Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,79
to live the rest of my life with lockjaw.
I would have been okay with that.
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you before we left.”
“Left? For where?”
Sohrab leaned back, and for the first time I noticed he wasn’t in his room. The walls were white and blank.
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m in Hakkâri, Darioush. Turkey.”
“What?”
“Maman and I left. We are going to try and get asylum.”
“Asylum?”
My head spun.
“You’re becoming refugees?”
“Yeah. Lots of Bahá’ís do it.”
“Oh my god,” I said.
My best friend was a refugee.
“I was so worried about you. I thought something bad had happened.”
Did this count as something bad happening?
What did this mean for Sohrab? For his mom?
“Last time we talked you told me you thought you might be depressed. And then you were just gone. And no one would tell me anything. I thought . . .”
Sohrab’s face fell.
“I wouldn’t do that, Darioush.”
“Sometimes people can’t help it.”
He let out a deep breath.
“I’m okay, Darioush. I promise. I’m sorry. We had to keep it quiet.”
“Why?”
“It’s dangerous. And complicated. You remember my khaleh got asylum?”
“The one in Toronto?”
He nodded.
“Is that where you’re going? Toronto?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I felt this little burst of happiness.
Sohrab, in Toronto?
Compared to Iran, that was practically next door.
“Don’t cry, Darioush.”
“I was scared. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to keep it secret. But Maman and I are okay. We’re going to be fine.”
I nodded and sniffed.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you too.”
“And I heard . . . about Babou.”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, Darioush.”
“I’m sorry too. I know you loved him.”
In a way, Babou had been like Sohrab’s grandfather too. Maybe even more than he had been mine.
I wished I were there with him.
I wished I could hug him and cry with him and let him tell me all the little things I never got to know about Babou. Things he got to see, growing up next door to Ardeshir Bahrami.
But at least I could see him on the screen.
We had a lot of catching up to do.
* * *
I told Sohrab about quitting Rose City.
I told him about homecoming and Landon.
I told him about Chip.
“I’m sorry, Darioush,” he said when I was finished. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I guess.”
He looked at me.
“Did you, though?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you love Landon?”
I leaned back in my chair. It was a used office chair Dad brought home from work when they switched to standing desks. But it was also slightly broken, and if I leaned back too far it would tip over.
I grabbed the edge of my desk and sat back up.
“I don’t think so,” I finally said.
And then I said, “He was the first guy that ever liked me.”
I swallowed away the lump in my throat.
“What if no one else ever likes me the way he did?”
“Darioush.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good guy. And lots of guys are going to like you. I know.”
I shook my head.
“What about Chip? He likes you.”
“Ugh.”
Sohrab laughed at that.
“Darioush.”
“What?”
“He is your friend. Are you going to stay mad at him forever?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You remember our first fight?”
I nodded.
It was because Sohrab had teased me after seeing me naked in the showers after we played soccer.
He said my penis looked like it was wearing a turban.
Was my entire life going to be one long string of penile humiliations?
Maybe it would.
Maybe that is what it means to have a penis.
“Why are we still friends?”
I shrugged. “You said you were sorry.”
“And you forgave me.”
“Yeah.”
“Friends forgive each other. Did Chip say he was sorry?”
He did.
A lot.
I just wasn’t sure that was enough.
“But you didn’t just say you were sorry. You didn’t do that again.”
“We had other fights.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But we never had the same fight twice.”
“And Chip is doing the same thing?”
“Yeah. He’s still friends with Trent. No matter what Trent does to me.”
“Hm. Then maybe he’s never going to change. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I never met anyone with as big a heart as you, Darioush. I know you’ll figure it out.”
My face burned.
“Thanks.”
Sohrab’s cheeks looked a little pink too. He cleared his throat.
“How is your soccer going?”
I told Sohrab about our wins, and our loss, and how weird and wonderful it felt to be on a team.
I told him about Grandma and Oma.
I told him about Laleh, and her project to turn Mamou and Babou into constellations.
I told him about Mom, who was never home anymore. And Dad, who was finally home, who was doing badly but was finally going to let me help.