Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,6
I wanted to tell, but then I think Sohrab realized it was making me nervous, because he switched topics to Babou’s latest appointment.
“The doctors think it’s time for him to be on . . . what do you call it? Hospice?”
“Oh.”
I don’t know why that made me want to cry. I knew Babou wasn’t going to get better.
But I guess there was a little part of me hoping for a miracle.
“I’m sorry, Darioush.”
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, and Sohrab knew it. But we didn’t have to say it out loud.
We talked about other stuff after that: about the weather in Yazd; about the fortunes of Team Melli; about the latest argument he’d had with Ali-Reza and Hossein, the boys he played soccer/Iranian football with in Yazd; about school, and his uncle’s store, and his mom’s cooking.
Right before we hung up, Sohrab looked at me. And he said, “I’m glad you told me, Darioush. I will always be your friend.”
* * *
I told Sohrab about Landon taking me for my haircut, and about visiting Rose City after, and how Dad had walked in on us making out.
When I told him I accidentally bit Landon’s tongue, he laughed so hard he had to wipe tears away from his eyes, and that made me laugh too.
And I told him about having another Awkward Talk with Stephen Kellner.
Sohrab and I told each other everything.
“But enough about me. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. I saw Babou yesterday.”
“How is he?”
“Not very good.” He sighed. “Mamou thinks it won’t be long now.”
“Oh. Is she okay?”
“Your grandma is strong. Like you, Darioush. But . . .” He looked off to the side for a moment. “It’s hard for her. She won’t tell anyone when she needs help. Maman and I have to force her to slow down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love your grandma. And your grandpa.”
“Me too.” I wiped at my eyes. “I wish I could be there.”
“I wish you could too.”
“Thank you. For taking care of them.”
Sohrab’s brown eyes crinkled up into a squint as he smiled at me.
Sohrab Rezaei always smiled with his whole face.
“Always, Darioush. Ghorbanat beram. Always.”
* * *
Ghorbanat beram is one of those perfect Farsi phrases you can’t quite translate into English.
The closest thing is: I would give my life for yours.
Sometimes it was just hyperbole.
But for Sohrab, it was literal.
And it was literal for me too.
That is what it means to have a best friend.
THE GOOD TABLE
I was a little nervous about going to school Wednesday morning.
First, because we had our opening game that evening. And second, because Trent Bolger had been fiddling suspiciously with his phone when he saw me with Landon, and Trent loved spreading misinformation.
But when I got to school, no one said anything at all.
Either Trent hadn’t made his move yet, or he had and no one cared.
By the time I got to Conditioning class, which I shared with Trent and a couple guys from the soccer team, it seemed like it was the latter: He’d been disappointed by the results of his rumormongering. Trent kept glaring at me, especially when I greeted Jaden and Gabe, two seniors on the team.
“All good, Darius?” Gabe asked. Our starting forward was brown-skinned and the shortest guy on the team, but he was also the fastest runner I had ever seen.
“A little nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’ll be fine,” Jaden said. He was a Fractional Korean—he laughed when I called him that the first time, but then he adopted it himself—and tall, but not as tall as me or Chip. He played midfield.
“Thanks.”
Gabe glanced over at Trent, then lowered his voice.
“You know Trent’s going around telling people he saw you with a guy last night?”
“I kind of figured he would.”
Gabe grinned. “You got a boyfriend?”
“Maybe. I dunno. We’re just hanging out.”
“Anyone we know?”
“I don’t think so. He goes to private school in Vancouver.”
“Cool. You don’t mind people knowing?”
“Not really.”
“All right. We got your back, though. Just say the word.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
It still felt weird for people at school to actually have my back.
“Thanks.”
* * *
“Partner up for front squats,” Coach Winfield said. “Light load. Ten reps. Three-second hold.”
I stifled a groan. Squats were the worst, but front squats with a three-second hold at the bottom were tantamount to a crime against humanity.
At least they were good for my butt.
You could tell Coach Winfield was a football coach, because whenever there was a football game, there would always be stretching or jogging or some kind of “active recovery” for Conditioning.