Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,29
me anyway.
“Yeah,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. “Hey. What’re you doing Friday?”
“Coming to your game?”
“I meant after.”
“I don’t know.” Landon wrapped his arms around my waist. I sucked in my stomach. “What am I doing after?”
I swallowed.
“You wanna come to a party? It’ll just be the team, I think. Playing FIFA and stuff.”
He let out this funny snort. “Really?”
“I guess.”
Landon squeezed my waist. I hated that it wasn’t hard and smooth like his.
“I’d love to.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
My cheeks warmed.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
“Okay.”
MOLTEN NUGGETS
Like I said, I’d never been to a high school party before.
I had envisioned some sort of Level Seven Debauchery, with dried-out red Solo cups and used joints and people passed out on every flat surface.
Instead, there were twenty of us crammed into a half-finished basement, sitting on folding chairs or sprawled on the floor, using pillows from the living room couches to cushion us from the cold smooth concrete.
A few of the other guys had invited their girlfriends, and everyone was smiling and laughing and happy we’d won another game.
Christian’s parents were upstairs, swapping out batches of pizza rolls and popcorn chicken in the oven, and talking with some of the other team parents.
And there was no alcohol. We drank Gatorade, and took turns playing FIFA on Christian’s PlayStation, which was hooked into a tiny projector that James—who was a theater kid in the off-season—had managed to borrow for the weekend. It was pointed at the blank drywall, and we could barely hear the tinny built-in speakers over everyone’s talking.
Landon and I sat on the floor against the wall, cuddling and watching it all play out. We leaned our heads against each other and occasionally kissed, but not too often, because every time we did one of the guys would start whooping and clapping at us.
It reminded me of being at an Iranian wedding, where the married couple would have to kiss whenever people started clinking their glasses with their forks and shouting “Shoo-loo-loo-loo-loo!”
“You good?” Landon’s hair tickled my lips as I spoke into his ear.
“I’m good,” he said.
“I’m gonna grab another drink.”
I untangled my limbs from his and went upstairs to pull another purple Gatorade—the best flavor—out of the fridge. A few guys were upstairs, hovering in the kitchen or sprawled out in the living room playing on their phones.
The door to the patio was wide open, to circulate some air and relieve the overwhelming smell of pizza rolls and tightly packed boys.
Chip was outside, talking to Trent Bolger, who had somehow rated an invite to the party. They were arguing, as best I could tell.
“—ditched me again, dude,” Trent said.
“I don’t complain when you have football practice.”
“Why are you playing soccer anyway? It sucks.”
“I like soccer. I told you football wasn’t for me.”
Trent grunted.
“Yeah, well, what about Monday? You were supposed to text me when you got out.”
“I told you I was sorry. I kneed Darius in the balls. What was I supposed to do, leave him on the side of the road?”
Trent snorted at that. “I wish I’d seen it.”
“It was awful. You don’t even know.”
“I didn’t know you were so desperate to get to third base.”
My ears burned.
Chip mumbled something I couldn’t catch, but it made Trent laugh again.
“Whatever.” Trent rounded the corner and saw me holding my purple Gatorade up to my lips without drinking. “What’s up, D-cheese.”
That was a new one.
Objectively speaking, Trent had said worse. Dairy Queen was at least a Level Three Homophobic Insult.
But D-Cheese offended me more.
I had excellent personal hygiene, and that hadn’t been a problem for me since I was like twelve.
Not that I could tell that to Trent Bolger.
I never wanted to discuss my penis with Trent Bolger.
“Be cool, man,” Chip said. “Hey, Darius.”
I took a sip of my Gatorade. “Hey.”
The burning in my ears had spread down to my neck.
I looked from Trent to Chip and back to Trent. He had this smirk on his face, like he knew what I was thinking.
I didn’t like it.
Behind me, the oven beeped, and I heard Christian’s mom call from upstairs. “That’s the pizza rolls!”
“I’ll get them!” I hollered. I put on an oven mitt and pulled the sheet of molten nuggets out while Trent grabbed Chip’s shoulder.
“Come on.”
Chip gave me a little closed-lip smile and followed his friend downstairs.
I turned off the oven and tossed my Gatorade in the recycling bin. The sound of Trent’s hyena laugh echoed up from the basement.