Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,72

heard Dad sing to Mom when he thought no one else could hear.

I waited for one of the chaperones to come along, but no one did.

“This is nice,” Landon said. He stepped in closer to me, so close our bodies were nearly touching. I could smell his cologne and a little bit of his sweat too.

The song switched to a faster one, with thrumming bass and some innuendo-laden lyrics. Landon stepped closer, and even though I was okay with breaking the Chaperone-Mandated Minimum Distance, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with him grinding against me on the dance floor. Not when everyone could see us.

Landon did this thing where he rolled his hips against me. I arched my back to pull away a tiny bit.

“What?” he asked.

“I just don’t want to get in trouble,” I shouted over the music.

He rolled his eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

All around us, everyone else was dancing and smiling and even stealing a few kisses here and there.

But Coach Winfield was prowling the fringes of the dance floor, frowning at anyone who got too close to their dance partner.

Landon followed my gaze and kind of shrugged. He backed away, just a little bit, but kept dancing. I did my best to keep up, swiveling my hips to the beat. I wasn’t the best dancer, but I wasn’t the worst. Years of dancing at Persian functions had at least given me a sense of rhythm, and some decent footwork.

Cyprian Cusumano, on the other hand, was an abysmal dancer, but he didn’t seem to care. I caught sight of him across the gym: He was jumping and flailing and smiling and laughing, like he didn’t care who saw him. He caught my eye and waved, this goofy grin splashed across his face. I shook my head.

“What?” Landon shouted. He glanced behind him and watched Chip hopping around. “Wow.”

He took my hand and spun me around. I grinned and spun him back.

And then I decided to risk it: I leaned in and gave him a super-quick kiss, barely more than a peck on the lips.

“Kellner!” Coach Winfield bellowed from behind me. “Watch it!”

“Sorry, Coach.”

He stared me down for a second—despite being a few inches shorter than me—and then disappeared back into the nebula of dancing bodies.

Landon started laughing.

“How did he do that?”

“Coach Winfield has it out for me.”

“Well. You’d better behave, then.”

“I’ll try.”

When the heat from so many people packed together started getting to me, I led Landon off the floor to rehydrate. The drinks table was a mess, though, so I pulled him out to the hall. As soon as the gym doors closed behind us, the wall of noise pressing against us fell away, except for the bass hum that reverberated through the soles of my shoes.

I dabbed the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I can think again.”

“I can breathe again,” Landon said. “I think some of your classmates forgot their deodorant.”

“That’s a recurring nightmare of mine. Forgetting my own deodorant.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I just don’t ever want to be that guy who smells bad.”

“You always smell nice.”

“Thanks.” I wound my fingers through his and led him down the hall toward the bathrooms where I’d run into Trent Bolger earlier. There was no wait for the water fountain.

Landon drank his fill, and then stood aside for me.

Once again, I wished Chapel Hill High School used paper towels, because that would have been great for wiping off my sweaty brow.

The hallway walls were lined with pictures of Chapel Hill High School’s student athletes. Closest to the Main Gym was the varsity football team; and next to that, above the restrooms, the JV team. Landon nodded at the row of photos.

“You got a picture up somewhere?”

“Down the Art hall.”

“Show me?”

I led Landon back past the gym toward the Art hall. The fluorescent lights were off, except for a few intermittent panels that were always on at night. Our dress shoes sounded like hooves clop-clop-clopping on the tiles.

As we neared the corner, the photos changed from the varsity wrestling team (where a photo of Chip in his red-and-black singlet from last year still hung on the wall), to the JV wrestling team, and finally to the varsity men’s soccer team.

Go Chargers.

Here’s the thing: I don’t photograph well. I think it’s genetic.

Iranians always frown in photos.

(As a Fractional Persian, I only looked constipated, but still.)

I was wearing my jersey and had my arms crossed in front of my chest: the Standard Student Athlete Pose. We took the