I wanted to know them.
I wanted to know how being queer had shaped their lives.
I wanted them to give me advice, and teach me our history, and yes, go to marches.
But instead I finished off my matcha and found my spot in my book.
And the door between us creaked shut again.
A PLASMA CONDUIT
Thursday morning I called Sohrab.
“Hi, Darioush,” he said. “I can’t talk long.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“It’s okay, just busy.”
“Oh.”
Sohrab wiped his arm over his forehead. I couldn’t tell if he was sweating or not, but he was breathing hard.
“What’re you doing?”
“Helping Maman with some things.”
“Oh. How’re you doing? How’s school? Have you played football lately?”
“I’m fine. School is—”
Sohrab’s picture froze while he was scratching his nose.
“Sohrab?”
I waited about thirty seconds, but when he still didn’t unfreeze, I hung up and tried again.
This time it took a couple rings.
“Darioush?”
“Hey. I think we got cut off.”
“Yeah, sorry. Listen, I have to go. But we’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Oh.” I swallowed.
I got this feeling, right behind my sternum. This bubble of sadness that slowly floated upward toward my throat.
Sohrab had never rushed off a call like this.
Had I done something wrong?
I didn’t know what was happening.
So I just said “Okay.”
“Take care. Bye.”
* * *
We won our game against Hillsboro West that afternoon, 3–0. It felt kind of harsh to shut them out so badly, but after our loss against the Willow Bluffs High School Trojans, it did a lot to boost morale.
By the time I got home, everyone had already eaten. Mom had brought carryout from the Thai place near her office.
“I got your favorite.” She held up a foam clamshell.
“Sweet and sour?”
“Extra beef.”
“Thanks.”
I scooped the stir fry—it had beef and bell peppers and onions and pineapple—onto a dome of rice and stuck it in the microwave.
“How was your game?”
“We won.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah.”
The microwave beeped, so I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and took my plate to the table.
Mom went to the stove, where the kettle was steaming, with a smaller pot set on top Persian-style. “Tea?”
“Yes please.”
Mom poured two cups, using the special glasses she only served Persian tea in, and kissed the crown of my head before she sat down.
“Mmmm.” The tea was perfectly scented with cardamom. And something else: “Cinnamon?”
“I like how you do it.”
I always put a pinch of cinnamon in my Persian tea.
I never knew Mom liked that.
“Thanks.”
Mom sipped her tea and watched me wolf down my food. I normally had a snack before a game, but I was so nervous I hadn’t been able to get anything down other than some purple Gatorade.
“We heard back from Laleh’s school.”
“Really?”
“She starts the gifted program on Wednesday.”
“Wow. You already told her?”
“Thought some fried rice might help her nerves.”
My sister loved fried rice.
“Oma said you asked Landon to homecoming?”
I coughed.
“Oh. Yeah. I meant to tell you.”
“It’s fine,” Mom said, but there was this thing in her voice.
Like maybe it wasn’t fine.
“Do you need to go shopping? I can take you.”
“I need a suit. Mine doesn’t fit anymore.”
Mom chewed her lip.
“Don’t worry. I can pay. And there’s this consignment shop Landon knows.”
Mom sighed. She reached up and twisted a lock of my hair around her finger.
“We can pay too. It’s your first dance. It’s a big deal.”
“It’s not that big a deal, Mom.”
“It is to me. And your dad.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’re going to help. All right?”
“All right.”
* * *
Laleh was curled up on her bed, in a cocoon of pillows and stuffed animals, when I went to check on her.
“Hey, Laleh. What’re you reading?”
She held up a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
“I borrowed it,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. Can I sit?”
She moved her knees over, and I sat on her bed.
“Mom told me the news.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this what you want?”
Laleh looked down at her hands. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.” I wrapped my arm around Laleh and kissed the top of her head. “Are your classmates any better? Or Miss Hawn?”
“No,” Laleh grumbled.
“I’m sorry. I wish I knew how to fix it.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, though. I want you to know that. It’s not okay when your classmates do it to you. And it’s not okay when Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy do it to me. Just because they do it doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
“What’s a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy?”
“Oh. That’s what I call bullies.”
Laleh scrunched up her nose.
“Sorry. But you know what makes it easier, when I get picked on?”
“What?”
“I know when I go to soccer practice, there’s no one like that. That I’m with people who care about me. And it makes it easier to go through the day, knowing at the end I get to go somewhere like that. Where I don’t have to worry.”
Laleh looked down at her hands again.
I closed them in mine. They fit so perfectly I wanted to cry.
“Will you try it out? Just for a little while?”
“Okay.”
* * *
“No, wait.” Chip pointed to my mistake. “i³ is -i.”
“Crap.”
I scratched out my mistake and started over.
I had a test in Algebra II on Monday, and Chip had agreed to help me study, as long as we did it at his place so he could babysit Evie.
She sat on his lap, absolutely entranced by the orange plastic bowl of Cheerios in front of her. Her tiny fingers grasped a few at a time, let some fall like drops of water, and then stuffed whatever remained into her mouth.
Every once in a while, Chip would lean down and kiss her head.
I worked through my equation again, but I kept glancing at Chip and his niece.
Somewhere along the way, Cyprian Cusumano had changed from Trent Bolger’s sidekick, to a guy on my soccer team, to a real friend. A friend who looked cute sitting at the table with his little niece on his lap.
I snapped my eyes back to my paper and kept working.
“Wait,” I said, after a few more minutes of scribbling. “So this whole thing just adds up to zero?”
Chip leaned over to look. His lips moved silently as he read over my work.
“Yup. That’s—”
But before he could finish, Evie smacked the rim of her bowl and sent Cheerios flying everywhere.
“Evie! Sorry about that.” He set her on the floor, and she squealed and ran into the living room, her little legs pumping up and down like her quads were burned out from a superset of heavy back squats.
“It’s okay.”
I shook the Cheerios off my laptop onto my scratch paper and got on the floor to help Chip scoop up the ones that had fallen.
“Thanks.” He glanced up at me and giggled.
“What?”
He reached into my hair and pulled out a Cheerio. I shivered as his fingers grazed my scalp.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Chip grinned that funny grin of his.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me.
I swallowed.
My whole body was warm, like I’d been dropped into a plasma conduit.
“Um,” I said.
And then I tried to stand, but I hit the top of my head on the table.
“Ow.”
Chip busted out laughing at that.
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Yeah. Well. If I get a brain injury, maybe I can get out of taking this test.”
“Hey.” Chip furrowed his eyebrows. “You got this. Really.”
From the living room, Evie let out a squeal of joy. Or maybe mischief.
There was the sound of something plastic hitting the floor.
Chip exhaled out the side of his mouth.
“Gimme a second,” he said.
Once he’d gotten Evie under control—which required bribing her with some watered-down apple juice in a sippy cup—he sat back down and leaned over to look at the rest of the practice problems.
“You’re getting the hang of it. But here.”
He showed me where I’d missed a step and then sat back as I worked.
“Ah, wait. You’ve got to factor it first.” He scooted his chair closer to me, so our knees were touching. Evie took the opportunity to wiggle her way from his lap to mine.
“Evie . . .” Chip began.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”