by Adib Khorram
“Hey,” Chip said as we walked to our bikes after practice Wednesday. “What’re you doing now?”
“Headed home.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Landon’s busy. Plus I quit my job.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You were right. I need to find something that makes me happy. Hopefully soon.”
“Oh. Cool.” Chip ran a hand through his hair. “You wanna come over and study, then? My mom’s making empanadas.”
“Oh. Thanks. But I can’t. I’m watching Laleh.”
Chip let his hand fall. “Oh.”
I felt kind of bad, letting him down.
Especially since he hadn’t even mentioned Trent.
“Want to come to mine instead?”
He grinned.
“Yeah.”
We biked to my house as the crisp fall sun finally peeked out from behind the heavy clouds. The wet streets shone, and Chip laughed as he rode through a puddle.
I don’t know why, but it made me laugh too.
Cyprian Cusumano looked really beautiful in the golden light.
I did my best not to notice.
* * *
Laleh already had the kettle on the stove when we got home. She scooped some tea into the teapot.
“Hey, Laleh,” I said. “You remember Chip?”
“Hey,” said Chip.
Laleh glanced at Chip and blushed.
“Hi,” she murmured. Then she turned back to the counter. “Want to help me smash some hel?”
Chip looked at me.
“Cardamom. For the tea.”
“Oh. Sure.”
Laleh’s blush was spreading from her cheeks to her ears. But she arranged five cardamom pods on a paper towel and folded it over. “It’s easier if you use the bottom of the pot.”
“What do I do?”
“Smash them until they pop open. But you can do it as much as you want.”
Chip grinned, and Laleh gave him a gap-toothed smile.
“Hey.” I knelt and looked at Laleh’s smile. “Did you finally lose that tooth?”
“Yeah. At lunch.” She stuck her tongue through the gap where her canine used to be.
On Laleh’s other side, Chip rolled the bottom of the teapot over the cardamom.
“You have to hit them hard,” Laleh said. “Here.”
Chip handed her the pot. She banged it five times against the counter, whack whack whack whack whack! I winced at the sound.
I usually just pinched them open myself. But Laleh loved smashing hel.
Chip looked at me, his eyes wide.
I chuckled. “Want me to pour the hot water?”
“Sure,” Laleh said.
* * *
When our tea was made, we all sat at the table with our homework spread in front of us.
“What’re you working on?” I asked Laleh, who was frowning at her half-finished drawing.
“We’re doing a space unit.”
“Oh. Cool.”
We never did a space unit in regular classes.
I might’ve actually done okay at that, with all the Star Trek I watched.
“I loved that,” Chip said. He leaned over the table to look at her paper. “Where you make your own constellations?”
Laleh nodded.
Sure enough, the paper was covered with connect-the-dots figures of Laleh’s devising.
“These look great,” I said.
“We have to come up with a story for them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“It has to be about our family.”
“What about our trip to Iran?”
“I don’t know,” Laleh said. “What if they make fun of me?”
“For what?” Chip asked.
“For being Iranian,” I said, but then I turned to Laleh. “I bet Miss Shah won’t let them. Didn’t you say some of your classmates were Fractional Kids too?”
“I guess.”
Chip said, “Would people really make fun of her?”
“I mean . . . people made fun of me.”
I didn’t say it out loud. That Chip and Trent had been the ones making fun of me, the way Micah and Emily and other Proto-Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy had been making fun of Laleh.
But I think Chip understood what I was saying anyway.
He got this serious look on his face and nodded.
And then he turned to Laleh and said, “Your brother’s right. You should talk about Iran. So your classmates will understand you.” He swallowed. “That’s how you make friends.”
Laleh looked from Chip to me, and then back down at her paper.
“Okay.”
And then she said, “Will you help me?”
“Sure.” I scooted closer.
“You too,” she told Chip, though her cheeks reddened again as she said it.
He grinned. “All right.”
Laleh pointed to one of the stick-figure constellations she’d made, one that might’ve almost had a mustache. “This one is going to be Babou.”
FULL PERSIAN MOTHER
Saturday morning I tried Sohrab again.
He still didn’t answer.
I thought about calling Mamou again, but I couldn’t call her every time I couldn’t reach Sohrab.
That wasn’t cool.
So I wrote him yet another email.
When I first got back from Iran, we emailed each other all the time, until we figured out a schedule to call each other. And once we’d sorted that out, email felt so impersonal.
I couldn’t see his eyes squint up when he smiled. Or hear his laughter.
Even that was a pale illusion of the real Sohrab.
I missed being in Iran with him.
I missed sitting with him on our rooftop and watching the sun kiss our khaki kingdom.
I missed the way he would throw his arm over my shoulder, like that was a thing guys could do to each other.
But email was my only option.
So I asked him how he was doing, and said I hoped he was okay, and that he’d write back soon. I told him about my soccer games (we were ten and one now) and quitting my job. I told him about Laleh and my dad and my mom. I told him about Landon and homecoming.
Did they have homecoming in Iran?
And I told him I was doing okay, depression-wise. And I hoped he was doing okay too, because he was my best friend in the whole world and I wanted him to be happy and healthy.
I didn’t tell him I was scared.
Scared that he hadn’t written back or called. Scared that something bad had happened to him.
Scared that he was mad at me. That I had done something wrong.
I would have given my life for Sohrab’s.
So I just wrote Ghorbanat beram. Love, Darius, and hit send.
Sohrab used to tell me that my place was empty.
It’s an Iranian saying.
But now his place was empty.
I missed him terribly.
* * *
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you talked to Mamou lately?”
“Yesterday. Why?”
“I haven’t heard from Sohrab for a while. And when I asked Mamou about it, she got kind of weird.”
Mom looked up from my hands. She was painting my nails that perfect Yazdi blue for homecoming.
“She didn’t mention it,” she said. “I’m sure he’s okay, though.”
I wasn’t sure.
I couldn’t shake this feeling. Like Mamou knew something and wouldn’t tell me.
The silence between us was thick as toffee. Sticky too.
Mom let go of my left hand and picked up my right. She twisted it a bit to flatten out m
y thumb.
And then she said, without looking at me, “Landon knows about Sohrab, right?”
“Huh?” I blinked. “Yeah.”
I didn’t understand why Mom had brought it up.
“Does he ever get jealous?”
“Of Sohrab?”
Mom nodded.
“No. I don’t think so. Why?”
“I just wondered,” Mom said. “From the way you were, with Sohrab. When we were in Iran. I wondered.”
My neck prickled.
“Wondered . . . what?”
“If there was something between you two.”
“Um.”
Mom met my eyes, but I looked down at my hands.
And then I said, “We’re just friends, Mom.”
“I know, but back then.”
“We were just friends.”
Mom sighed.
I sighed too.
“I think I really needed a friend.”
“So you never . . .”
“No.”
Mom looked down at my nails again.
“Maybe I had a little crush on him.”
Mom nodded.
“You know it’s different for guys in Iran. Right?”
“What?”
“It’s more common for men to express affection for each other. Platonic affection. It doesn’t mean the same thing it does here.”
I didn’t know why Mom felt like she had to tell me that.
“Why are you asking all of a sudden?”
“It just makes me wonder what else I missed.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I didn’t know this about you. That you’re . . .”
“Gay?”
Mom nodded.
“You told your dad before you told me.”
“Um.”
“Some days it just feels like everything about you is new.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Mom finished up my right pinky and sat back.
“All set. Just let them dry before you get dressed.”
“Okay. Um. Thanks.”
“Of course.” She reached up and brushed my hair off my forehead.
I’d gotten my haircut touched up yesterday. It was soft and sleek and full, the fade nice and crisp.
“Have fun tonight.”
* * *
Mr. Edwards dropped Landon off about an hour before dinner.
I was still getting dressed when he knocked on my door.
“Hey,” I squeaked.
“Hey.” He looked amazing: His suit must’ve been made just for him, the way it tapered around his slim waist and nice legs.
I sucked in my stomach as soon as I saw him.
His hair was parted to the side, super formal, except for this one lock that fell into his forehead. His smile was perfect.
“Wow,” he said. He looked me up and down, with this soft smile. “You look beautiful.”
My ears burned.
“It’s not too . . . um . . .”
“It’s perfect.” He nodded at my tie. “Having trouble?”
“Usually my dad helps me,” I admitted.
He slipped his own tie off, a deep blue one with thin orange stripes: It was a clip-on.
“Can’t help you there.”
“I’ll get it.”
He stepped closer to me and rested his hands on my chest. I let go of my tie and leaned down to kiss him.
“Hey,” I said.
His hands slid down to my waist.
“You smell nice.”
“Thanks.” I’d borrowed some of Dad’s cologne, a woodsy one—juniper and sage—that he always wore in the fall. “So do you.”
He smelled like honeysuckle and citrus peel.
“Come on. Tie your tie. We don’t wanna miss dinner.”
“I’ll make sure not to order onions this time.”
“Good. I’ve got plans for us.”
I gulped.
“Okay.”
* * *
Mom went Full Persian Mother on me and Landon: It took at least twenty minutes to get through all the photographs she wanted. Shots of each of us by ourselves, so she could get our outfits from pretty much every angle; and then a whole series of us together, though she had us stand rigid with our arms by our sides for the first couple, until Landon asked if she wanted us to hold hands.
“Oh,” she said. “Sure.”
Grandma and Oma were in the kitchen, mostly ignoring us and playing Monopoly with Laleh, though I thought I saw Oma look in and nod once.
Finally, I said, “Mom. We’re going to be late.”
“Just one more,” she said. “Do a fun one.”
Landon said, “Got it.” He pulled me in and kissed me. Right in front of my mom.
I heard the click from Mom’s phone, and then she said, her voice kind of pinched, “Great.” She wiped away a tear. “Great. Okay.”
I kissed Mom’s cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re so handsome,” she whispered to me. “Have fun.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
* * *
Like I said, I had never been to a homecoming dance before. Or any dance at Chapel Hill High School, really.
The bleachers were pushed up against the walls of the Main Gym, and huge banners hung from the rails with images of palm trees and beaches and sunshine and all the “Fun in the Sun” imagery the homecoming committee could come up with.
I held Landon’s hand as I led him around. We said hi to Gabe and Jaden and their dates: Samantha and Claire, both seniors on the varsity women’s soccer team.
“Looking good,” Jaden said. He fist-bumped Landon and then turned to me. His eyes narrowed and he grabbed my hand to examine my nails. “Nice!”
My ears burned. “Thanks. You’re looking sharp.” He was in a burgundy suit with a bright white shirt and sneakers.
The DJ was blasting Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” over the crappy speakers built into the ceiling, the ones that were dented from basketball impacts.
It was hard to believe I wasn’t in some sort of Teen Television Drama.
Guys like me didn’t get to be in Teen Television Dramas.
Landon looked the part way better than I did. He was smiling and chatting with Gabe and Samantha about something, but I couldn’t make it out over the music.
Chapel Hill High School’s Main Gym was not designed with acoustics in mind.
Journey finished, and the DJ faded into a K-Pop single everyone was obsessed with.
“Hey.” Landon took my hand. “It’s a dance, right?”
“Oh. Right.”
He led me out to the floor, where the music was even louder, and everyone was pressed together as close as they were allowed by the Chaperone-Mandated Minimum Distance.
I spotted Chip in the crowd, dancing with a big group of people. He looked really handsome, in a maroon suit with a white shirt underneath, and a floral-print tie.
I hated that I thought he looked handsome.
I shouldn’t have thought that.
I caught a glimpse of Javaneh Esfahani in a beautiful red dress and gold headscarf, dancing with Mateo, vice president of Chapel Hill’s QSA. Mateo had dyed their hair purple and swept it up into a pompadour, and their black suit sparkled like it had glitter woven into it.
“He’s cute,” Landon said, nodding Mateo’s way.
“They.”
“Oh, sorry. I like their suit.”
“Yeah. I was kind of worried about mine.”
“What about it?”
I looked down at my sleeves.
“I just never wore anything like this before.”
Landon chuckled an
d put his arms around my waist, at the Chaperone-Approved Hand Level.
“You look great.”
My cheeks burned.
“Thanks.”
Landon swayed me back and forth, way slower than the beat of the song. But I smiled at him, and he smiled back.
And it was nice.
Really nice.
Still, after about five dances—some faster, some slower—the press of bodies all around, and the constant thrum of DJ Premature Hearing Loss’s Muzak, made me anxious.
“I need a moment,” I shouted to Landon, and we slid out past Jonny Without an H’s gyrating hips—certainly not Chaperone-Approved—to the drinks table. I grabbed a cup of water and passed one to Landon. He drank his but I sniffed mine first.
“I kind of thought it would be spiked.”
He chuckled. “I think that only happens in movies.”
“Oh.”
I brought my cup to my lips, right as someone bumped me from behind. I spilled it all down my front.
“Crap.” I looked around for napkins or something. “Um. Be right back.”
Landon thumbed the water off my chin. “You need help?”
“I’ll be okay. Just give me a second.”
The locker rooms were shut, so I had to make my way to the South Hall bathrooms. Chapel Hill High School didn’t have paper towel dispensers, only air dryers, so I went into the third stall to grab some toilet paper.
I dried off the front of my jacket as best I could, and then my pants where I’d gotten a big wet spot right around my zipper. If I’d been wearing black it wouldn’t have shown up that much, but on my light blue suit the dark spots were noticeable.
Noticeable, and deeply suspicious.
I rubbed at the spots, but the flimsy single-ply toilet paper in use at Chapel Hill High School just broke apart into little white pearls of debris.
What was the point and purpose of single-ply toilet paper?
“Hey. No jerking off at school, Dairy Queen.”
I spun around and banged my shin on the toilet bowl, which was great.
Trent Bolger was at the sinks, washing his hands and looking at me in the mirror.
I always pictured Trent Bolger as the kind of guy who never washed his hands after going to the bathroom.
