Babou grunted and nodded at me but didn’t really speak. His shoulders were hunched, and as I followed him to the shed tocollect some dark wooden folding chairs, I noticed how slowly he shuffled his feet.
I remembered what Mom said, about how strong Babou was, that day he carried her home from the park.
I wondered if it was the same park where Sohrab and I sat on a rooftop and watched the sun set over our Khaki Kingdom.
I wondered if Babou had ever carried any of my cousins piggyback.
I wondered what else I had missed out on. What else I was going to miss.
I didn’t understand Babou—I wasn’t even sure if I liked him, to be honest—but I did not want him to die.
Soon there would be one less Bahrami.
“Darioush-jan. Go ask Khanum Rezaei to bring more sabzi when she and Sohrab come.”
“Okay.”
Mrs. Rezaei opened the door before I even knocked. She had her hair pulled back and arranged in huge curlers. With her forehead exposed and her eyebrows stretched upward by the strength of her hair, she reminded me even more of a Klingon warrior preparing for battle.
“Alláh-u-Abhá, Darioush-jan,” she said, and pulled me in. “Come in. Sohrab is in the back.”
“Um. Alláh-u-Abhá.” Mrs. Rezaei’s smile widened, and I was glad I had decided it was okay to use the greeting with her even though I wasn’t Bahá’í.
“Babou asked me to ask you to bring more sabzi for tonight. If you can.”
“Sure, sure. Your grandma makes the best chelo kabob.”
I hoped she would not be offended that Stephen Kellner had a hand in making the chelo kabob this time. Klingons could be notoriously contentious when it came to their food.
While Mrs. Rezaei sorted out which sabzi to take, I found Sohrab in the backyard.
He was kicking his soccer ball/non-American football around, barefoot and shirtless. Sweat plastered his short hair to his temples and the nape of his neck. He waved when I came out and put his hands behind his head in Surrender Cobra. His flat chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and his stomach muscles rolled with each breath.
I knew if I got close enough to him, the intense thermal radiation he was emitting would scorch me.
“Hi, Darioush,” he said. He squinted at me, but he could barely breathe.
“Hey. What were you doing?”
“Push-ups. Sit-ups. Wind sprints. Drills.”
“Wow.”
I had underestimated Sohrab’s dedication to soccer/non-American football.
Maybe I should have been practicing too.
Sohrab breathed and squinted and breathed and squinted.
I sneezed.
“Babou wanted me to ask your mom to bring some sabzi tonight. For chelo kabob.”
“Mamou makes the best chelo kabob! I eat way too much, every time.”
“Me too,” I said. “I mean, when my mom and dad make it.”
Sohrab pressed his right foot into his left, scratching at thetop of it with his big toenail. The silence between us hung heavy and close. My ears warmed their way toward a Red Alert.
