by Adib Khorram
I didn’t know what else to say.
I really did like Cyprian Cusumano, but he would never see Trent Bolger for who he truly was.
“I convinced the guys to switch to Mario Kart. Wanna play?”
“I guess.”
BIG RED ROBE
When I got home, I had a cup of tea and then lay in bed staring at the ceiling, going over things in my head, trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Why Landon had left so suddenly.
It was a restless night, and a worse morning, mowing the still-damp lawn before heading downtown for my shift.
I’d never been nervous going into Rose City Teas before.
“Hey, Darius.” Kerry was working the front register. She was a twenty-something white woman with piercings up and down both ears. She wore this garish, itchy-looking cardigan over her black Rose City T-shirt, the kind where you can see the fibers stretching upward like trees reaching for the sun.
“Hey.” I looked around. “Where do you need me?”
“Stock room. But later.” She cocked her head toward the tasting room. “Mr. Edwards has a tasting for you.”
“Cool.”
After missing the last tasting, I had been kind of worried, so it was a relief when I knocked on the tasting room door and Mr. Edwards swept me inside.
“You’re in for a treat today. We just got a new batch of Wuyis in.”
Wuyi rock tea is a kind of oolong from the Wuyi Mountains in China, known for its heavy minerality, smokiness, and stone fruit notes. The Wuyi Mountains are also, supposedly, the home of the original tea bushes in China, which they use to make a tea called Da Hong Pao, or Big Red Robe.
The finest leaves sell for something like $30,000 an ounce.
Mr. Edwards had only tasted the expensive stuff once, through sheer luck, on a visit to China a few years back.
He said it was the taste of a lifetime.
“Mind grabbing some gaiwans?”
“Okay.”
I pulled down the gaiwans from the top shelf of the cupboard.
“It’s nice to have a tall guy here to help. Don’t need the step stool as much.”
I rinsed each gaiwan in warm water and then dried them as carefully as I could with a soft towel. As I set the table, Landon poked his head in.
“Hey, Dad,” he said. “What’re we doing?”
“Da Hong Pao. Come on in.”
Landon nodded at me and took a seat at the long table, while I pulled out tasting cups and spoons for us. Mr. Edwards grabbed the kettle and started pouring while I picked up my notebook and sat next to Landon.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
My skin hummed.
I wasn’t sure if things were still weird between us or not.
But then Landon reached over and put his hand on mine. I rubbed the top of his hand with my thumb.
Mr. Edwards handed around each cup of leaves for us to smell before he poured the first steeping. We sipped, and took notes, while Mr. Edwards poured the second steeping.
“Kind of bashful,” Landon said. His dad slurped a spoonful and nodded. I took my own taste.
I didn’t even know what bashful tasted like.
“Um. Smoky?”
“Yes, it’s a roasted oolong, but what do you get beyond that?”
“Um.”
I swallowed and looked down at my scribbled notes.
I felt like I was back in Algebra II, trying to figure out the equation of a parabola.
“Good mouthfeel?”
Mr. Edwards nodded, but I could sense the disappointment hanging off his shoulders as he began a second steeping.
We did three more steepings, each longer than the last. The leaves unfurled their green splendor until there was barely room to pour water over them.
When we finished the last taste, Mr. Edwards set his spoon down.
“Okay. Which one would you buy?”
“Number four tasted best,” I said.
“Landon?”
He flipped through his own notes.
“Number two.”
“Why?”
“Better operation.”
“Right. They’ve got higher volume, better pricing, they’re investing in new equipment.”
I looked down at my mess of a tasting notebook.
I wondered if I was ever going to get this right.
What was the point and purpose of loving tea if you weren’t sharing the best taste with people?
Tea was love, not money.
I blinked away my frustration before I experienced a containment breach in the tasting room.
“Good tasting, both of you.” Mr. Edwards stood and pushed his chair in. “Can you handle cleanup and then hit the stock room?”
“Sure,” Landon said.
Mr. Edwards squeezed Landon’s shoulder on the way out the door.
I took the gaiwans to the dishwasher.
“Hey.” Landon brought the spoons over. “Sorry about last night.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No. It’s just, I felt out of place, and then that guy was such an asshole when he interrupted us.”
“Trent?”
“Yeah. I didn’t like seeing him treat you that way.”
“I’m used to it.”
Landon stepped closer to me, so our hips were touching. He rested his hands on my waist.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Thanks.”
“I was having a good time, though.”
“Me too.”
“I could tell.”
My ears burned, and Landon’s cheeks flushed. He bit his lip.
“I kind of wish we’d been alone.”
I got this prickly feeling.
Like maybe I wished that too.
I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t know how to explain it to Landon that I just wasn’t ready for us to do things.
I didn’t know how to explain it to myself.
Landon squeezed my butt a little bit. “Maybe next time . . .”
Kerry popped her head in. Landon let go of me.
“Hey Darius,” she said. “We’re getting slammed at the tasting bar. You mind helping out?”
“Oh. Sure.” I kissed Landon. “Sorry.”
Landon kissed me again. “Can we talk about this, though? Tonight?”
I swallowed.
“Yeah. Sure. Tonight.”
BREAKFAST FOR DINNER
After our shift, Landon came home with me, along with a bag full of groceries to make Breakfast for Dinner, which was his favorite. The house was quiet, Laleh and Grandma and Oma all doing their own things, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that a cloud was hanging over our family.
But then Landon started cooking. He made scrambled eggs and hash browns and bacon and Brussels sprouts and brioche French toast.
Eventually Laleh came down, no doubt drawn by the smell of bacon.
“Can I help?” she asked.
Landon smiled at her. “Sure.” He had her dip the brioche and season the hash browns and even taste-test the Brussels sprouts.
Laleh loved cooking with Landon.
I couldn’t remember the last time my sister had smiled so much.
When Mom got home, she saw them cooking together and smiled, too.
I couldn’t remember the last time my mom had smiled so much either.
Even Oma and Grandma seemed happier when they sat down to a table laden with bacon and eggs and French toast.
Landon Edwards was magic.
After dinner, Mom insisted on doing the dishes herself. “You and Landon worked so hard,” she said. “Relax.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. He’s a keeper, huh?”
My ears burned.
“Thanks.”
I pulled Landon away from the living room, where he was telling Oma about the Wuyi we’d tasted (Oma was a big oolong fan), and led him up to my room.
“Hey,” he said when I closed the door and turned back to him.
“Hey. Thank you.”
“Sure.”
I wrapped my arms around him and rested my chin in his hair.
“This was really nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Everyone was so happy.”
Landon’s eyes twinkled. “I like making your family happy.”
“Thank you.” I leaned down and kissed him.
His mouth still tasted a bit like bacon, but I kind of liked it.
I led him to my bed and scooted into the corner, letting him rest against my chest. I wrapped my arms around him, kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and then I rested my head against his and closed my eyes.
I loved cuddling with Landon.
But it always turned into kissing sooner or later.
This time was no different: After a few minutes, Landon shifted and brought his lips toward mine. He was so slow and deliberate and tender, with the way he ran his hands through my hair, and grazed my lips with his, and rested his forehead against mine.
I kind of melted.
When he pulled away, his lips were puffy, and his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were soft like a cat’s. He smiled and reached out for me, taking my hand and pulling it toward his stomach. He slipped our hands under his shirt. The hairs above his waistband tickled my palm.
My breath hitched.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Can I do it to you?”
I shook my head.
He sighed and let me go. I pulled my hand back and sat on it.
“Is it something I’m doing? Or not doing?” he asked.
“No. I just . . . It’s hard.”
Landon giggled.
“Not like that. I don’t know . . .”
“I really like you, Darius.”
“I really like you too.”
Landon pushed my hair back off my forehead.
I melted a little more.
“I don’t ever want to pressure you. But I have to be honest and, well, sex is important to me. As part of a relationship.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just not ready.”
“What do you need to be ready?”
“I don’t know.”
I wanted to cry.
“I don’t know.”
Landon tugged my arm until he pulled my hand out from under me. He kissed my palm, and then he reached up and brushed a tear off my cheek. “Okay.” He wrapped his arms around me, and rested his head on my chest, and let out a little sigh.
* * *
When Landon headed home, and everyone else had gone to bed, I steeped a cup of Bai Mu Dan—this soothing, delicate white tea—to settle in for the night.
My bedroom still smelled faintly of Landon’s cologne, and I felt a little sticky and unsettled as I breathed in his scent.
I kind of wanted to go number three.
But Saturday night in Portland meant Sunday morning in Iran, and that meant Sohrab would be awake.
It took a couple rings before he answered.
“Hello, Darioush! Chetori?”
“I’m okay. How’re you? What did you do today?”
“Maman made kuku sabzi and took it for Mamou. We spent some time there.”
“How was it?”
“It was okay. Quiet. Babou was sleeping the whole time. Mamou says he is not eating much anymore.”
My chest squeezed.
And I had this really horrible thought: that the waiting was worse than Babou actually dying.
That it would be easier for everyone if he just passed away quietly.
I hated that I thought that.
I was so ashamed of myself.
“What’s wrong, Darioush?”
I shook my head and bit my lip to keep from crying.
What kind of person thinks that?
“Darioush?”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I had an ugly thought, that’s all.”
Sohrab studied me for a second. “I have those too, sometimes.”
“Yeah.” I sniffed. “How’s school?”
Sohrab sighed. “Maman doesn’t want me to go anymore.”
“Really? Why?”
“The police have been bothering Amou Ashkan a lot lately. She’s worried they will start to bother me too.”
Sohrab’s Amou Ashkan ran a store in Yazd.
“But why now?”
“I don’t know, Darioush. Sometimes they just do. To remind people they can. Or because people are unhappy, and they say it’s the fault of the Bahá’ís.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
And then I said, “I wish you could be here instead.”
Sohrab got this sad smile.
“Sometimes I wish that too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s hard for Bahá’ís to go to university here. To make a future. And we have to do military service.” He chewed on his lip.
We had talked about Iranian compulsory service before. I hated that it haunted his future.
I hated that he had to worry about his future.
It made my own worries seem small and inadequate.
“My mom has a sister who left Iran. Khaleh Safa. She and her family went to Pakistan and became refugees. Now they live in Toronto.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“My dad always said, he didn’t understand why anyone would want to leave Iran. And I used to agree with him. But now I think about Khaleh Safa a lot.”
“You want to move, then?”
“I don’t know. I wish I could go to United States for university.”
“I wish you could too.”
Sohrab chewed on his lip.
“Enough sad things. How is Landon?”
The back of my neck prickled. “He’s okay.”
Sohrab looked at me, like he knew there was more.
Sohrab always knew.
“We talked some. About stuff.”
He kept looking at me.
“Sex stuff.”
Sohrab’s eyes got big for a second and he let out this little cough.
“Oh.” Sohrab’s camera wasn’t good enough for me to tell if his face was getting red, but his voice was distinctly pinched when he said, “Are you . . .”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, though.
“No. We just talked. Landon . . . he wants to.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
Sohrab looked away for a minute. He shifted in his chair.
I could tell he was uncomfortable.
Sohrab didn’t have many walls inside, but one of them was about sex. He always got nervous if the conversation veered anywhere near the topic.
I felt kind of bad, bringing it up.
So I said, “I just want him to be happy.”
And Sohrab said, “I want you to be happy too, Darioush.”
“Thanks.”
A silence hung between us, laden with the things we couldn’t say out loud.
I swallowed.
“Mamou and Babou don’t know.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to tell them.”
“I know.”
MIRROR UNIVERSE
Our next soccer match was an away game, against Poplar Grove High School down in Salem.
After school, we grabbed our away kits and boarded the bus waiting in the student parking lot. I ended up in the middle of the bus
, with Chip right across the aisle from me. At the front, Coach Bentley cleared her throat.
“It’s your first away game, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m not going to bore you with the Code of Conduct or anything. You all know what’s expected of you. So why don’t we go make it three and oh?”
We all cheered. The airbrakes hissed, the door hinged shut, and the bus lurched into motion, but Coach Bentley stayed standing, swaying as the bus mounted the speed bumps at the parking lot’s exit.
“Some of you have been asking about recruiters.” She glanced around, her eyes lingering on Gabe. He was, empirically speaking, our best player, and had a real chance of getting scouted. “I suspect there will be some today. I know it’s pointless telling you not to feel pressured. But I hope you’ll remember that this isn’t a singular opportunity, for any of you. There will be other games, other recruiters, and other paths to the future you want. So just get out there, play hard, and have fun. Go Chargers!”
“Go Chargers!” we shouted.
The bus bounced as we got onto the highway, and the guys settled into the ride, playing on their phones or talking or, sometimes, shouting from one end of the bus to the other.
In front of me, Gabe and Jaden speculated about which schools might have scouts at our game.
“Probably UW and UO, at least,” Jaden said. “Maybe Idaho?”
Gabe laughed. “Do they have schools in Idaho?”
“No idea. Hey, Darius.”
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think is gonna be at the game?”
“Oh,” I said. “I dunno.”
I was a junior. And besides, I was a defender. No one ever paid attention to defenders.
Plus, like I said, I was pretty sure college wasn’t for me. I knew Mom and Dad wanted me to go, but I just couldn’t see myself being happy there.
Across from me, Chip frowned at his phone, thumbs jabbing the screen. He huffed, crossed his arms, and stared out the window.
I watched him for a second, and then looked out my own window. It was one of those perfectly clear fall days where you can just barely make out Mount Hood to the east. I watched it as best I could, my view interrupted by billboards every so often, but the back of my neck prickled.
Chip huffed again, and then sighed.
I leaned across the aisle. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, but he kept his arms crossed and his shoulders up around his ears.
