Dad’s eyes followed her up the stairs. He bit his lip and rubbed his stubbled chin for a second. Then he put his arm over my shoulder and turned back to the TV.
And we both tried to relax.
THE MOST HARROWING SOUND IN THE UNIVERSE
I had trouble falling asleep that night.
One, my nerves were still humming like a warp core in the aftermath of the game.
Two, I’d tried to Skype Sohrab, but he didn’t answer, so I spent half an hour writing him an email instead.
Three, my parents were arguing.
Well, maybe arguing is the wrong description, because I don’t think they were actually mad at each other. They were frustrated, and worried, and they were doing that weird Parental Voice where they’re agitated but trying to keep their voices down, like they could shield me and Laleh from knowing bad things if only they whispered.
I had gone to the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee before bed, and I heard them talking (my bathroom shared a vent with theirs), which is how I ended up sitting on the toilet listening to them.
“I just don’t see how we can make it work,” Dad said. “I’ve already got the California project lined up, and another after that in Arkansas if it gets confirmed. You’re working overtime. And we still can’t—”
Mom sighed. “I know. I know. I just hate not being there.”
“I know, love.”
Dad murmured something too quiet for me to make out.
“Not good. Mamou says it won’t be long. Most days he doesn’t even wake up long enough to eat.”
They were talking about Babou again.
Things got muffled after that, but I could hear the sound of Mom crying.
It was the most harrowing sound in the universe.
I pulled off a handful of toilet paper to wipe my own tears, but I accidentally bumped the tank on the toilet.
I flushed the empty toilet, just to keep my cover, but that meant I heard even less.
When the roaring water quieted down, I caught a little bit more between my own sniffles.
“ . . . kids about it sooner or later,” Mom said.
“Tomorrow,” Dad said. “Let me check with my parents first.”
Things got quiet after that. Either they’d started to whisper, or they’d moved away from their bathroom.
I washed my hands and took a couple deep breaths and went to bed.
But I still couldn’t sleep.
* * *
When I got home from practice the next afternoon, Laleh was sitting upright at the table, drinking tea and reading an overlarge paperback book. The color had come back to her cheeks, and she perked up a little when she saw me.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, Laleh.” I leaned down to kiss her head. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
What’re you reading?”
“Dune.”
“Oh.”
I blinked.
“Is it any good?”
Laleh shrugged. “Kind of boring.”
“Oh.”
I went to the teapot and poured myself a cup.
Ever since our trip to Iran, Laleh had taken it upon herself to make tea when I wasn’t home to do it.
She always made Persian tea—black tea bursting with cardamom. It felt like being back in Iran, with Mamou and Babou (when he was sick but could still do things). In their house, the kettle was always on.
I swallowed away my sadness.
“This is good, Laleh,” I said. “Thanks.”
She didn’t look up. “Not too much hel?”
“It’s just right.”
Laleh nodded and kept reading.
I thought about sitting with her, but she seemed like she didn’t want company.
She wasn’t sick anymore, but there was something going on with her. Something she wasn’t saying out loud.
I studied my sister, but she just sipped her tea and turned the pages of her book.
So I went upstairs to do my Algebra II homework. Ms. Albertson had assigned us a bunch of exercises, but I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the point and purpose of conics.
Who goes around slicing a cone to see what it looks like on the inside?
I ran a hand through my hair, tracing the line of my fade. I liked the way my skin tingled.
Dad knocked on my door frame. “What’re you working on?”
“Parabolas,” I groaned.
“That bad?”
I shrugged.
“Want me to look?”
“Sure.”
Dad stood over my desk, resting his hand on the back of my neck. He gave it a squeeze as he read over my equations.
The light from my desk lamp cast his face into sharp relief. The lines around his eyes looked deeper, and I remembered the weird tension in the car ride home from my game, and how he and Mom had been whispering last night.
“Is everything okay?” I blurted out.
“What?”
“Just . . .” I swallowed. “Things seem weird. With you. And Mom.”
Dad sighed.
He moved his hand down to my back.
“Things are okay,” he said. “Money’s just a little tight right now, after the trip to Iran, and sending money to help out Mamou.”
I nodded.
Dad drummed his fingers on my back. I didn’t think he knew he was doing it. “With your mom working so much overtime, and me being out of town, we thought it would be good if your grandparents came to stay with us for a while.”
“Oh,” I said.
The thing about Dad’s moms was, even though I knew they loved me and Laleh, I never got the feeling they actually liked us.
They lived in Bend, which was three hours away, but we only saw them a few times a year: birthdays and, for some weird reason, Easter. (Like Dad, Grandma and Oma were secular humanists, but Easter brunch was still a favorite meal for them.)
I couldn’t remember a time where I didn’t know my grandmothers were queer. Even before I figured that out about myself, they were just part of the fabric of my life.
Well, maybe they were the trim on the fabric of my life: forever on the edges, an embellishment you might notice if you’re looking for it.
I thought, when I told them I was gay, it might bring us closer.
That we could share this thing that set us apart from everyone else.
That they would talk about when Oma came out.
That they would tell me about the history I was too young to witness going on around me: Prop 8, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and the fight for marriage equality.
But all Grandma said was “I thought you might be,” and all Oma said was “We love you just the same,” and then we drank our tea in silence like always.
I didn’t know what I’d done to make my grandmas so disinterested in me.
And it wasn’t like they were any more interested in Laleh, which was strange, because everyone liked Laleh.
Even Babou adored Laleh at first sight, and he didn’t like anyone until he’d warmed up to them.
In fact, the only thing my grandmothers and I had in common were tea and soccer.
They were almost excited when I told them I had made Chapel Hill High School’s varsity men’s soccer team.
Almost.
“We’ll have to come see a game,” Grandma had said.
“If you make it to the championships, for sure,” Oma had added.
I didn’t know how to feel about that: their excitement being conditional on us winning.
I was on the team because it was fun, because I liked my teammates, and I liked Coach Bentley.
I didn’t know if I had it in me to be a winner.
* * *
“It’ll be nice to see them, huh?” Dad said.
His fingers kept drumming against me, like I was a console on the bridge of a starship, and he was trying to plot a course through some kind of unstable stellar phenomenon.
To be honest, I never got the feeling Grandma and Oma actually liked Dad either.
I don’t know why I thought that.
It was an awful thing to think.
So I said, “Yeah.”
They were coming to help us out. To help Mom be less tired.
To give Dad a chance to breathe.
“Yeah,” I said again.
And I tried to mean it.
JUST HYPERBOLE
It was still dark out when I got back from my morning run, just in time to say bye to Mom as she pulled out of the driveway.
“Hey,” she said out the window. “Will you check on your dad after you shower? He’s sleeping in a little.”
Dad never slept in.
“Okay.”
Mom gave me a sad smile. “See you tonight.”
I swallowed away the lump in my throat.
I hated seeing my parents so tired.
“Yeah.”
I showered and packed my soccer bag, and tucked my curl cream in too. I’d be seeing Landon after practice and wanted to look nice. I knocked on Dad’s door, but he hollered he was up and getting ready.
And then, since I hadn’t heard from Sohrab in three days, I sat down and tried him again.
This time he answered right away.
“Eh! Hello Darioush.”
“Hey! Chetori toh?”
I didn’t speak much Farsi, but what few words I could say—heavy with my American accent—I felt okay practicing with Sohrab, who never criticized my pronunciation.
Sohrab let out a dramatic sigh. “Darioush. Have I ever told you about my Ameh Mona?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She lives in Manshad. You know Manshad?”