The guys all clustered around Chip, laughing and shoving each other and high-fiving and exchanging sweaty hugs.
I hung back a little bit. I don’t know why.
But then Jaden saw me. He laughed and pulled me into the scrum too, and he slapped my back and hung his arm around my neck, and Gabe fist-bumped me, and Chip grinned at me, and I smiled back in spite of myself, and we shouted and jumped until Coach came and told us to calm down so we could shake hands with the other team.
She was grinning too, though.
And for a second, at least, it was okay that Dad was gone.
Just for a second.
* * *
Chip found me at the bike rack.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey. You were awesome.”
“Lucky shot.”
I shook my head.
“You doing anything tonight?”
“Headed home. My dad’s supposed to be in town.”
“In town?”
“Yeah. He’s been in California for a job.”
“Oh.” Chip’s grin dropped just a bit.
“Why?”
“Trent’s coming over. We’re gonna watch Evie and play games or something. I was gonna see if you wanted to come.”
I blinked.
Sometimes Chip just didn’t make sense.
“You know he hates me, right?”
Chip shook his head. “He doesn’t hate you. And Evie loves you.”
“I don’t think . . .”
But Chip’s phone dinged at him. He grimaced and looked at the message.
“Sorry, I gotta go. Guess no one actually got any dinner.”
“Oh. Sorry. See you.”
Chip sighed.
“Yeah. See you.”
Like I said.
I didn’t know what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.
* * *
Dad was at the table eating leftover khoresh-e-karafs when I got home. He leaped up from the table and wrapped me in a Level Seven Hug.
I held him tight.
“Hey, Dad.”
He held my face for a second and then kissed my forehead.
“How’d you do?”
“Won it in a shoot-out.”
Dad beamed. But then his shoulders kind of slumped.
“I hate that I missed it.”
“It’s okay.”
Dad squeezed my shoulder. “I’m almost done. I’ll do the dishes if you make the tea.”
“Okay.”
I made us a pot of Genmaicha and we settled onto the couch for “Family Business,” which is about Quark’s mother earning profit even though it’s against the law for Ferengi females to do so.
“What do you think would happen if I started calling Mom ‘Moogie’?” I asked.
Moogie is what Quark called his mom.
Dad snorted. “I wouldn’t try it.”
When it was over, we sat on the couch together, drinking our tea. Dad had his arm wrapped around me.
“How’re you doing? Really?”
“Okay.” I chewed on my lip for a second. “Miss you.”
Dad nodded and sighed. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple days, and now that I was sitting right next to him, I could see dark crescents under his eyes.
My father looked rumpled.
I didn’t know people could look rumpled.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m fine. Tired.”
But there was this thing in his voice, this unquantifiable timbre that sent a chill down my spine.
I scratched the back of my neck.
Dad sighed again.
Stephen Kellner never sighed.
“It’s rough being on the road.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“Being away from you all . . . it’s harder than I thought it was going to be. I would’ve turned this job down, but we need the money.”
Dad drummed his fingers against his teacup.
And then he sighed again.
“Sorry. I just . . . I’m having a bit of an episode right now. It’s going to be okay.”
“A depressive episode?”
He nodded.
“Can I help?”
Dad squeezed my shoulder again.
“No. I’ve got it under control, and I’ve been talking with Dr. Howell about upping my prescription.”
“I could ask Mr. Edwards for more hours. Or get a second job.”
“Absolutely not. You work hard enough as it is, with your job and soccer and school. And besides, it’s our job to take care of you, not the other way around.”
“But I want to help.”
“You are helping. By being happy. By helping with your sister.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“No buts.” Dad smiled. “We’re going to be okay.”
“Okay,” I said.
Dad let out a long breath.
“Come on, enough heavy stuff. Tell me something interesting that happened while I was gone.”
“Well,” I said. “I got kneed in the balls last week.”
Dad winced, and his hand twitched, like he wanted to cover himself.
“I’m okay, though. Don’t worry.”
Dad shook his head.
But then he chuckled a little.
And then he started laughing.
It felt good to make Dad laugh.
TERRIBLY PEDESTRIAN
“Can you grab two more boxes of Tencha?” Alexis hollered. “And one of Masala Chai?”
I set the Tencha by the door, then went to the black tea shelf. It was in total disarray: Ceylons and Darjeelings and Earl Greys all stuffed haphazardly onto shelves without their labels pointing outward.
I shoved a couple boxes of Ceylon to the side and found the Masala Chai hidden toward the back.
“Got it,” I called back.
I straightened out the shelves as best I could and took the boxes to the front.
“Restock? Good.” Kerry nodded toward the empty shelf space and then turned back to her customer, a twenty-something white guy with long blond hair, a full blond beard, cargo shorts, and one of those colorful sweater-hoodies that looked like it was made out of alpaca wool or something.
Truth be told, the guy looked like he should have been out on a mountaintop, herding alpacas too.
I slipped past Alpaca Man, getting an unfortunate whiff of his musk as I did (at least I hoped it was him and not me), dodged around Alexis, who was carrying a gaiwan service to a table in the corner, and made it to the shelves.
Rose City Teas had never been so packed. But it was an unusually warm Saturday, and we were launching our new Nitro Earl Grey, served float-style over vanilla ice cream from this artisanal ice creamery down the block.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the crook of my arm and started unboxing, using a little retractable box knife to slice the tape and flatten the empty boxes.
Each box of sixteen tins had four smaller cardboard boxes inside, with four tins each.
I didn’t understand the point and purpose of double-boxing.
“Do you have any English Breakfast?” a voice asked behind me.
“Oh.” I stuck the knife back in my pocket and turned around to face a woman about Mom’s age, with her purse slung over her shoulder and her arms crossed. “We don’t have any traditional English Breakfast. But we have an Assam that’s similar, and—”
“Can you check in the back?”
I blinked.
We didn’t have any English Breakfast in the back, because we didn’t actually make any English Breakfast.
Mr. Edwards once told me that English Breakfast was “terribly pedestrian.”
I never knew exactly what he meant by that, until now.
“Sorry. I mean we don’t make it at all. But I can help you find something similar. We’ve got lots of great options.”
I pulled down a couple different Assams and one Keemun.
“These are all single-estate black teas. These two are from India, and this one is from China.”
I had the woman smell each tea (just the dry leaves) while I described the flavor profiles.
I felt kind of like Mr. Edwards, using words like malty and smoky and umami as we talked. The woman’s eyes lit up when she smelled the Second Flush Assam.
“This smells great!” she said.
“Want to try a cup? I can steep you one.”
“All right.”
I led her to the tea bar and got a cup steeping. As the leaves unfurled, she told me about how she and her wife had just moved to Portland and were looking for a new tea store.
I was telling her about some of our other teas when Mr. Edwards hollered at me.
“Darius, aren’t you supposed to be stocking?” Mr. Edwards asked. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the winding vine tattoo on his left forearm, and his cheeks were flushed.
“Sorry, I was—”
“I need more nitro. Like now.”
“Sorry.” I turned back to the lady, my ears burning. “Sorry. Enjoy your tea.”
“I will. Thanks.”
I tried not to blush.
I loved it when I could help someone find the perfect tea.
I squeezed past Kerry toward the stock room, where we kept the wooden palette of nitrogen tanks. They were about three feet tall, with no handles: awkward, but not that heavy. I weaved it back out to the tea bar, where Mr. Edwards had me set it down.
“Thanks.” He knelt under the bar and disconnected the empty tank. “Here. You know where the empties go?”
“Yeah.”
But before I could grab it, there was a tinkling crash of porcelain from one of the corner tables.