Darius the Great Is Not Okay(73)

It sounds weird, but they are delicious: tiny pouches of sweet, tart happiness.

In Iran, birthdays aren’t that big a deal. There was no singing or cake. Mom and Dad said they were going to give me my gifts when we got home. But Mamou and Babou gave me a beautiful antique copper teapot—it was hand-beaten and everything—and a pair of cleats. They were the same as Sohrab’s, except blue, and sized for my Hobbit feet.

I still felt terrible about Sohrab, no matter what anyone said.

I hugged and kissed my grandparents, and Babou surprised me when he kissed me back on the cheek. He held me by my elbows and looked at me.

“Darioush,” he said, so soft, only I could hear him. “Sohrab is hurting right now. But it’s not your fault.”

“Um.”

“You are a good friend, baba. And he is lucky to know you.”

He let me go and patted me on the cheek.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

After dinner—and tea and qottab—Mom helped me pack.

I didn’t need the help, but I knew, without her saying, it was because she wanted to spend a little time with me.

The Dancing Fan was dancing harder than it had ever danced before. It knew this would be its last performance.

I had a basket full of clean laundry next to me, and I handed Mom shirts to fold. She had this cool trick where she got them into perfect squares, with the sleeves tucked into the center.

She pulled out the Team Melli jersey. It had cleaned up nicely, despite me depositing the entire contents of my sinuses on it, not to mention a gallon of stress hormones.

That jersey had been my talisman—my Persian camouflage—but now I was going home. I didn’t need it anymore.

Maybe I had never needed it.

Maybe I never should have tried being something I wasn’t.

I packed the jersey and covered it with my folded boxers to keep it safe. Just in case.

“Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“You sad to be going home?”

“Not really.”

Mom looked at me.

“I’m going to miss Mamou.” I swallowed. “And Babou.”

Mom smiled when I added that.

I think I meant it too.

I think I really did.

“But . . .”

“I understand, sweetie.”

“Thanks.”



* * *





I sat in the kitchen, drinking tea with Babou and Laleh and reading The Lord of the Rings. I had finished the book but there were still the appendices.

I always read the appendices.

Babou was reading too, a green book with gilded pages. The sugar cube tucked in his cheek made his voice sound funny and his cheek puff out like a squirrel’s. Laleh sat on his lap, listening to him read in Farsi, or occasionally slurp his tea. Her head kept nodding, but she refused to go to bed.

She did not want to go home.

She was much more Persian than I was.

“Darioush-jan,” Mamou said. She smiled at us from the doorway.

She did not want us to go home either.

I wished I could take her with me.

“Sohrab is here. He wants to say good-bye.”

Red Alert.



* * *





Sohrab waited for me in the doorway, staring at the welcome mat, with his hands behind his back. He hadn’t set foot inside the house.

He looked smaller and flatter than I had ever seen him.

He had walls inside him now.

“Uh,” I said.

He looked up.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You didn’t come over today. I was worried.”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted that.”

He shuffled his feet. He was wearing the new cleats I had gotten him.

“They are perfect,” he said. “My favorite color. You noticed?”

“Yeah.”

Sohrab dug the toes of his cleats into the doormat and chewed the inside of his cheeks.

Things hadn’t been this awkward between us since that day in the bathroom, when Ali-Reza and Hossein had compared my foreskin to religious headgear.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” My ears were on fire. If there had been any weary Hobbits around, looking for somewhere to melt the One Ring of Power, they wouldn’t have needed a volcano. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

I couldn’t stand how sorry I was.

I wanted to reach out for him, to put my hand on his shoulder, to let him excrete stress hormones or scream or do whatever he needed to do.

But the walls weren’t just inside him.

They were between us.

I didn’t know how to breach them.

“It’s not your fault,” Sohrab said. “I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

“Don’t be.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I was hurting. And you were there. And I knew how to make you hurt as bad as me.”

He still wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m so ashamed,” he said. “Friends don’t do what I did.”

“Friends forgive,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it, Darioush. What I said. I want you to know.” He finally met my eyes. “I’m glad you came. You are my best friend. And I never should have treated you that way.”