Darius the Great Deserves Better

by Adib Khorram

  “Hi, sweetie. How was your day?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Better than Laleh’s. You heard what happened?”

  Mom sighed and went to the fridge. She opened the bag of leftover bacon, pulled a piece out, and ate it cold.

  My lips quirked.

  “What?”

  “You used to yell at me when I did that.”

  “I did not.”

  I grinned.

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah. And then Dad would ask me why I wasn’t eating a piece of fruit or a celery stick instead.”

  Mom sighed. Her shoulders slumped.

  I had never seen my mother look so exhausted before.

  “We’ve been pretty crappy parents, haven’t we?”

  I blinked.

  Mom had never said something like that to me before.

  “Of course not.”

  Mom grabbed another piece of bacon and tossed the bag back in the fridge.

  “Really,” I said.

  “Thank you, sweetie.” She plopped onto the chair next to me. “I’m just tired. And now your sister’s teacher wants me to come in for a conference.”

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “She said Laleh’s been having trouble in class lately. And today she got into a fight.”

  “One of Laleh’s classmates called her a terrorist,” I said. “And some of them have been calling her Lolly.”

  Mom shook her head and looked toward the stairs.

  I swallowed.

  “She said it’s been happening ever since we went to Iran.”

  Mom snapped back to me.

  “What are you saying? We shouldn’t have gone?”

  I didn’t know why she was so angry.

  I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.

  “I’m not saying that.”

  Mom huffed.

  “Really.” I twisted the hem of my shirt around my finger. “If we hadn’t gone to see Babou? I think we would have regretted it forever.”

  I watched the anger drain from Mom’s face.

  “It’s just. Well, Laleh never stood out before that. She got treated like all the white kids. But now . . .”

  “Iranians are white, though.”

  I bit my lip.

  Just because that’s the blank we fill out on forms at the doctor’s office doesn’t make it true. No one at school ever treated me like I was white once they found out my mom was from Iran.

  Laleh’s classmates weren’t treating her like she was white.

  So I said, “Laleh is getting singled out. And the teacher is punishing her instead of the kids teasing her.”

  “You’re right.” Mom pursed her lips. “But I don’t know what to do. I have a meeting with a client tomorrow afternoon. Grandma is going with Laleh instead.”

  I thought about Melanie Kellner, trying to explain racism to Laleh’s teacher.

  I thought about how none of my own teachers ever got what it was like. How they never protected me from being a Target.

  “Want me to go with them?”

  “You don’t have to do that, sweetie. Don’t you have practice?”

  “Coach Bentley will understand,” I said. “I want to. Really. I’m the only one who knows what it’s like.”

  Mom started running her fingers through my hair.

  “Was school like that for you too?”

  “Sometimes.” It still was, kind of. “Sometimes people just don’t like Iranians. Or anyone from the Middle East, really.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Mom stared out the kitchen window.

  “You know, when I first moved here, people said things to me too. Especially after 9/11.”

  She kept playing with my hair.

  “I guess I just got used to it. And I worked hard to be as white as I could. That’s one reason I didn’t teach you Farsi like I should have.”

  Mom had told me that before: that she didn’t want me to feel different from the other kids.

  “I even went by Sharon for a while, because my professors couldn’t say Shirin right.”

  “Sharon Bahrami?”

  Mom snorted. “It lasted about two weeks, before your dad talked me out of it.” She smiled and twisted a lock of my hair around her finger, then let it go and admired the curl. She rested her palm against my cheek.

  “Maybe I should have learned more, so I could prepare you and your sister better. But no one wants to think that their kids are going to get called terrorists at school. And that they can’t protect them from it.”

  “You don’t have to protect me, Mom.”

  Mom pulled my head down to kiss my forehead.

  “Yes I do,” she said. “Always.”

  “Well.” I swallowed. “I have to protect Laleh.”

  Mom gave me this sad smile.

  I had never noticed the little creases in the corners of her eyes before.

  “You’re a good brother.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS

  Rising Hill Elementary School was something of a misnomer. The school sat in a valley between two smaller hills, neither of which were actually named Rising Hill—or named anything at all, as far as I could tell.

  The school was new: They finished it right before Laleh started first grade. The exterior was all endless gleaming windows and repurposed lumber, with solar panels on the roof and geothermal heating and cooling inside.

  The parking lot was still full as Grandma pulled Oma’s Camry into a visitor’s spot.

  Laleh squirmed in the back seat.

  “We’re late.” Grandma clicked her tongue. “Better hurry.”

  Our meeting with Laleh’s teacher was at 5:00.

  It was 4:55.

  Melanie Kellner was compulsively early to everything.

  I opened Laleh’s door for her and offered my hand as we walked inside, but she shook her head, hunched her shoulders, and trudged ahead between me and Grandma with her hands in her coat pockets.

  Everything inside Rising Hill Elementary looked so small: Signs were posted lower on the walls, hallways were narrower, drinking fountains were down at knee height.

  Had my own elementary school been that small?

  A friendly young white man in a bow tie and thick-framed glasses greeted us.

  “Here for a meeting?” he asked. He had a mellow voice, and there was something in it that kind of made me wonder if he was queer too.

  Sometimes I did this thing where I imagined other people I met were queer. Just because I liked to think there were lots of us around.

  I wondered if other people did that.

  I wondered if Grandma and Oma did that.

  “Here to see Miss Hawn,” Grandma said, like we were at a doctor’s office.

  “Sure thing.” The guy took Grandma’s driver’s license and my student ID and put them through this little scanner/printer to make visitor stickers for us. “Here you go.”

  The guy looked down at Laleh. “You think you can take them to your classroom, Lalah?”

  I bristled. He said my sister’s name like it rhymed with Challah bread.

  Laleh just nodded. But I said, “It’s pronounced Laleh.”

  The guy blinked. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Laleh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks. I won’t mess it up again.”

  “Cool.” I gave the guy one of those closed-mouth smiles and followed Laleh to her classroom.

  * * *

  Miss Hawn’s classroom was a nightmare.

  Here’s the thing: I never understood the point and purpose of SpongeBob SquarePants.

  I never watched it when I was little. According to Dad, I used to cry when it came on, and he had to c
hange the channel.

  To be honest, I still found it deeply unnerving.

  So when we stepped into Miss Hawn’s classroom, and I saw a SpongeBob SquarePants figurine on her desk, and a poster of him with the phrase READING IS MAGIC suspended on a rainbow between his hands, I kind of shuddered.

  Miss Hawn sat at her desk, looking up at us with a practiced smile. She had blue eyes and blond hair that was parted in the middle and curled up on the sides.

  She looked like a banana split.

  I thought that was kind of a mean thing to think, that Laleh’s teacher looked like a dessert that contained dairy products and (most likely) nuts, but it was hard to think anything nice about her after holding Laleh while she cried herself to sleep.

  “Have a seat,” Miss Hawn said. “You must be . . .”

  “Melanie Kellner,” Grandma said. “Laleh’s grandmother.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand over her desk. Grandma shook it and then took a seat in an uncomfortable-looking metal folding chair. “And you must be Darius.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes crinkled up. “If I had known you were coming I would have gotten you a better seat.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I sat next to Laleh on one of the third-grader-sized seats. My knees were nearly in my chest, and Laleh giggled at me. I wanted to make a face at her, but we were here to be serious, so I just put my hands on my knees and tried to look as professional as I could in my work jeans and a light green button-up I’d gotten for soccer functions where we had to dress Business Casual.

  As someone with years of experience attempting to decipher various interpretations of Persian Casual—the complex set of intersecting Social Cues that dictated attire at various Iranian functions—I found the simplicity of Business Casual a welcome relief.

  “So.” Miss Hawn typed into her computer, clicked her mouse a few times, and turned back to us. She put her hands on her desk, one on top of the other. “I’m sorry to ask you to come in. Normally we handle discipline matters in class, but there are some other concerns I have.”

  “Other concerns?” Grandma said.

  “Her unusual behavior yesterday aside, Laleh is at the top of her class. She’s the first one to turn in assignments. She’s reading well above grade level. And I’m worried she’s not being challenged in class.” Miss Hawn cleared her throat and tucked a stray lock of banana split behind her ear. “I think that might be playing into some of her behavior lately.”

  Next to me, Laleh crossed her arms and looked at her feet. She was wearing her favorite white sneakers, and she kept tapping her heels together, like Dorothy trying to wish herself back home.

  I raised my hand.

  Some habits die hard.

  Miss Hawn’s nose scrunched up as she half smiled. “Yes?”

  “Well.” I swallowed. “What about the other kids?”

  She blinked.

  “What about them?”

  “Well, what happened to the kids who keep calling Laleh ‘Lolly’ on purpose?”

  She blinked again. “I don’t . . . hmm. I haven’t noticed that. I promise I’ll pay closer attention.”

  “What about Micah calling her a terrorist?”

  Miss Hawn’s eyes went wide.

  “Micah said that?”

  Laleh was still staring at her feet. I felt her shake a little next to me, so I put my hand on her knee and squeezed it. After a second, she nodded.

  “That’s certainly unacceptable,” Miss Hawn said. “But I don’t think he understands the context of what he’s saying.”

  My voice shook. “I think he does.” Grandma put her hand on my shoulder, but I kept going. “He sees stuff like that on TV all the time. That’s how white people see people like Laleh and me.”

  Miss Hawn clenched her hands.

  “Not all of us,” she said.

  “That’s not—”

  But Grandma cut me off. “I think what Darius is trying to say is that it seems you’re singling her out by only punishing her.”

  I blinked at Grandma.

  That wasn’t what I was trying to say at all.

  I was trying to explain what it was like for Laleh.

  For me.

  Grandma never seemed to want to know about that, though.

  Miss Hawn cleared her throat again. “I’ll talk to Micah tomorrow. But I’d like for us to focus on Laleh’s future.”

  “What about it?” Grandma asked.

  “I’d like for Laleh to take the test for the district’s gifted program. Her OAKS scores are exemplary, and her other teachers think it would be good for her too.”

  Grandma looked at me and then at Laleh, who kicked her heels together again.

  And then she nodded to herself and turned back to Miss Hawn.

  “What would that entail?”

  * * *

  The drive home was quiet.

  Grandma didn’t speak, because much like Oma, she never talked while she drove.

  Unlike Oma, she didn’t listen to NPR: She left the radio off because she didn’t want distractions.

  And Laleh didn’t speak. I got the feeling she was still kind of mad at Miss Hawn, too mad to process any of the good stuff Miss Hawn said about her. And mad at Grandma, for acting like everything was fine. And maybe mad at me too, for letting her down.

  Miss Hawn wouldn’t listen to me. And Grandma totally derailed what I wanted to talk about. Nothing was going to change.

  I was so ashamed.

  I didn’t speak either.

  * * *

  When we got home, Laleh ran straight up to her room. I walked inside with Grandma.

  “I’m going to call your mother,” she said.

  I made a pot of tea—some Moroccan Mint that Laleh liked—and loaded a tray with cups and spoons and a jar of local wildflower honey.

  My sister’s door was all the way closed again. I wondered if that was the new normal for her.

  “Laleh? My hands are full. Can I come in?”

  For a second I thought she was going to say no. Or just ignore me. But then the door unlatched and rested against the jamb.

  I shouldered the door open, then closed it behind me with my foot.

  “Want some tea?”

  “Sure.”

  Laleh flopped back down on her bed face-first, right back onto the damp spot she’d been crying into.

  “Honey?”

  Laleh nodded. I poured her a cup and spooned a dollop of honey into it.

  “You want to stir?”

  Laleh sat up and took her cup, clanging the spoon against the rim as she stirred.

  She always clanged her spoon against the cup. At least that hadn’t changed.

  “Hey.” I sat on her floor and leaned against her bed. “I’m really sorry, Laleh.”

  “Why?”

  “I let you down. With Miss Hawn.”

  Laleh shook her head. “Why wouldn’t she listen to you?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  I sipped my tea.

  Laleh sipped hers.

  “Sometimes people think they’re doing a good thing, and so they ignore that they’re doing a bad thing too. Miss Hawn and Grandma were excited about the gifted program, so they just ignored all the microaggressions and stuff.”

  Laleh frowned.

  “I deal with stuff like that too. You know people call me names sometimes?”

  I couldn’t get too specific with my sister. I didn’t want to explain why D-Cheese was an insult.

  I never wanted to discuss anything penis-related with Laleh Kellner.

  “I can’t always make them stop. But I can find better friends. And better teachers. And better places.”

  “Like Sohrab?”

  “Yeah.
And like soccer too. My coach and my teammates. Maybe this gifted program isn’t all bad. Maybe it’s a chance for you to find a new place. Make some new friends.”

  “But I don’t want to be in a different class.”

  I got it. Really, I did.

  Laleh didn’t want to be different.

  Being different made you a Target.

  But if my sister was going to be a Target, at least it could be for something good. Something special.

  “Will you at least think about it some? For me?”

  Laleh looked up at me through her eyelashes. She had long dark eyelashes like me. Like Mom.

  “All right.”

  “You need some more tea?”

  “Yes please.”

  FAMILY BUSINESS

  That night, Landon came over and made dinner for us again: Mom’s recipe for khoresh-e-karafs, or celery stew.

  “Smells good,” I said, and kissed him on the temple.

  He was wearing Dad’s Star Trek apron and stirring in another handful of fresh parsley.

  “Thanks. Am I doing the rice right?”

  Next to the khoresh, a pot of rice steamed underneath one of Mom’s tea towels.

  “I think so. I’ve never made it myself.” I went to lift the lid, but Landon put his hand on my arm.

  “It says to leave the lid on until it’s ready.”

  “How do you know it’s ready if you can’t take the lid off?”

  Landon shrugged. “The recipe is a little vague on that point.”

  * * *

  Like I said, Landon Edwards was magic.

  The rice turned out perfectly—a resplendent golden disc—and he upended the pot onto a platter right as Mom got home.

  “Wow,” Mom said. “This is amazing.”

  Landon’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank you.”

  I set the table as Mom changed into sweatpants, and we all settled to eat. Landon dished out perfect wedges of tah dig and great big scoops of stew.

  “Thank you again for taking Laleh,” Mom said.

  “It’s fine, Shirin,” Grandma said. “I put the papers about the gifted program on your desk.”