Darius the Great Deserves Better

by Adib Khorram

  * * *

  Chip and I walked our bikes down The Big Hill. He insisted on carrying my messenger bag for me, so he had his and mine slung over each shoulder, the straps making an X across his chest like some sort of animé hero.

  The afternoon light caught the fine hairs on the back of his neck, where his fade had started to grow out, and painted his skin gold.

  Cyprian Cusumano was a beautiful guy. It was impossible to ignore that about him, even though I was with Landon.

  That’s normal.

  Right?

  We didn’t talk much on our walk, just trudged down the hill. Sometimes Chip would glance at me and give me one of his grins.

  I didn’t know what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.

  And my chest felt tight, walking alone with him in a loaded silence, knowing he had seen me naked earlier, when my own boyfriend hadn’t seen me naked.

  Why did it make me feel so weird?

  And wrong?

  And excited?

  “It’s this way,” Chip said, turning us onto a side street that led up another, smaller hill. It was shorter than The Big Hill, but way steeper. “We’re at the top, sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I bet it sucks riding up this after practice.”

  “It’s not so bad after practice. Way worse back when I was on the football team, and Coach Winfield made us do sled pushes.”

  “Coach Winfield is the worst.”

  “Dude, I know. Trent says he can always tell when Coach Winfield is in a bad mood, because that’s when he makes everyone do squats. Says it brings a sense of order to his universe.”

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  I really didn’t get how Chip could be friends with a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy like Trent Bolger, or how he could just bring up Trent in conversation with me when he knew—he knew—how Trent treated me.

  Chip cleared his throat. “Hey. Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

  “Um. I guess?”

  “I kind of saw you in the locker room.”

  The back of my neck prickled.

  I didn’t know where this conversation was headed, but I had the strong urge to throw myself back down the hill we were climbing.

  I glanced sideways at Chip—his face was bright red—and then looked back at my feet.

  “Are you . . . uncut?”

  “I mean. Yeah?” I swallowed. “But I think intact is a better word.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  And then he said, “I wish my parents had left me intact.”

  My whole body was on fire.

  I swallowed again.

  Chip stepped around a pothole and brushed shoulders with me.

  “Sorry if I made it weird.”

  It was super weird.

  I would rather have gotten another knee to the balls than discuss my foreskin with Cyprian Cusumano.

  “It’s fine,” I squeaked. “It’s not weird. I mean.”

  I didn’t know what I meant.

  I cleared my throat.

  Chip just shrugged and led me up his driveway. He dug through his messenger bag for a moment and must have had a remote for the garage door, because the left one started opening.

  “You can leave your bike in here,” he said. “What time . . .”

  Before he could finish, the door from the garage to the house burst open, and a small blur darted for Chip.

  He laughed and scooped up a little toddler—they couldn’t have been more than two years old—with light brown skin and dark, curly hair.

  Chip was white. At least, I thought he was white, with his pale skin and soft brown hair. So I kind of wondered who the kid was.

  Not that I could ask that kind of question out loud.

  “Hi,” I said as the kid looked over Chip’s shoulder at me. I gave a little wave. “I’m Darius.”

  The kid’s eyes got big.

  Chip laughed again and angled himself so both he and his passenger could see me.

  “Say hi, Evie,” Chip said. His grin was so big it wasn’t even a grin anymore: He was totally beaming.

  “Hi,” Evie whispered.

  Chip planted a loud smooch on Evie’s cheek, which got a giggle. “This is my niece.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  Chip led me into the house as Evie talked his ear off. I couldn’t make out a word she said: She was talking too fast, and in that funny way toddlers have, where they know what they want to say but can’t quite form the words all the way. Chip was smiling so big his eyes were squinting up.

  I really liked seeing him smile like that.

  He never smiled like that at school.

  “You doing okay? Need another ice pack?”

  “I think I’m good.”

  Chip shifted Evie a little bit to free up one hand, and pulled a cheese stick out of the fridge. He peeled it open and handed it to Evie.

  “Where’s your mommy?” he asked.

  “Upstairs.” Evie squirmed a bit. Chip kissed her one more time and set her down. She ran out of the kitchen, doing that funny run little kids do, where they lift their knees up really high and stomp their tiny feet as they go.

  Chip grabbed a red Gatorade out of the fridge and handed me a purple one.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Really? She graduated last year. Ana.”

  “Oh,” I said. “From Chapel Hill?”

  Chip nodded, like I should have remembered. “I’ve got an older brother too. But he graduated before we started.”

  My ears burned.

  I had a whole bunch of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask them.

  In fact, I was pretty sure it would be rude to ask them.

  So I said, “How old is she?”

  “Ana?”

  “Evie.”

  “Oh. She’ll be two in December.”

  “That’s a good age,” I said, because that’s what everyone always says, no matter what age is being discussed.

  “Yeah.”

  We looked at each other for a long moment as the kitchen walls closed in on us. The air in the room grew heavy and pregnant.

  Which was a weird thought to have, since I was just thinking about Chip’s sister being pregnant while she was in high school. And wondering lots of things that weren’t my business.

  My heart thudded against my sternum.

  Chip kept looking at me.

  I looked down at my hands.

  “I should probably let my grandmas know where to pick me up.”

  * * *

  A dark blue Camry pulled into Chip’s driveway: Oma’s car. She honked twice.

  Linda Kellner was a paragon of Teutonic punctuality.

  “Oh. That’s my ride,” I said.

  I dumped my ziplock baggie full of half-melted ice into the sink—I’d started aching again as we went over my Algebra II answers—while Chip gathered up our Gatorade bottles.

  “Thanks for letting me hang out,” I said. “I don’t think I would have survived a bike ride tonight.”

  “It’s all good.”

  “And thanks for your help. Really.”

  Chip grinned. “I had fun.”

  I groaned. “Math is not fun.”

  “Well, I enjoyed the company at least.”

  Chip kept grinning at me, but it wasn’t his usual grin. There was something gentler about it. Almost like a question.

  “Well. Thanks.”

  “Anytime. You wanna leave your bike here? You can get it after practice tomorrow?”

  My face heated at that. I wasn’t sure why.

  But I said “Sure,” because Oma didn’t have a bike rack.

  As I laced up my shoes, Evie ran down the stairs. Chip scooped her up mid-dash and swung her up to cover her f
ace with kisses. She squealed and laughed and said “Noooo!”

  Chip stopped. “No?”

  “Not now.”

  “Okay.” Chip set her down, and she scampered off into the kitchen.

  I liked that he respected her boundaries, even though she was a toddler.

  I thought that was really cool.

  “Say bye to Darius!”

  “Bye, Evie!” I called after her, but she ignored us both. Chip just shook his head.

  In the driveway, Oma honked again.

  “Well.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  IRON GODDESS OF MERCY

  Linda Kellner didn’t like to listen to music in the car. She always listened to the news.

  She also didn’t like to talk very much.

  “Hi, Oma,” I said as I buckled up. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  Oma nodded and then turned up her NPR.

  That meant the conversation was over.

  Like I said, I’d never been very close with Oma. Or with Grandma.

  Linda and Melanie Kellner weren’t very demonstrative with their affection.

  I thought maybe that was just how grandparents were, until I went to Iran. Mamou had practically smothered me with hugs and kisses, and even Babou’s reserve had cracked as we spent time together.

  When we got home, Oma parked on Dad’s side of the driveway. I got out and punched in the code to open the door.

  Grandma was at the kitchen table doing a puzzle while Laleh read. It looked like she had finished Dune, but I couldn’t tell what the new book was.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Laleh.”

  Laleh nodded but kept reading.

  “Go get ready for dinner,” Oma said. “It’ll be done soon.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t actually have that much to do to get ready—just drop off my stuff in my room—but I took the opportunity for privacy to check the status of my testicles.

  They were still red, but less angry-looking, and they didn’t hurt so much when I pressed on them.

  I sighed with relief.

  It was bad enough, explaining to Oma what happened and why I needed a ride.

  I did not want to reopen the subject and ask her to take me to the doctor for broken testicles.

  “Dinner!”

  I put on a pair of clean compression shorts, to keep things supported, and headed downstairs.

  My grandmothers had made ground beef tacos.

  Mom always said the only spices Grandma and Oma knew about were salt and pepper, but that wasn’t technically true, if you counted the pouch of taco seasoning Grandma used.

  I handed out plates, made two tacos for myself, and took my seat. I shifted a little, and tried not to wince, but Oma noticed.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just sore.”

  “What happened?” Laleh asked.

  My ears burned. “I got hit in practice today. I’m okay, though.”

  “Stephen said you won your first game,” Grandma said. “He sent pictures. It looked like a good one.”

  “Yeah.”

  While Laleh crunched on her taco—which was mostly cheese and shell, with a little bit of lettuce and tomato and a sprinkling of beef—Oma asked, “When’s your next one?”

  “Friday.”

  “Well, keep on winning. If you do well this season, you might be in line for a scholarship.”

  Oma said, “Especially if you get your GPA up.”

  I crunched my taco so I wouldn’t have to respond.

  The thing is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to college. In fact, I was pretty sure it would be a bad fit for me.

  I knew my grandmothers were only trying to help, but somehow that only made me feel worse.

  I swallowed.

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  While Grandma put away the leftovers and Oma did the dishes, I made us a pot of tea.

  “What’s that you’re making?” Oma asked over her shoulder.

  “Ti Kwan Yin.”

  Ti Kwan Yin means “Iron Goddess of Mercy.” It’s a Chinese oolong with pretty much the coolest name ever.

  Normally I made it in a gaiwan, but with three of us it wasn’t practical.

  Grandma and Oma settled on the couch, each at one end, and I took the chair. After a while, Oma reached for the TV remote and turned on a cooking competition.

  For people who didn’t use seasoning, Grandma and Oma really liked cooking shows.

  We sipped and sipped as the silence between us built, a cascading wave of missed opportunities.

  I wanted my grandmothers to ask me to sit with them.

  I wanted them to pause the show so we could talk.

  I wanted them to be more like Mamou and Babou.

  But I didn’t know how to say that out loud.

  So instead I said, “I’m gonna see if Laleh wants any tea.”

  My sister’s door was half-open, but I still knocked on the frame: one-three-three, which was our special knock. “You want some tea?”

  “Yeah.”

  Laleh curled her legs under her and let me sit on her bed. She had one of those huge pillows with armrests built into it, soft pink with a purple fringe on top. It was dented in the middle from all the hours she’d spent sitting against it reading.

  I handed her a tasting cup—a ceramic one emblazoned with the Rose City logo—and tilted my head to look at the spine of her book.

  “The Shining?” I asked. “Is it good?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Scary?”

  “Nah.”

  Laleh blew on her tea and took a sip. I took a bigger slurp from my own cup.

  “Hmm,” Laleh said. She smacked her lips. “It’s sweet.”

  “It’s got notes of honey,” I said. “And milk too. But I didn’t put any sugar in it.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded.

  Laleh took another sip. “It’s okay. Not as good as Persian tea.”

  “Noted.” We sat together, enjoying our tea.

  Then I said, “Is school any better?”

  Laleh shrugged.

  “Are Micah and Emily treating you better?”

  Laleh shook her head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay.

  “Have you talked to your teacher?”

  “No.” She sighed. “Emily’s her favorite. She never gets in trouble.”

  “Oh.”

  I wanted to build a force field around my sister, to shield her from Micah and Emily and her teacher and all the other Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy lurking in her future.

  I hated how helpless I was.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  Laleh shook her head again, and then turned back to her book, like she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  I leaned over and kissed the crown of her head.

  “Love you, Laleh,” I whispered into her hair.

  * * *

  It was nearly nine o’clock when the garage door finally rumbled. Everyone else was in bed, but I was sitting in the kitchen, icing myself again.

  I dumped the ice in the sink and pulled out the leftover taco meat for Mom.

  “Hey, sweetie.” I wrapped my mom in a hug, but her whole body was like a polarized hull plate, rigid and brittle. After a moment she finally relaxed against me. But then the microwave beeped.

  “You don’t need to do that for me.”

  “I want to.”

  “All right. How was your day?”

  “It was okay,” I said. Mom didn’t seem like she was in the mood to hear about my testicula
r trauma.

  I wasn’t in the mood to talk about it anyway.

  “How was yours?”

  “Long.”

  I pulled down a plate for her and grabbed the rest of the taco fixings out of the fridge while she checked something on her phone. She looked up and frowned at me. “I can make my own dinner, you know.”

  “I don’t mind. Want some tea?”

  Mom sighed and sat down. “I better not. Thanks.”

  I grabbed my cup—a second steeping of Ti Kwan Yin, which had more mellow floral notes than the first steeping—and sat next to her.

  “How did your test go?”

  “I got a C.”

  “Do you need some help? We can go over your problems together.”

  “It’s okay. I went to Chip’s after practice and we worked on it together.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” Mom took a bite of taco and studied me as she chewed. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

  I don’t know why it felt like such an accusation when she said that.

  I don’t know why I felt like I had to defend myself.

  “He’s been really helpful,” I said. “Oh. I left my bike at his house. Think you can drop me off in the morning?”

  Mom frowned. “I can’t tomorrow. Early meeting. Oma or Grandma will have to.”

  “Oh.”

  “I wish I could, though.”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  I let Mom eat in silence after that.

  There was something she wasn’t saying out loud, something I was supposed to know but didn’t.

  When she finished, she wiped her hands and mouth, careful to avoid her lipstick.

  “I better go put Laleh to bed.”

  “Oma already did. She even got her to take a bath.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well then.” Mom glanced toward the stairs.

  I sipped my tea.

  “Want to watch something? Star Trek?”

  “Um.”

  Mom had never asked me to watch Star Trek before.

  That was always me and Dad’s thing.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I was trying to figure out if we should continue where Dad and I left off, or start a different series, but then Mom said, “Never mind. Sorry.”