Darius the Great Is Not Okay(65)

“Sure, sure. Your grandma makes the best chelo kabob.”

I hoped she would not be offended that Stephen Kellner had a hand in making the chelo kabob this time. Klingons could be notoriously contentious when it came to their food.

While Mrs. Rezaei sorted out which sabzi to take, I found Sohrab in the backyard.

He was kicking his soccer ball/non-American football around, barefoot and shirtless. Sweat plastered his short hair to his temples and the nape of his neck. He waved when I came out and put his hands behind his head in Surrender Cobra. His flat chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and his stomach muscles rolled with each breath.

I knew if I got close enough to him, the intense thermal radiation he was emitting would scorch me.

“Hi, Darioush,” he said. He squinted at me, but he could barely breathe.

“Hey. What were you doing?”

“Push-ups. Sit-ups. Wind sprints. Drills.”

“Wow.”

I had underestimated Sohrab’s dedication to soccer/non-American football.

Maybe I should have been practicing too.

Sohrab breathed and squinted and breathed and squinted.

I sneezed.

“Babou wanted me to ask your mom to bring some sabzi tonight. For chelo kabob.”

“Mamou makes the best chelo kabob! I eat way too much, every time.”

“Me too,” I said. “I mean, when my mom and dad make it.”

Sohrab pressed his right foot into his left, scratching at the top of it with his big toenail. The silence between us hung heavy and close. My ears warmed their way toward a Red Alert.

Sohrab swallowed. The little hollow in his collarbone stood out against his glowing skin.

“You want to play awhile?”

He knew the perfect way to puncture the silence.

“Yeah.”



* * *





It was true what everyone said:

Fariba Bahrami did make the best chelo kabob in the world.

Maybe in the entire Alpha Quadrant.

We ate in the shade of Babou’s fig trees, crowded around the card tables or sitting on the ledges of Babou’s herb planters. Unlike the Rezaeis’ garden, Babou’s hadn’t been assimilated by fresh mint, but it was only a matter of time.

Resistance is futile.

Baskets of sabzi—parsley and watercress and tarragon and basil and mint, stalks of green onion, fresh radishes carved into flowers—sat on each table. There were lemon wedges to squeeze onto our meat, and tiny glass dishes overflowing with bright ruby sumac, which was for sprinkling over everything.

It’s supposed to help with digestion, which is good, because I do not know a single Persian—Fractional or otherwise—who doesn’t overeat when chelo kabob is on the menu.

“I told you.” Sohrab bumped my shoulder. “Your grandma makes the best.”

“Yeah.”

I used the point of my spoon to break off a segment of kabob koobideh. Of all Persian foods, kabob koobideh is probably the most suspicious-looking, even more than fesenjoon. Each kabob looked like a soft brown log, shiny with oil and fat, dimpled where Dad had pinched it to seal it onto the skewer.

It was deeply suggestive.

My cousin Nazgol, who may have actually been a Ringwraith, sat on my other side, watching Laleh cut her kabob and mix grilled tomato into her rice. Nazgol turned to me and popped the petals of a radish flower into her mouth.

“You want some?”

“No thanks.”

“It’s good for you. Here.” She tried to press a piece of radish to my lips as I laughed and turned away.

“Nakon, Nazgol-khanum,” Sohrab said. “Leave him alone.”

Nazgol shrugged and turned to offer the radish to Laleh, who popped it into her mouth and then scrunched her face up.

Sohrab watched Laleh gag. He caught my eye and chuckled.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m gonna grab some more. You want any?”

“Na merci, Darioush.” He squinted at me. And then he said, “Maybe a little.”

“Okay.”

I took both our plates into the kitchen, where the platters of kabob and rice took up every square inch of available counter space. When dinner was through, the dishes would pile even higher than the mountain Mom and I had washed after Nowruz.

Chelo kabob was a serious endeavor.

Dad was refilling his plate with grilled vegetables as I scooped more saffron rice onto my own. For once he didn’t comment on my food choices, even though a second helping of rice was a classic dietary indiscretion. He was too busy fielding advice and criticism about kabob preparation from all the Bahrami men.

“You have to use enough salt. This is very important,” Dayi Jamsheed said.

“You have to pinch it better, or it falls off the skewer,” Dayi Soheil said.

“You have to make sure the grill is very hot,” Babou said. “But not too hot.”

I almost felt sorry for Dad.

Almost.

I met his eyes, to see if he needed to be rescued.

But he grinned at me and turned back to Babou.

“What I like to do is use oil on my fingers, instead of water,” Dad said. “That way they don’t stick as much. It’s messy, though.”

The Bahrami men nodded in approval.

I wasn’t jealous of him.