Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,69

He swallowed. “That’s how you make friends.”

Laleh looked from Chip to me, and then back down at her paper.

“Okay.”

And then she said, “Will you help me?”

“Sure.” I scooted closer.

“You too,” she told Chip, though her cheeks reddened again as she said it.

He grinned. “All right.”

Laleh pointed to one of the stick-figure constellations she’d made, one that might’ve almost had a mustache. “This one is going to be Babou.”

FULL PERSIAN MOTHER

Saturday morning I tried Sohrab again.

He still didn’t answer.

I thought about calling Mamou again, but I couldn’t call her every time I couldn’t reach Sohrab.

That wasn’t cool.

So I wrote him yet another email.

When I first got back from Iran, we emailed each other all the time, until we figured out a schedule to call each other. And once we’d sorted that out, email felt so impersonal.

I couldn’t see his eyes squint up when he smiled. Or hear his laughter.

Even that was a pale illusion of the real Sohrab.

I missed being in Iran with him.

I missed sitting with him on our rooftop and watching the sun kiss our khaki kingdom.

I missed the way he would throw his arm over my shoulder, like that was a thing guys could do to each other.

But email was my only option.

So I asked him how he was doing, and said I hoped he was okay, and that he’d write back soon. I told him about my soccer games (we were ten and one now) and quitting my job. I told him about Laleh and my dad and my mom. I told him about Landon and homecoming.

Did they have homecoming in Iran?

And I told him I was doing okay, depression-wise. And I hoped he was doing okay too, because he was my best friend in the whole world and I wanted him to be happy and healthy.

I didn’t tell him I was scared.

Scared that he hadn’t written back or called. Scared that something bad had happened to him.

Scared that he was mad at me. That I had done something wrong.

I would have given my life for Sohrab’s.

So I just wrote Ghorbanat beram. Love, Darius, and hit send.

Sohrab used to tell me that my place was empty.

It’s an Iranian saying.

But now his place was empty.

I missed him terribly.

* * *

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you talked to Mamou lately?”

“Yesterday. Why?”

“I haven’t heard from Sohrab for a while. And when I asked Mamou about it, she got kind of weird.”

Mom looked up from my hands. She was painting my nails that perfect Yazdi blue for homecoming.

“She didn’t mention it,” she said. “I’m sure he’s okay, though.”

I wasn’t sure.

I couldn’t shake this feeling. Like Mamou knew something and wouldn’t tell me.

The silence between us was thick as toffee. Sticky too.

Mom let go of my left hand and picked up my right. She twisted it a bit to flatten out my thumb.

And then she said, without looking at me, “Landon knows about Sohrab, right?”

“Huh?” I blinked. “Yeah.”

I didn’t understand why Mom had brought it up.

“Does he ever get jealous?”

“Of Sohrab?”

Mom nodded.

“No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just wondered,” Mom said. “From the way you were, with Sohrab. When we were in Iran. I wondered.”

My neck prickled.

“Wondered . . . what?”

“If there was something between you two.”

“Um.”

Mom met my eyes, but I looked down at my hands.

And then I said, “We’re just friends, Mom.”

“I know, but back then.”

“We were just friends.”

Mom sighed.

I sighed too.

“I think I really needed a friend.”

“So you never . . .”

“No.”

Mom looked down at my nails again.

“Maybe I had a little crush on him.”

Mom nodded.

“You know it’s different for guys in Iran. Right?”

“What?”

“It’s more common for men to express affection for each other. Platonic affection. It doesn’t mean the same thing it does here.”

I didn’t know why Mom felt like she had to tell me that.

“Why are you asking all of a sudden?”

“It just makes me wonder what else I missed.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I didn’t know this about you. That you’re . . .”

“Gay?”

Mom nodded.

“You told your dad before you told me.”

“Um.”

“Some days it just feels like everything about you is new.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Mom finished up my right pinky and sat back.

“All set. Just let them dry before you get dressed.”

“Okay. Um. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She reached up and brushed my hair off my forehead.

I’d gotten my haircut touched up yesterday. It was soft and sleek and full, the fade nice and crisp.

“Have fun tonight.”

* * *

Mr. Edwards dropped Landon off about an hour before dinner.

I was still getting dressed when he knocked on my door.

“Hey,” I