by Adib Khorram
I sat on the curb and wiped my eyes and felt the yawning void of self-hate open up beneath me.
The thing about having depression is, you can recognize the cycles your mind goes through, even when you can’t do anything about them.
Landon kept echoing in my head: “Selfish.”
And I kept seeing Chip’s eyes too. How he couldn’t quite look at me.
I trusted him.
I knew his history with Trent. Knew he had never, ever stood up to him. Knew he was as much accomplice as witness, since Trent worked best with an audience.
And I trusted him anyway.
This is what I deserved.
I sniffed and pulled my phone out. The droplets left tiny rainbow flecks on the screen.
What was I supposed to tell Mom?
Were Landon and I broken up or was it just a fight?
Ditching me at a dance felt like a breakup.
“Darius?”
I glanced behind me and then looked down at my phone again. Mom was sending Oma to get me.
Chip lowered himself to sit next to me. His knees splayed to the side and bumped against mine.
“Well, that was super awkward,” he said, and did this sort of nervous chuckle.
“What do you want, Chip?”
He frowned and looked at his hands.
“Just wanted to apologize for what Trent said.”
What Trent said.
Chip only ever apologized for Trent.
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where’s Landon?”
I shook my head.
“What happened?”
“You and Trent happened!” I shouted, but then I lowered my voice. “He was already frustrated with me, but then you and Trent making jokes about me, it was just . . .”
“I didn’t joke about you,” Chip said.
“But you told Trent about that day in the locker room.”
Chip sighed.
“Yeah.”
“Why would you do that?” I choked out. “I thought we were friends.”
“Because I like you, okay?” Chip gulped. “I like you, and I was telling Trent about it because I couldn’t get you out of my head. We were alone and you were so beautiful. You are. You’re beautiful and funny and thoughtful and kind. You’re the nicest person I know. And I couldn’t stand hurting you. I couldn’t stand being so close to you.”
Chip put his hand on my knee and tried to squeeze it, but I took his hand and lifted it off me.
“Don’t touch me,” I said.
“But—”
I couldn’t believe Chip.
If he liked me, why didn’t he treat me better?
The pulsar inside me destabilized and exploded.
“This isn’t some . . . some TV show, where you can torment me for years and then kiss me and be like ‘Guess what? I was gay for you all along!’ It doesn’t work like that.”
“I’m queer. I’ve always liked guys too,” Chip whispered. “And I never tried to kiss you. I wasn’t tormenting you.”
“You’ve stood there, every time Trent said or did something to me. Every racist joke. Every homophobic nickname. You never stopped him.”
“Trent’s not homophobic. He knows I’m queer.”
“You can have queer friends and still be homophobic, Chip.”
He sniffled.
I couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was just the rain.
“Is that why you told me to quit my job?”
“What?”
“You wanted me to quit because I worked with Landon?”
“No! I wouldn’t . . . You seemed so sad. I just wanted you to be happy. I promise.”
“Why should I listen to anything you say? You’re just as bad as Trent is.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll make him leave you alone. I promise.”
Cyprian Cusumano didn’t get it.
It wasn’t just about how Trent treated me.
It was about how he treated me too.
I recognized the glow of Oma’s headlights curving around the parking lot. She pulled up and honked.
I sighed and stood.
“Darius?” Chip said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Chip was always saying sorry. But he never acted like it. He never changed.
I wiped my own face and cleared my throat.
“Yeah, well.”
I didn’t know what else to say.
Maybe there was nothing else to say.
MENTAL HEALTH DAY
Monday morning, Mom knocked on my door.
I rolled over in bed and groaned.
I’d turned my alarm off when it woke me for my run, and I’d fallen back asleep, despite the noise of everyone else waking up.
Well. First I tried Sohrab.
Again.
And he didn’t answer.
Again.
That’s when I went back to bed.
Mom knocked again.
“Darius?”
“Yeah?”
Mom cracked the door and peeked in at me.
“You okay?”
I sighed.
“Can I take a mental health day?”
I hadn’t taken a mental health day since fall of ninth grade, when I was going through a medication change and having anxiety attacks every morning when it was time to get dressed.
Dad was a big believer in mental health days.
Mom came in and sat on the bed. She brushed my hair away from my eyes and rested her hand on my forehead, as if she could diagnose my mental state like a fever.
“Are you sure it won’t just be harder tomorrow?”
That was the thing about mental health days. Sometimes, you needed them, and they got you back on your feet. But sometimes, when you said you wanted a mental health day, what you really meant was you were avoiding something, and the more you put it off, the bigger it got.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
I hadn’t told Mom much about the dance.
Just that I had gotten into a fight with Landon.
And another one with Chip.
“Well, if you need to stay home, you can. You have some time to decide. I’ll check on you before I leave for work.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She kissed my forehead.
“Love you.”
* * *
I guess Mom’s talk worked, because I dragged myself out of bed and got ready.
I spent the day avoiding Chip. We had an evening game, and I needed to study—I had a test in German on Friday—but I knew I couldn’t go to Mindspace.
There was a public library a few blocks away. I found a table in this little nook, not far from the Kids Korner, which was full of little kids enjoying story time.
There was this cute toddler in pink overalls. I wiggled my fingers at them. The polish on my left index finger had chipped. I needed to learn how to take better care of my nails.
The kid returned a little flappy-handed wave and then ran off.
It made me think of Evie, and how she had been so comfortable around me.
Was she that way with Uncle Trent too?
And then I thought of Chip, and how I had been so comfortable around him.
I should never have let my guard down.
That’s what stung more than anything else.
I knew the kind of guy Chip was, but I imagined him the way I wanted him to be.
I was so disappointed in myself.
* * *
Like always, Coach Bentley summoned us to circle up before the game. I sandwiched myself between Diego and Bruno, far away from Chip, who was over by Gabe and Ja
den like usual. Jaden gave me a look, but I pretended not to notice.
I also pretended not to notice Chip trying to catch my eye.
And I definitely did not notice that his hair, usually pristine even after a long school day, was a complete and utter mess. Or the way the corners of his mouth drooped, almost into a frown, instead of his usual pre-game grin.
As we went around, I couldn’t come up with anything to say. I totally blanked.
Bruno said, “At homecoming, Christian gave me some gum when I was nervous about my breath not smelling fresh. Thanks, Christian. Heather thanks you too.”
Everyone chuckled at that, but I just felt a kind of twist in my gut.
“Uh.” It was my turn. “I’m blanking. Sorry. Um.”
I felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on me.
“I had kind of a crappy weekend. But I’m glad for tonight’s game, and the chance to go do something. So, thanks for tonight, everyone.”
Some of the guys nodded, but others looked at me kind of curiously, or turned to their neighbors like they wanted to gossip. But Coach Bentley said, “Glad we can be here for you, Darius,” and the whispers stopped.
Diego thanked me, of all people, for lending him a pair of socks last week, which I had completely forgotten about. “Sure thing.”
And on we went.
When we got to Chip, he said, “Darius told me something I didn’t want to hear. But I know I needed to. So, thanks.”
I looked up at that, but Chip had his eyes squeezed shut, like he was afraid of what was going to happen.
So I looked down at my feet and said, “I’m glad I could help.”
My heart thudded against my sternum, and my ears felt full.
It felt like the whole team was watching us.
But after a second, Jaden spoke up, and the circle continued.
THE MINUTIAE OF MIDFIELDING STRATEGY
Wednesday afternoon, after practice and another carefully executed avoidance of Chip—courtesy of Jaden, who had noticed things were kind of weird and made a point of dragging Chip into a conversation about the minutiae of midfielding strategy—I took the bus to Rose City with a swarm of stellar remnants in my stomach.
I had to do something.
I still couldn’t reach Sohrab, and Dad was still depressed, and things with Chip were weird.
But Landon was there, and we needed to talk.
Besides, Mom needed some Earl Grey (regular, not nitro) and I was running low on Moroccan Mint since Grandma and Oma were drinking so much.
When the bus stopped, I grabbed my bike and walked it toward Rose City. It had been a long time since I used the customer entrance.
Alexis was at the register and waved when I walked in. I waved back and headed to the shelves.
It was weird, pulling tea off the shelves instead of stocking it.
“Running low?” Alexis asked when I took it to the counter.
“Yeah.” I glanced toward the tasting room. “Um. Is Landon around?”
Alexis nodded. “I think they’re almost done.”
“Cool.”
I stood against the wall and sucked on my tassels.
* * *
“We’ll probably do two cases. Maybe three,” Mr. Edwards said over his shoulder. He turned and saw me. “Oh. Darius.”
“Hi.”
“Good to see you,” he said.
“You too.”
He gave me this sad, closed-lip smile.
“He’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
I knocked on the door frame.
“Hey.”
Landon turned around, and nearly dropped the gaiwan he was holding.
His cheeks colored as he set it in the sink.
“Hey.”
We looked at each other for a long time.
When the silence between us became unbearable, I stepped inside and closed the door.
Landon’s shoulders slumped. “I kind of messed up, huh.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we both did.”
“I’m sorry I left you at the dance.”
“Not as sorry as my grandmother was when she had to get out of the house at ten p.m.”
Landon grimaced.
“I’m sorry I kept pressuring you. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted us to be close. Physically.”
“I know. I’m sorry too. I wasn’t good at being honest with you about what I wanted.”
“I never meant to hurt you. It’s just . . .” He sighed. “I love you. I should have said it sooner. And sometimes it feels like you don’t love me back.”
“I . . .”
Did I love Landon?
I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant.
It didn’t feel like it did with my family. Where I knew that no matter what, they were part of my life forever, in my veins and in my heart.
And it didn’t feel like Sohrab either, who felt like the kind of person I could count on for anything. Who knew me inside and out. Who accepted all my flaws and still made me wish I could be better.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Landon let out a low breath and sank into a chair.
Now I knew what it was like, when you’re the one who hit a guy in the balls.
“I’m sorry.”
Landon shook his head and wiped at his eyes.
My own were weirdly dry.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Landon sniffed.
“Well. I better finish up.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I let myself out of the tasting room and slipped out of the store. Unlocked my bike and headed for the bus stop.
I wondered why I wasn’t more upset. If it was because I was depressed. Or because of my medication. Or because deep down I was still mad at how Landon had treated me.
No one had ever made me feel as small as he had that day. Not even Trent Bolger.
But no one had ever made me feel beautiful before either. Not until Landon. No one ever held my hand or kissed me or smiled the way he smiled when he saw me. No one ever came and made soup for my sick sister, or held me tight until our breaths synced up and I could just lie there, with my mind turned off, enjoying the way it felt to have a warm body curled up next to me, happy and content.
I made it all the way to the back of the bus before I started crying.
HOLDING HIM UP
Here’s the thing: This wasn’t the first bus ride I’d spent crying.
That kind of thing happened when you lived with depression. Some days you just had to cry.
It was good to cry. It excreted stress hormones.
And here’s another thing: Everyone leaves you alone if you’re crying on a bus. Most humans are averse to other people’s stress hormones, as if they were a communicable disease.
I don’t think I had ever hurt anyone in my life the way I hurt Landon.
I hated myself for that.
And I hated myself for not regretting it.
There was probably something wrong with me.
There were a lot of things wrong with me.
* * *
When I opened the garage door, Dad’s car was in its spot.
I had never been so happy to see Dad’s Audi in my entire life.
I kicked off my Sambas without untying them and ran through the door.
“Dad?”
But the kitchen was empty. Laleh was in the living room, curled up against the side of the couch, with a huge book in her lap.
“Hey, Laleh. I saw Dad’s car in the garage.”
“He’s upstairs,” she whispered.
I knelt down and whispered back, “Why are we whispering?”
Laleh didn’t look up at me. Her lip turned down and quivered a bit.
“I don’t know.”
It wasn’t like Laleh not to say what was bothering her.
Not to me, anyway.
“I’ll go check on him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I padded up the stairs. Mom and Dad’s door was shut.
I knocked. “Hello?”
After a moment, Mom opened the door wide enough for her face. “Darius?”
“Hey. Is Dad here?”
“He’s in the shower.”
As soon as she said that, the water turned on.
“Oh. Okay.”
“He’ll be down soon.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is okay,” she said, but I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or to herself.
“I got the tea you wanted. Should I make a pot?”
Making tea seemed to be the only thing I was good for in a crisis.
“Sure.”
* * *
After about ten minutes, I finally heard the shuffling of footsteps on the stairs.
Stephen Kellner never shuffled.
I nearly knocked my chair over as I ran into the living room.
“Hey, son.” Dad pulled me into a hug as soon as I was within range.
I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder.
There was this thing, though. His shoulder felt bonier. Like he’d lost some weight or something.
For as long as I could remember, Stephen Kellner had been the same weight and size.
I kind of hated that about him. My own weight seemed to be in a state of constant flux, always on the heavy side.
Dad’s beard had grown out even more. It was properly brown, much darker than his head hair, which looked dark gold now that it was long and shaggy enough to brush the tips of his ears.
Whenever I hugged my dad before, I always felt like he was holding me up.
But this time, I was holding him up.
“Dad?” My question was muffled against his shirt.
He brought his hand up to rub the back of my neck and kind of rock me back and forth.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
