Darius the Great Is Not Okay(69)

“I’m sorry, Mom.”





MAGNETIC CONTAINMENT



I wrapped Sohrab’s cleats in the ads section of one of Mamou’s Yazdi news magazines, covered with pictures of scruff-faced men in button-up shirts advertising real estate or plastic surgery or new cars.

It was our last game.

I was not okay with that.

I was not okay with saying good-bye to Sohrab.

And I kind of hated Mom and Dad for bringing me to Iran, knowing I’d have to say good-bye.

I left a few minutes early, so Sohrab could try on his cleats before we headed to the field. But when I got there, a strange vehicle was parked outside his house: a tiny grayish-brown hatchback that had been waxed to such a shine, I sneezed when I caught the sun’s reflection off the front fender.

I knocked on Sohrab’s door and then shifted the box of cleats. I wasn’t sure what to do with it: whether I should hold it out in front of me, or hide it behind my back, or tuck it under my arm.

There was no answer. I knocked again, a little louder.

Sometimes Sohrab or his mom couldn’t hear me knocking, if they were in the bathroom or on the phone or out in the backyard.

Maybe they were enjoying another Ping-Pong table full of romaine lettuce and Babou’s sekanjabin.

I gave up on the front door and picked my way around the side of the house, tiptoeing between the square stones that constituted the Rezaeis’ landscaping.

But the backyard was empty—no Sohrab, no lettuce. Just the Ping-Pong table folded upright and pushed against the wall of the house. It rattled on its hinges, a rigid green sail tossed in the stiff Yazdi breeze.

I rubbed the flat of my thumbnail against my bottom lip. I wished I had some tassels.

I wondered if Sohrab and his mom had gone out. If they had forgotten I was coming by.

But then, through the little window in the door, I caught sight of Sohrab’s amou Ashkan in the kitchen, pacing back and forth, in and out of my view.

I knocked on the back door.

“Hi. I mean, Alláh-u-Abhá, Agha Rezaei.”

“Alláh-u-Abhá, Agha Darioush,” he said. But there was a sadness in his voice, and he wasn’t smiling.

Sohrab’s uncle had the kind of face that looked wrong without a smile.

“It is good to see you.”

He stood back to let me in. I slipped off my Vans and set them against the door. There was no sign of Sohrab.

“Um. Is everything okay?”

The other Mr. Rezaei sighed. Not an exasperated sigh, but a sad one. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Come in.” He took my shoulder and led me into the living room.

Mrs. Rezaei sat slumped on the couch, looking like she had just strode inside from a battlefield, leaving behind a trail of corpses in true Klingon fashion. Her hair was black flames licking the air around her. Her makeup, normally so careful, was wild and smeared. Her chest heaved.

She was sobbing.

I felt terrible for thinking of her like a Klingon.

I was a complete and utter D-Bag.

Sohrab had his arms wrapped around her, like he could keep her from flying apart if he squeezed tight enough. At first I thought he was shaking with the effort, but fat, sloppy tears were pouring down his cheeks too.

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Sohrab-jan. Mahvash. Darioush is here.”

Mahvash Rezaei moaned. It was the worst sound I had ever heard in my life. It was the sound someone makes when they’ve been stabbed in the heart.

Sohrab took his mom’s hand, gently uncurling her manicured fingers and weaving them with his own. He rested his chin on his mom’s head and held her tighter.

“Um.”

I felt so useless.

My palms were sweating on Sohrab’s box, smudging the wrapping paper.

“Can I. Uh. Make some tea? Or something?”

I knew it was stupid as soon as I said it.

Sohrab’s head snapped up.

“Go away, Darioush.”

His voice was as sharp as a knife.

“Sorry. I just . . .”

“Get out!”

My stomach inverted itself.

“Sohrab,” Agha Rezaei said softly. He spoke in Farsi, but Sohrab argued back, his voice rising in pitch and volume until it started cracking.

Sohrab’s uncle shook his head and led me back to the kitchen. His hands shook as he filled the kettle.

“Here.” I set Sohrab’s cleats on the counter and grabbed the Rezaeis’ tea out of the drawer to the right of the stove.

I swallowed and swallowed but I couldn’t get rid of the pulsing lump in my throat.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

I couldn’t make my voice work properly.

Ashkan Rezaei opened his lips to speak, but then pressed them back together as they trembled.

He was crying too.

“It’s my dad.” Sohrab hovered in the doorway, radiating fury. His jaw clenched and unclenched. “He’s dead.”

I wished I could time travel.

I wished I could unravel everything and make it not true.

“Amou.” Sohrab said something in Farsi to his uncle, who looked like his knees were about to buckle. He used that same knife-sharp voice he used on me.

Agha Rezaei shook his head and went back into the living room.