Darius the Great Deserves Better

by Adib Khorram

  * * *

  I studied Dad as he drank his tea. Really studied him. The dark circles under his eyes. The slump in his shoulders.

  “It’s getting worse. Isn’t it?” I asked.

  He sighed and nodded.

  “It’s just hard. Being away from you and your sister and your mom.”

  “You don’t have to keep doing that,” I said. “You can come home.”

  “I can’t. We need the money, son.”

  “I’m sending out applications. And I’ve got money in my savings. Let me help.”

  “No. It’s our job—me and your mom—to take care of you and Laleh. Not the other way around.”

  “But . . .”

  “We’ll get through this.”

  “But we’re not getting through it. You look like hell. And I need you.” My voice cracked. “Please.”

  Dad looked down at his teacup. He rolled it back and forth between his hands.

  “I need you too. You and your sister and your mom.” He let out this shaky breath and cleared his throat. “You’re my whole world.”

  “Then you can stop. Really. We’ll be okay.”

  Dad sniffed.

  “Remember what you told me, when we were in Iran? That you can lose people to depression lots of ways?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  He slurped his tea and took a deep breath.

  “I missed this.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sat together. The silence between us wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either.

  “Landon broke up with me,” I said.

  And then I said, “Or I broke up with him.”

  “Oh, son.” He reached out and rested his hand on the back of my neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not right now,” I said. “Can we just sit like this?”

  “Of course. Or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “We could go put on some Star Trek.”

  “Yeah.”

  PENILE HUMILIATIONS

  After Star Trek, we ate dinner and then Dad turned in early.

  I finished up my homework and got ready for bed.

  I was feeling so weird and sad, I didn’t even go number three before tucking myself in.

  I was almost asleep when my computer rang.

  There were only two people who ever called me.

  I leaped out of bed, pulled my underwear and a shirt on, and went to my desk.

  Sure enough, Sohrab’s avatar—a picture of the two of us, the same one I had framed on the wall next to my bed—was bouncing up and down.

  I dropped into my chair and hit accept.

  There was that weird moment of feedback, and my screen went white for a second. And then there he was, squinty smile and all.

  “Hello, Darioush!”

  “Hey Sohrab,” I said.

  I almost wanted to cry.

  Almost.

  I was so happy to see him, I thought my cheeks might lock into their smile and I would have to live the rest of my life with lockjaw.

  I would have been okay with that.

  “I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you before we left.”

  “Left? For where?”

  Sohrab leaned back, and for the first time I noticed he wasn’t in his room. The walls were white and blank.

  “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m in Hakkâri, Darioush. Turkey.”

  “What?”

  “Maman and I left. We are going to try and get asylum.”

  “Asylum?”

  My head spun.

  “You’re becoming refugees?”

  “Yeah. Lots of Bahá’ís do it.”

  “Oh my god,” I said.

  My best friend was a refugee.

  “I was so worried about you. I thought something bad had happened.”

  Did this count as something bad happening?

  What did this mean for Sohrab? For his mom?

  “Last time we talked you told me you thought you might be depressed. And then you were just gone. And no one would tell me anything. I thought . . .”

  Sohrab’s face fell.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Darioush.”

  “Sometimes people can’t help it.”

  He let out a deep breath.

  “I’m okay, Darioush. I promise. I’m sorry. We had to keep it quiet.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s dangerous. And complicated. You remember my khaleh got asylum?”

  “The one in Toronto?”

  He nodded.

  “Is that where you’re going? Toronto?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  I felt this little burst of happiness.

  Sohrab, in Toronto?

  Compared to Iran, that was practically next door.

  “Don’t cry, Darioush.”

  “I was scared. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to keep it secret. But Maman and I are okay. We’re going to be fine.”

  I nodded and sniffed.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “I missed you too.”

  “And I heard . . . about Babou.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Darioush.”

  “I’m sorry too. I know you loved him.”

  In a way, Babou had been like Sohrab’s grandfather too. Maybe even more than he had been mine.

  I wished I were there with him.

  I wished I could hug him and cry with him and let him tell me all the little things I never got to know about Babou. Things he got to see, growing up next door to Ardeshir Bahrami.

  But at least I could see him on the screen.

  We had a lot of catching up to do.

  * * *

  I told Sohrab about quitting Rose City.

  I told him about homecoming and Landon.

  I told him about Chip.

  “I’m sorry, Darioush,” he said when I was finished. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I guess.”

  He looked at me.

  “Did you, though?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you love Landon?”

  I leaned back in my chair. It was a used office chair Dad brought home from work when they switched to standing desks. But it was also slightly broken, and if I leaned back too far it would tip over.

  I grabbed the edge of my desk and sat back up.

  “I don’t think so,” I finally said.

  And then I said, “He was the first guy that ever liked me.”

  I swallowed away the lump in my throat.

  “What if no one else ever likes me the way he did?”

  “Darioush.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re a good guy. And lots of guys are going to like you. I know.”

  I shook my head.

  “What about Chip? He likes you.”

  “Ugh.”

  Sohrab laughed at that.

  “Darioush.”

  “What?”

  “He is your friend. Are you going to stay mad at him forever?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You remember our first fight?”

  I nodded.

  It was because Sohrab had teased me after seeing me naked in the showers after we played soccer.

  He said my penis looked like it was wearing a turban.

  Was my
entire life going to be one long string of penile humiliations?

  Maybe it would.

  Maybe that is what it means to have a penis.

  “Why are we still friends?”

  I shrugged. “You said you were sorry.”

  “And you forgave me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Friends forgive each other. Did Chip say he was sorry?”

  He did.

  A lot.

  I just wasn’t sure that was enough.

  “But you didn’t just say you were sorry. You didn’t do that again.”

  “We had other fights.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But we never had the same fight twice.”

  “And Chip is doing the same thing?”

  “Yeah. He’s still friends with Trent. No matter what Trent does to me.”

  “Hm. Then maybe he’s never going to change. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I never met anyone with as big a heart as you, Darioush. I know you’ll figure it out.”

  My face burned.

  “Thanks.”

  Sohrab’s cheeks looked a little pink too. He cleared his throat.

  “How is your soccer going?”

  I told Sohrab about our wins, and our loss, and how weird and wonderful it felt to be on a team.

  I told him about Grandma and Oma.

  I told him about Laleh, and her project to turn Mamou and Babou into constellations.

  I told him about Mom, who was never home anymore. And Dad, who was finally home, who was doing badly but was finally going to let me help.

  And for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe things were going to be okay.

  THE PRIME MERIDIAN

  Mom knocked on my door as Sohrab and I were saying our goodbyes. She was dressed in her robe and holding a cup of coffee.

  “Hi, Sohrab-jan,” she called. “Chetori toh?”

  Sohrab talked to her in Farsi for a minute, and she answered, but then she said, “Okay, Sohrab-jan, khodahafes. Talk soon.”

  “Khodahafes,” Sohrab said back. “Bye, Darioush. Talk soon. I promise. Ghorbanat beram.”

  “Ghorbanat beram. Always.”

  I hung up the call and leaned back, hooking my knees under the lip of my desk to stop myself from tipping over.

  Mom leaned against my doorframe and looked at me.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “He’s okay,” I said. “I was so scared.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “Did you know?”

  She shook her head.

  “But I thought they might leave. Mahvash used to talk about it sometimes.”

  “What happens now?”

  “I don’t know. If everything goes well, they’ll settle somewhere new. Maybe Toronto.” She smiled. “Maybe even here.”

  “Really?”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  I let myself imagine it: Sohrab, here. Coming over for dinner. Hanging out and playing soccer. Showing him all my favorite places in Portland. Drinking lots of tea.

  Finding a spot where the world falls away, and we can talk, and tell each other all the things you can only admit to your best friend.

  Mom stepped closer to me and ran her hand through my hair.

  “Darius?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t mean to overhear, but . . . I heard you telling Sohrab about Landon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I guess. I mean, I will be.”

  Mom looked at me for a long time. Like she was trying to understand something about me she’d never had to understand before. She sat down on my bed and patted the spot next to her.

  I pulled my shirt down to try and cover my underwear—a pair of bright orange trunks—and sat next to her.

  “What happened?”

  “We talked. And . . . well, we wanted different things.”

  “Your dad said the two of you were thinking about . . . sex.”

  My chest constricted. “He was. I wasn’t ready to.”

  Mom’s hands went back to my hair.

  “You could have told me, you know. When your dad was out of town. If you needed advice, you could have talked to me.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it because of something I said?”

  “No.”

  “You used to talk to me about everything.”

  “I still do.”

  “But not this.”

  I looked down at my hands. Mom’s hand, which had been twisting my curls around, paused.

  “What is it?”

  I squeezed my eyes closed.

  “You always had this look on your face. Every time we kissed.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  This is why I didn’t say anything before.

  Because I knew Mom would get upset.

  “Did I? Really?”

  Mom folded her hands in her lap.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No it’s not.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not mad you’re gay. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know, since the day you were born, your dad and I have been dreaming of a happy future for you. And every day you’ve grown up and changed and we’ve had to adjust that dream a little bit. For the longest time I felt like I knew which way you were going. But now . . .” Mom blinked away tears. “Everything changed after Iran.”

  Not everything.

  I was gay when I went, even if I hadn’t figured it out yet, and I was just as gay when I came back.

  But Mom said, “When we got back, you and your dad were so much closer. And I was happy, because I hated seeing how distant you used to be.” Mom held her hand over her heart. “But it hurt that while he was finding you, I was losing you.”

  I never thought about that. How Mom felt, when suddenly Dad and I became a team.

  And then Mom and I weren’t anymore.

  I felt terrible.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m being selfish.”

  “No you’re not. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

  “I just miss you. The way we used to be.” Mom reached for my nightstand, where I kept one of those tall cubic Kleenex boxes.

  “Here.” I grabbed it and passed it over.

  Mom sniffed and blew her nose.

  I grabbed my own Kleenex and wiped my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “I don’t want you to be. You’re growing up. That’s what happens.”

  I didn’t want it to happen.

  I didn’t want growing up to mean Mom and I would drift apart.

  “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

  “You never will. Never. I promise.” Mom sighed. “I love you, Darius. Every single part of you. I never meant for you to think I didn’t.”

  “I know,” I said.

  I should’ve known that all along.

  I was so ashamed of myself, for even thinking it.

  “I was just scared.”

  “Scared? Why?”

  I looked down at my hands and rubbed the pads of my index fingers over my turquoise thumbs.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  How do you explain the fear that someone you love might stop loving you all of a sudden?

  But Mom said, “Is that why you haven’t told Mamou?”

  Maybe Mom did understand after all.

  Maybe she did.

  “I just don’t want her to be disappointed in me.”

  Mom held my face between her hands. “Oh, Darius. You could never disappoint her. You are the sweetest boy in the wor
ld. You know that?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m really not, though.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’m not sweet. I’m selfish.”

  I told her about Trent, and about Chip.

  About Chip saying he liked me.

  And about Chip saying he was sorry for everything, and me not forgiving him.

  “Sohrab says friends forgive each other. But how can I do that when Chip’s best friend has made it his personal mission to make my life miserable? I mean, Chip used to help him. And now he says he likes me?”

  I shook my head.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Mom looked at me for a long time.

  “You’re so young.”

  She said it like it still surprised her. Like it was a wonderful thing, to be young and angry at the closest thing you had to a friend this side of the Prime Meridian.

  “When you’re young and full of feelings, sometimes they come out in the wrong way.”

  “So I should just forgive him?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying, it’s something you do when you’re young. And hopefully you grow out of it. Does Chip still tease you?”

  “No.”

  “Does he treat you badly?”

  “No. He’s fine.” I thought about all the times Chip helped me study. About asking me over to his house. About trusting me with Evie.

  “Chip treats me fine. He’s nice to me. But he’s still friends with Trent.”

  “You can’t control who people are friends with,” Mom said. “Especially if they’re family now.”

  “I don’t want to. That would be a crappy thing to do to someone. But I just . . . I don’t know how I can ever trust him.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know how.”

  “You deserve people in your life who make you happy, Darius. No matter what. Just remember that. Okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’m not going to tell you to forgive Chip. But he seemed like a good friend. I hate for you to give up on him if you’re not sure.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Only you can decide.”

  A NEW FUTURE

  In the morning, Mom called a family meeting.

  In its entire history—spanning back to its Teutonic roots in pre-unification Germany on Dad’s side, and its legacy in the bedrock of Yazd on Mom’s—the Kellner-Bahrami family had never called a family meeting before.