“It’s fine,” Sohrab said. “Ali-Reza is like that. It doesn’t bother me so much.”
Usually, when I said something like that, I meant the opposite.
I let everything bother me too much. It was one of the reasons Stephen Kellner was always so disappointed in me.
“You know what, Sohrab?” I said. “I think Ali-Reza is just mad because you’re so much better than him.”
Sohrab squinted at me again. He shook me by the shoulder and rubbed my head, sending sweat flying off the ends of my hair. He didn’t seem to care.
“You know what, Darioush? You are better than him too.”
THE AYATOLLAH’S TURBAN
Back home, at Chapel Hill High School, we didn’t shower after physical education. I don’t know why, given how terrible I smelled after running laps or doing mountain climbers, or even playing Net Sports with overly aggressive players like Fatty Bolger and Chip Cusumano. But class ran until five minutes before the bell, which was just enough time to get changed, slather myself with extra deodorant, and run to geometry on the other side of the school.
(Go Chargers.)
So I was a little alarmed when Sohrab pulled soap and shampoo out of his nylon drawstring backpack.
“Uh,” I said. “It’s okay. I’ll shower when I get back to Mamou’s.”
“You’re dirty.” He pointed to the grass stains down my legs and across my arms.
“I don’t have a towel.”
Sohrab pulled a pair of towels out of his bag.
I couldn’t figure out how they had fit in there, especially with two kits and two pairs of cleats. Sohrab’s backpack had exceeded the normal laws of space-time.
Sohrab tossed the towels onto the wooden bench between us and pulled off his shirt, peeling the wet fabric away from his flat chest and stomach. He was still breathing hard, his abdomen expanding and contracting.
I turned away, to give him privacy and also because I was so embarrassed.
Sohrab was in really good shape.
Also, it was weird to get all the way naked. I had never taken my underwear off next to another guy.
I wasn’t even standing that close to Sohrab. But I felt the heat radiating off his skin, like a warp core about to breach.
My skin was still flush from our game, which was good. Sohrab couldn’t tell I was blushing all over as I pulled off my own sticky shirt, wrapped the towel around my waist, and pulled my borrowed shorts and not-borrowed boxers out from underneath.
Sohrab was right: I did need a shower.
New life-forms were evolving in the primordial swamp festering between my legs.
“Over here,” Sohrab said, which was unnecessary, since the spray of the showers echoed from around the corner.
I turned to follow him. He had his towel over his shoulder, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
My skin prickled, the sensation spreading up to my ears, down my neck and shoulders, all the way to my toes. I nearly tripped over my own feet.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Uh.”
There were no stalls. There were just open shower heads.
Red Alert.
