Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,39
of us around.
I wondered if other people did that.
I wondered if Grandma and Oma did that.
“Here to see Miss Hawn,” Grandma said, like we were at a doctor’s office.
“Sure thing.” The guy took Grandma’s driver’s license and my student ID and put them through this little scanner/printer to make visitor stickers for us. “Here you go.”
The guy looked down at Laleh. “You think you can take them to your classroom, Lalah?”
I bristled. He said my sister’s name like it rhymed with Challah bread.
Laleh just nodded. But I said, “It’s pronounced Laleh.”
The guy blinked. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Laleh.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I won’t mess it up again.”
“Cool.” I gave the guy one of those closed-mouth smiles and followed Laleh to her classroom.
* * *
Miss Hawn’s classroom was a nightmare.
Here’s the thing: I never understood the point and purpose of SpongeBob SquarePants.
I never watched it when I was little. According to Dad, I used to cry when it came on, and he had to change the channel.
To be honest, I still found it deeply unnerving.
So when we stepped into Miss Hawn’s classroom, and I saw a SpongeBob SquarePants figurine on her desk, and a poster of him with the phrase READING IS MAGIC suspended on a rainbow between his hands, I kind of shuddered.
Miss Hawn sat at her desk, looking up at us with a practiced smile. She had blue eyes and blond hair that was parted in the middle and curled up on the sides.
She looked like a banana split.
I thought that was kind of a mean thing to think, that Laleh’s teacher looked like a dessert that contained dairy products and (most likely) nuts, but it was hard to think anything nice about her after holding Laleh while she cried herself to sleep.
“Have a seat,” Miss Hawn said. “You must be . . .”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand over her desk. Grandma shook it and then took a seat in an uncomfortable-looking metal folding chair. “And you must be Darius.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes crinkled up. “If I had known you were coming I would have gotten you a better seat.”
“It’s okay.”
I sat next to Laleh on one of the third-grader-sized seats. My knees were nearly in my chest, and Laleh giggled at me. I wanted to make a face at her, but we were here to be serious, so I just put my hands on my knees and tried to look as professional as I could in my work jeans and a light green button-up I’d gotten for soccer functions where we had to dress Business Casual.
As someone with years of experience attempting to decipher various interpretations of Persian Casual—the complex set of intersecting Social Cues that dictated attire at various Iranian functions—I found the simplicity of Business Casual a welcome relief.
“So.” Miss Hawn typed into her computer, clicked her mouse a few times, and turned back to us. She put her hands on her desk, one on top of the other. “I’m sorry to ask you to come in. Normally we handle discipline matters in class, but there are some other concerns I have.”
“Other concerns?” Grandma said.
“Her unusual behavior yesterday aside, Laleh is at the top of her class. She’s the first one to turn in assignments. She’s reading well above grade level. And I’m worried she’s not being challenged in class.” Miss Hawn cleared her throat and tucked a stray lock of banana split behind her ear. “I think that might be playing into some of her behavior lately.”
Next to me, Laleh crossed her arms and looked at her feet. She was wearing her favorite white sneakers, and she kept tapping her heels together, like Dorothy trying to wish herself back home.
I raised my hand.
Some habits die hard.
Miss Hawn’s nose scrunched up as she half smiled. “Yes?”
“Well.” I swallowed. “What about the other kids?”
She blinked.
“What about them?”
“Well, what happened to the kids who keep calling Laleh ‘Lolly’ on purpose?”
She blinked again. “I don’t . . . hmm. I haven’t noticed that. I promise I’ll pay closer attention.”
“What about Micah calling her a terrorist?”
Miss Hawn’s eyes went wide.
“Micah said that?”
Laleh was still staring at her feet. I felt her shake a little next to me, so I put my hand on her knee and squeezed it. After a second, she nodded.
“That’s certainly unacceptable,” Miss Hawn said. “But I don’t think he understands the context of what he’s saying.”
My voice shook. “I think he does.” Grandma put her hand on my shoulder, but I kept