Darius the Great Is Not Okay(49)

“Yeah. Some of the guys tease me. A lot.”

“Sorry.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad would just say that they’re wrong. That they’re wrong about me. That they’re wrong to do that. But he acts like it’s my fault. Like if I could make myself into a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy they’d leave me alone. And it’s not just school. It’s everything. It’s every mood I have. It’s like Dad’s convinced I’m going to . . .”

“To what?”

I swallowed.

“Darioush?”

“So. I’m depressed. I mean, I have depression. Clinically.”

“Did something bad happen? To make you so sad?”

Some people meant it judgmentally when they asked, but not Sohrab.

He said it like I was a puzzle, one he was enjoying putting together.

Even if the pieces didn’t quite make sense.

“No. I’m just messed up. My brain makes the wrong chemicals.”

My ears burned.

“Nothing bad has ever happened to me.”

I felt terrible saying it out loud.

Dr. Howell—and Dad too—always told me not to be ashamed. But it was hard not to be.

“How long have you had it?”

“I dunno. A while,” I said. “It’s genetic. Dad has it too.”

“But you don’t talk to him about it? When you are sad, like now?”

“No.”

Sohrab chewed on his bottom lip.

“Sometimes,” I said, “it feels like he doesn’t really love me. Not really.”

“Why?”

I told Sohrab about telling stories. I told him about soccer and about Boy Scouts. I told him about all the steps Dad and I had taken away from each other. And how we never really went back.

Sohrab was a good listener. He never played devil’s advocate or told me what I was feeling was wrong, the way Stephen Kellner did. He nodded to let me know he understood, and laughed if I said something funny.

But eventually, even the topic of Stephen Kellner ran its course.

I played with the hem of my Team Melli jersey, twisting it around and around my index fingers.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“You never talk about your dad. And he’s not here. Is he . . .”

Sohrab looked away and bit his cheek again.

“I’m sorry. I just wondered.”

“No.” He looked up at me. “It’s okay. Most people already know. And you are my friend.” Sohrab pulled down another jasmine blossom to play with. “My father is in jail.”

“Oh.”

I had never known anyone who knew someone in jail.

“What happened?”

“You saw in the news about the protests? Years ago. When there were elections?”

“I think so?”

I would have to ask Mom to be sure.

“There were protests here, in Yazd too. My dad was there. Not protesting. He was on the way to work. He owns the store with Amou Ashkan.”

I nodded.

“The police came. They were dressed like protesters too.”

“Plainclothes?”

“Yes. He was arrested with the protesters. He has been there since then.”

“What? Why?”

“He is Bahá’í. It’s not so good if you’re arrested and you’re Bahá’í. You know?”

I shook my head. “But Mamou and Babou aren’t Muslim. They don’t get much trouble.”

“But it’s different for Zoroastrians. The government doesn’t like Bahá’ís.”

“Oh.”

I never knew that.

I felt even more ashamed.

Sohrab had been pretty much fatherless for years, but here I was, complaining about Stephen Kellner who, while imperfect, was certainly less terrifying than the Iranian government.

“I’m really sorry, Sohrab.”

I bumped my shoulder against his, and he let out a sigh and relaxed a little.

“It’s okay, Darioush.”

I knew without him saying that it wasn’t.

Not really.



* * *





Sohrab and I sat out in the garden talking as the evening chill descended on us. The fine, dark hairs on Sohrab’s arms stood at attention. “We should go inside. It’s getting late. I think my mom already left.”

I shivered. “Okay.”

My foot had fallen asleep. It felt like I was walking on glass shards as I followed Sohrab inside.

I did feel better, though. Sohrab had that effect on people.

Everyone had left. Dad and Babou sat alone at the kitchen table, sipping tea and talking quietly.

“I don’t know,” Dad said. “It’s like he’s always making things hard on himself.”

“It’s too late to change him,” Babou said. “You can’t control him, Stephen.”

“I don’t want to control him. He’s just so stubborn.”

My ears burned. I waited for them to notice me and Sohrab standing in the doorway.

“Don’t worry so much, Stephen. At least he made friends with Sohrab. He is going to be fine.”