Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,40
going. “He sees stuff like that on TV all the time. That’s how white people see people like Laleh and me.”
Miss Hawn clenched her hands.
“Not all of us,” she said.
“That’s not—”
But Grandma cut me off. “I think what Darius is trying to say is that it seems you’re singling her out by only punishing her.”
I blinked at Grandma.
That wasn’t what I was trying to say at all.
I was trying to explain what it was like for Laleh.
For me.
Grandma never seemed to want to know about that, though.
Miss Hawn cleared her throat again. “I’ll talk to Micah tomorrow. But I’d like for us to focus on Laleh’s future.”
“What about it?” Grandma asked.
“I’d like for Laleh to take the test for the district’s gifted program. Her OAKS scores are exemplary, and her other teachers think it would be good for her too.”
Grandma looked at me and then at Laleh, who kicked her heels together again.
And then she nodded to herself and turned back to Miss Hawn.
“What would that entail?”
* * *
The drive home was quiet.
Grandma didn’t speak, because much like Oma, she never talked while she drove.
Unlike Oma, she didn’t listen to NPR: She left the radio off because she didn’t want distractions.
And Laleh didn’t speak. I got the feeling she was still kind of mad at Miss Hawn, too mad to process any of the good stuff Miss Hawn said about her. And mad at Grandma, for acting like everything was fine. And maybe mad at me too, for letting her down.
Miss Hawn wouldn’t listen to me. And Grandma totally derailed what I wanted to talk about. Nothing was going to change.
I was so ashamed.
I didn’t speak either.
* * *
When we got home, Laleh ran straight up to her room. I walked inside with Grandma.
“I’m going to call your mother,” she said.
I made a pot of tea—some Moroccan Mint that Laleh liked—and loaded a tray with cups and spoons and a jar of local wildflower honey.
My sister’s door was all the way closed again. I wondered if that was the new normal for her.
“Laleh? My hands are full. Can I come in?”
For a second I thought she was going to say no. Or just ignore me. But then the door unlatched and rested against the jamb.
I shouldered the door open, then closed it behind me with my foot.
“Want some tea?”
“Sure.”
Laleh flopped back down on her bed face-first, right back onto the damp spot she’d been crying into.
“Honey?”
Laleh nodded. I poured her a cup and spooned a dollop of honey into it.
“You want to stir?”
Laleh sat up and took her cup, clanging the spoon against the rim as she stirred.
She always clanged her spoon against the cup. At least that hadn’t changed.
“Hey.” I sat on her floor and leaned against her bed. “I’m really sorry, Laleh.”
“Why?”
“I let you down. With Miss Hawn.”
Laleh shook her head. “Why wouldn’t she listen to you?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
I sipped my tea.
Laleh sipped hers.
“Sometimes people think they’re doing a good thing, and so they ignore that they’re doing a bad thing too. Miss Hawn and Grandma were excited about the gifted program, so they just ignored all the microaggressions and stuff.”
Laleh frowned.
“I deal with stuff like that too. You know people call me names sometimes?”
I couldn’t get too specific with my sister. I didn’t want to explain why D-Cheese was an insult.
I never wanted to discuss anything penis-related with Laleh Kellner.
“I can’t always make them stop. But I can find better friends. And better teachers. And better places.”
“Like Sohrab?”
“Yeah. And like soccer too. My coach and my teammates. Maybe this gifted program isn’t all bad. Maybe it’s a chance for you to find a new place. Make some new friends.”
“But I don’t want to be in a different class.”
I got it. Really, I did.
Laleh didn’t want to be different.
Being different made you a Target.
But if my sister was going to be a Target, at least it could be for something good. Something special.
“Will you at least think about it some? For me?”
Laleh looked up at me through her eyelashes. She had long dark eyelashes like me. Like Mom.
“All right.”
“You need some more tea?”
“Yes please.”
FAMILY BUSINESS
That night, Landon came over and made dinner for us again: Mom’s recipe for khoresh-e-karafs, or celery stew.
“Smells good,” I said, and kissed him on the temple.
He was wearing Dad’s Star Trek apron and stirring in another handful of fresh parsley.
“Thanks. Am I doing the rice right?”
Next to the khoresh, a pot of rice steamed underneath one of Mom’s tea