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 towels.
“I think so. I’ve never made it myself.” I went to lift the lid, but Landon put his hand on my arm.
“It says to leave the lid on until it’s ready.”
“How do you know it’s ready if you can’t take the lid off?”
Landon shrugged. “The recipe is a little vague on that point.”
* * *
Like I said, Landon Edwards was magic.
The rice turned out perfectly—a resplendent golden disc—and he upended the pot onto a platter right as Mom got home.
“Wow,” Mom said. “This is amazing.”
Landon’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank you.”
I set the table as Mom changed into sweatpants, and we all settled to eat. Landon dished out perfect wedges of tah dig and great big scoops of stew.
“Thank you again for taking Laleh,” Mom said.
“It’s fine, Shirin,” Grandma said. “I put the papers about the gifted program on your desk.”
My ears burned.
Grandma was acting like that was all that mattered.
But Mom just nodded.
“Oh, are you doing that, Laleh?” Landon asked.
“I don’t know.” Laleh looked up at me and then down at her food. “Maybe. I guess.”
I pushed some stew onto my spoon.
“I used to do that. All the way through eighth grade.” Landon squeezed my knee under the table. “Were you in it too?”
I shook my head.
“Oh.” Landon looked down at his plate. “Well. It’s really cool, Laleh. I think you’ll like it.”
Laleh said, “Okay.”
I stared into my stew. It was verdant green, with seared chunks of beef like dark brown islands in a lush swamp.
Lots of Persian stews look like swamps, even—no, especially—the most delicious ones.
I swallowed away the lump in my throat.
I wanted to cry.
I don’t know why.
But I couldn’t cry at the dinner table.
* * *
Landon had band practice early the next morning, so we could only steal a few minutes in my room before his dad picked him up. I waved at Mr. Edwards as they drove off and then went to help Mom wash the dishes.
While we worked, Grandma and Oma planted themselves in the living room to watch reruns of Law & Order. The original one.
I could see where Dad got his television habits from, because they watched a single episode every night. And there were a lot of episodes of Law & Order.
“What did you think of the meeting?”
“I think Miss Hawn doesn’t get that Laleh’s classmates are being racist. Or maybe she doesn’t care.”
Mom sighed. “I don’t think she knows. Or at least she doesn’t know how to deal with it. But I do think she cares about Laleh.”
I chewed on my lip and dunked my sponge into the rice pot, which I had cleaned and filled with sudsy water.
Mom turned the sink back on and started rinsing again.
“Landon did a good job with the khoresh.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s something special, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d your test go, by the way?”
“Okay. Chip helped me study.”
“How come you never ask Landon to help you study? Sounds like he’s smart too.”
I swallowed away the lump in my throat again.
“I don’t know. His classes are all different.”
“Hm.”
The back of my neck prickled.
“Remind me when your next game is?”
“Friday.”
“Maybe your dad can catch it while he’s home.”
“Maybe.”
* * *
Our game against the Beaverton East Eagles was tough. Neither team scored, so we ended up in a shoot-out.
The Eagles’ first shooter scored with a tricky shot that ricocheted off the corner and into the net, but Gabe got them back with a slick shot of his own. No one else scored after that: James and Nick and Jaden all missed, and so did Beaverton’s shooters.
But then it was Chip’s turn.
I held my breath as he sized up the goal and took the shot.
And scored.
The stands went wild—at least the small cluster of parents and friends did. People didn’t care about the Chapel Hill High School varsity men’s soccer team the way they cared about the football team.
Dad was conspicuously absent. His flight got delayed.