Darius the Great Is Not Okay Page 15

  “It was all Sohrab.”

  “It’s perfect.” I glanced over at him.

  Sohrab’s mom held up the camera. Sohrab threw his arm over my shoulder and smiled into his mom’s telescoping lens.

  “Yek. Doh. Seh.”

  I tried to smile, but I probably just looked surprised. Or constipated.

  No one ever threw their arm over my shoulder the way Sohrab did. Like it was perfectly fine to do that sort of thing to another guy. Like that was a thing friends did to each other.

  Sohrab had no walls inside.

  I loved that about him.

  Khanum Rezaei snapped a photo and checked it. She leaned her head way back and looked over the top of her glasses. “It’s good!”

  “Thank you,” I said again. “So much.”

  “Sohrab knew you would like it.” She squinted at me and slipped out into the hallway.

  Sohrab was still leaning against me, patting my shoulder.

  “This is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.”

  Sohrab squeezed my shoulder again and rubbed the back of my head.

  “I’m glad you like it, Darioush.”

  * * *

  We ate at sunset.

  Our family did not have to fast, but Mamou wanted to make sure Sohrab and his mom were not left out. Mahvash Rezaei—that’s what Mom called her, Mahvash-khanum—was so complimentary about everything, I thought Mamou was going to throw the rice server at her to get her to stop talking.

  There weren’t enough tables and chairs for all the Bahramis (plus two Rezaeis) gathered, so we stood around, holding our plates and eating one-handed as best we could. Laleh ignored all the stews and rice and went straight for the bowl of cucumbers, which she ate whole, like candy bars.

  “Darioush-jan,” Dayi Jamsheed said. “You don’t like khiar?”

  “Um. Not really.” I didn’t understand the point and purpose of cucumbers. The taste wasn’t bad, but they had this weird slimy texture that I couldn’t get over.

  “You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

  I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

  This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

  “You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.

  * * *

  Dad was in the kitchen, funneling dishes into the dishwasher as fast as they came.

  I rinsed off my plate and then started helping with the rest, piled up in the sink.

  “Good dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t have to help. I got it.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “Mamou said how much you help with the dishes. She said you’re sweet.”

  Dad almost blushed at that.

  Almost.

  “She told your mom I was going to spoil her. She said men in Iran don’t do dishes.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m glad to do it, though. Your grandmother has enough on her plate.” He angled another dish into the dishwasher and chuckled. “Proverbially speaking.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think of your uncles?”

  “They’re . . . I don’t know. Dayi Jamsheed told me I wasn’t Persian. Because I don’t like cucumbers.” I handed Dad the last plate and started gathering the forks and spoons. “And Dayi Soheil called me fat.”

  Dad nearly dropped the plate.

  “He what?”

  “Well. Not really. He just, like, patted me on my stomach. But that was the implication.”

  “I think he was just being affectionate, Darius.”

  Stephen Kellner always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.

  Everyone except me.

  “There you are,” Mom said. She closed the door behind her and took the silverware from me. “You two get out there. I’ll take care of it.”

  But Dad said, “I don’t mind, love.” He glanced at the door. “Spend time with your brothers.”

  For a moment, I wondered if Dad was trying to avoid the living room. If he was avoiding the critical mass of Bahramis by taking shelter in the kitchen.

  But that was impossible.

  Stephen Kellner never avoided anything.

  “Let me,” Mom said. She hip-checked Dad out of the way with a smirk, but then she stood on her toes to kiss him on the temple. “Go on.”

  “Okay. Come on, Darius.”

  He hooked his arm around my shoulder and led me back into the living room.

  * * *

  After dinner, Dayi Jamsheed’s kids pushed all the furniture in the living room against the walls, leaving the large red and green carpet in the center of the room for us to dance on.

  Dayi Jamsheed had four kids: his sons Zal and Bahram, and his daughters Vida and Nazgol.

  First off: My cousin Nazgol got her name from the Farsi word for flower.

  She was not a Ringwraith—a Nazgûl—and I was pretty sure she had never read The Lord of the Rings, so it wasn’t like I could joke about it with her.

  Second: Dayi Jamsheed must have been part-Übermensch himself. The decision to name his son Bahram Bahrami must have sprung from the same well of Teutonic Nihilism that led Stephen Kellner to choose Grover as my middle name.

  What kind of name is Darius Grover Kellner?

  It was like I was destined to be a target.

  * * *

  Here’s the thing:

  All Iranian songs have the exact same drumbeat.

  Maybe only True, Non-Fractional, Cucumber-Loving Persians can tell them apart.

  At first, only the ladies danced. They formed a circle, swaying their hips and flipping their wrists and taking tiny steps in intricate patterns on the floor. Mamou had this stained glass partition separating the living room from the dining room, and the light filtering through it cast constellations of color across my family’s faces.

  Khanum Rezaei found her way to the center of the circle, where she danced with her headscarf in hand, flicking and flailing it around to the beat. Laleh laughed and tried to copy her, though my sister’s flailing was somewhat more violent.

  Sohrab and I hung back in the corner. He had this cool way of snapping by clasping his hands and rubbing his index fingers against each other, but no matter how I tried I couldn’t get it, so I tapped my foot along instead. We swayed together, laughing and bumping shoulders.

  It was the most fun I had ever had.

  The song changed again, to one I recognized because it got played at Persian parties back home. It sounded like the infernal spawn of a Persian drum beat and a dozen Celtic fiddles.

  Mamou screamed, “I love this one!” at the top of her lungs. She leaped into the middle of the circle to join Mahvash Rezaei and Laleh. The three of them kicked their feet, jumped and stomped, so vigorously they rattled the photos on the walls.

  Sohrab joined in next, dragging me by the arm, and I jumped and laughed and tried to follow, but I was about as graceful as an android when it came to dancing.

  Mamou took my hand, and I took Sohrab’s, and we made a chain until we were all dancing and spinning and stomping and jumping and smiling.

  But even as I laughed, I thought about how Mamou and Mrs. Rezaei and Sohrab had danced this dance together before. How they had celebrated Nowruz together before.

  How Mamou had kissed Sohrab on both cheeks and invited him inside for tea before. More times than anyone could count.

  My chest imploded. Just a little bit.

  I hated how Sohrab had a larger share of my grandmother’s life than I did.

  I hated how jealous of him I was.

  I hated that I couldn’t make it through a Nowruz party without experiencing Mood Sling
shot Maneuvers.

  But then Sohrab caught my eyes and smiled so wide at me, his eyes all crinkled up, and I smiled back at him and laughed.

  Sohrab understood me.

  And I understood him too.

  And it was pretty much the most amazing thing ever.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, I found Dad sitting with Dayi Jamsheed, Dayi Soheil, and Babou, all with little plates of tokhmeh in front of them, playing an intense game of Rook.

  Rook is a card game that, as far as I can tell, is encoded into all True Persians at the cellular level. At any gathering of four or more Persians, it was certain at least one would have a deck of cards tucked into their breast pocket.

  In Rook, you played in pairs, partnered with whoever sat across from you. Through some quantum-mechanical entanglement, Dad and Babou had ended up as teammates.

  I couldn’t believe Stephen Kellner was playing Rook.

  I couldn’t believe he was playing with Ardeshir Bahrami.

  I couldn’t believe he looked like he was actually having fun.

  Stephen Kellner having fun with Ardeshir Bahrami.

  I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to play Rook, not really, and last I’d heard, neither did Dad. At Persian parties we’d stand together in the corner, watching all the older Persian men play, laughing at the arguments that inevitably ensued even if we couldn’t understand a word that was said.

  Babou grunted and nodded, and Dad threw the eight of hearts onto the table. While Dayi Jamsheed played, Dad looked up at me and smiled.

  Smiled.

  Like he was right at home.

  I didn’t know how he did it. How he adapted himself to get along with all the Bahrami men, like a chameleon.

  He really was the Übermensch.

  The kitchen was too hot. The breeze had died when the sun went down, and now the stuffy air hung still in the kitchen windows. The kettle belched steam, relentless as Smaug the Golden.

  I grabbed a qottab when Dad wasn’t looking and skirted past the table, out the door to the backyard.

  MAIN SEQUENCE

  Something smelled sweet.

  Jasmine blossoms.

  I’d never smelled fresh jasmine before. It was intense, but soft as a fleece blanket. I liked jasmine in Rose City’s Dragon Pearl Jasmine, but that paled next to the scent of the fresh flowers. Mamou and Babou had planted the tiny white blooms along the perimeter of their yard, in little wooden boxes painted a soft blue.

  I slid down against one of the planters and breathed in. My chest felt heavy, like someone had dropped a planet on me.

  Inside, my family sat around, playing Rook and talking so I couldn’t understand them. Dancing dances they had danced with each other for years. Sharing jokes and stories I would never be a part of. Eating khiar and drinking doogh like True Persians.

  Even Dad had found a way to fit in.

  I didn’t belong.

  “Darioush?”

  It was Sohrab.

  “What is the matter?”

  I wiped my eyes and studied my feet. Sohrab slid down the wall next to me and pulled his knees against his chest.

  “Nothing.”

  There was no squint in Sohrab’s eyes.

  I hadn’t noticed how big they were before.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not,” I said, except my throat had clamped and I sounded like a frog.

  Sohrab leaned closer and bumped shoulders with me.

  “Did someone say something to you?”

  I shook my head and kept silent.

  Sohrab reached above us and plucked a jasmine flower out of the nearest shrub. He twirled the tiny blossom back and forth and waited for me to talk.

  “It’s just hard,” I said. “Everyone knows everyone. And everyone speaks Farsi. And everyone knows the dances. And I . . .”

  “Don’t you remember Simin-khanum?” Sohrab said. “She loves to have you here.”

  “It’s not the same, though. Dayi Soheil thinks I’m fat. And Dayi Jamsheed says I’m not Persian. But they like my dad. He’s in there playing Rook.” I hiccuped. “Everyone is disappointed in me.”

  “Darioush.” Sohrab bumped my shoulder again.

  “No one wants me here.”

  “Everyone wants you here. We have a saying in Farsi. It translates ‘your place was empty.’ We say it when we miss somebody.”

  I sniffed.

  “Your place was empty before. But this is your family. You belong here.”

  I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  It was nice to imagine. Even if I didn’t believe him.

  “Thanks, Sohrab.”

  * * *

  When I had finally finished excreting stress hormones, I said, “Don’t tell Babou. Or my dad.”

  “What?”

  “That I was . . . you know.”

  “Oh.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk to your dad?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “Um.” How was I supposed to explain the vast gulf between Stephen Kellner, Teutonic Übermensch, and me, a D-Bag?

  I sighed, bumping against Sohrab’s side. We had sagged closer together while I calmed down.

  “It’s just . . . everything I do, he’s unhappy with me. How I cut my hair. What I eat. The backpack I take to school. My job. Everything. He’s always disappointed in me. He’s always trying to change me. To make me do things the way he would do them. To make me act how he would act.”

  “Darioush . . .”

  “You know what he told me? He told me people wouldn’t pick on me so much if I was more normal. What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Sohrab bumped me again. “You get picked on? At school?”

  “Yeah. Some of the guys tease me. A lot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad would just say that they’re wrong. That they’re wrong about me. That they’re wrong to do that. But he acts like it’s my fault. Like if I could make myself into a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy they’d leave me alone. And it’s not just school. It’s everything. It’s every mood I have. It’s like Dad’s convinced I’m going to . . .”

  “To what?”

  I swallowed.

  “Darioush?”

  “So. I’m depressed. I mean, I have depression. Clinically.”

  “Did something bad happen? To make you so sad?”

  Some people meant it judgmentally when they asked, but not Sohrab.

  He said it like I was a puzzle, one he was enjoying putting together.

  Even if the pieces didn’t quite make sense.

  “No. I’m just messed up. My brain makes the wrong chemicals.”

  My ears burned.

  “Nothing bad has ever happened to me.”

  I felt terrible saying it out loud.

  Dr. Howell—and Dad too—always told me not to be ashamed. But it was hard not to be.

  “How long have you had it?”

  “I dunno. A while,” I said. “It’s genetic. Dad has it too.”

  “But you don’t talk to him about it? When you are sad, like now?”

  “No.”

  Sohrab chewed on his bottom lip.

  “Sometimes,” I said, “it feels like he doesn’t really love me. Not really.”

  “Why?”

  I told Sohrab about telling stories. I told him about soccer and about Boy Scouts. I told him about all the steps Dad and I had taken away from each other. And how we never really went back.

  Sohrab was a good listener. He never played devil’s advocate or told me what I was feeling was wrong, the way Stephen Kellner did. He nodded to let me know he understood, and laughed if I said something funny.

&nbs
p; But eventually, even the topic of Stephen Kellner ran its course.

  I played with the hem of my Team Melli jersey, twisting it around and around my index fingers.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “You never talk about your dad. And he’s not here. Is he . . .”

  Sohrab looked away and bit his cheek again.

  “I’m sorry. I just wondered.”

  “No.” He looked up at me. “It’s okay. Most people already know. And you are my friend.” Sohrab pulled down another jasmine blossom to play with. “My father is in jail.”

  “Oh.”

  I had never known anyone who knew someone in jail.

  “What happened?”

  “You saw in the news about the protests? Years ago. When there were elections?”

  “I think so?”

  I would have to ask Mom to be sure.

  “There were protests here, in Yazd too. My dad was there. Not protesting. He was on the way to work. He owns the store with Amou Ashkan.”

  I nodded.

  “The police came. They were dressed like protesters too.”

  “Plainclothes?”

  “Yes. He was arrested with the protesters. He has been there since then.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He is Bahá’í. It’s not so good if you’re arrested and you’re Bahá’í. You know?”

  I shook my head. “But Mamou and Babou aren’t Muslim. They don’t get much trouble.”

  “But it’s different for Zoroastrians. The government doesn’t like Bahá’ís.”

  “Oh.”

  I never knew that.

  I felt even more ashamed.

  Sohrab had been pretty much fatherless for years, but here I was, complaining about Stephen Kellner who, while imperfect, was certainly less terrifying than the Iranian government.

  “I’m really sorry, Sohrab.”

  I bumped my shoulder against his, and he let out a sigh and relaxed a little.

  “It’s okay, Darioush.”

  I knew without him saying that it wasn’t.