunted and nodded, and Dad threw the eight of hearts onto the table. While Dayi Jamsheed played, Dad looked up at me and smiled.

Smiled.

Like he was right at home.

I didn’t know how he did it. How he adapted himself to get along with all the Bahrami men, like a chameleon.

He really was the übermensch.

The kitchen was too hot. The breeze had died when the sun went down, and now the stuffy air hung still in the kitchen windows. The kettle belched steam, relentless as Smaug the Golden.

I grabbed a qottab when Dad wasn’t looking and skirted past the table, out the door to the backyard.





MAIN SEQUENCE



Something smelled sweet.

Jasmine blossoms.

I’d never smelled fresh jasmine before. It was intense, but soft as a fleece blanket. I liked jasmine in Rose City’s Dragon Pearl Jasmine, but that paled next to the scent of the fresh flowers. Mamou and Babou had planted the tiny white blooms along the perimeter of their yard, in little wooden boxes painted a soft blue.

I slid down against one of the planters and breathed in. My chest felt heavy, like someone had dropped a planet on me.

Inside, my family sat around, playing Rook and talking so I couldn’t understand them. Dancing dances they had danced with each other for years. Sharing jokes and stories I would never be a part of. Eating khiar and drinking doogh like True Persians.

Even Dad had found a way to fit in.

I didn’t belong.

“Darioush?”

It was Sohrab.

“What is the matter?”

I wiped my eyes and studied my feet. Sohrab slid down the wall next to me and pulled his knees against his chest.

“Nothing.”

There was no squint in Sohrab’s eyes.

I hadn’t noticed how big they were before.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” I said, except my throat had clamped and I sounded like a frog.

Sohrab leaned closer and bumped shoulders with me.

“Did someone say something to you?”

I shook my head and kept silent.

Sohrab reached above us and plucked a jasmine flower out of the nearest shrub. He twirled the tiny blossom back and forth and waited for me to talk.

“It’s just hard,” I said. “Everyone knows everyone. And everyone speaks Farsi. And everyone knows the dances. And I . . .”

“Don’t you remember Simin-khanum?” Sohrab said. “She loves to have you here.”

“It’s not the same, though. Dayi Soheil thinks I’m fat. And Dayi Jamsheed says I’m not Persian. But they like my dad. He’s in there playing Rook.” I hiccuped. “Everyone is disappointed in me.”

“Darioush.” Sohrab bumped my shoulder again.

“No one wants me here.”

“Everyone wants you here. We have a saying in Farsi. It translates ‘your place was empty.’ We say it when we miss somebody.”

I sniffed.

“Your place was empty before. But this is your family. You belong here.”

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

It was nice to imagine. Even if I didn’t believe him.

“Thanks, Sohrab.”



* * *





    When I had finally finished excreting stress hormones, I said, “Don’t tell Babou. Or my dad.”

“What?”

“That I was . . . you know.”

“Oh.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk to your dad?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“Um.” How was I supposed to explain the vast gulf between Stephen Kellner, Teutonic übermensch, and me, a D-Bag?

I sighed, bumping against Sohrab’s side. We had sagged closer together while I calmed down.

“It’s just . . . everything I do, he’s unhappy with me. How I cut my hair. What I eat. The backpack I take to school. My job. Everything. He’s always disappointed in me. He’s always trying to change me. To make me do things the way he would do them. To make me act how he would act.”

“Darioush . . .”

“You know what he told me? He told me people wouldn’t pick on me so much if I was more normal. What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.” Sohrab bumped me again. “You get picked on? At school?”