I didn’t expect Sohrab to have an iPhone.
I don’t know why.
“Oh,” he said, and tucked the phone in his pocket. He shuffled back and forth on his feet. “Darioush. You left these.”
“Thank you. Um. Yours are in the kitchen.”
I stood back to let Sohrab in. He slipped off his shoes and padded toward the kitchen in his black socks.
I always wore white socks, the kind that didn’t show when I wore my Vans. I did not like high-rise socks. And I did not like black socks, regardless of length, because they made my feet smell like Cool Ranch Doritos, which is not a normal smell for feet to have.
Sohrab had pants on, so I couldn’t tell if he pulled his socks all the way up—which was the fashion back home, if you were a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy—or if he folded them over, like Dad used to do when he mowed the yard, before he delegated that duty to me.
I suspected Sohrab pulled them all the way up.
“Sohrab!” Mamou pulled him close and kissed him on both cheeks. My stomach churned. Mamou had no way of knowing that Sohrab had made fun of my foreskin only a few hours earlier. She didn’t know he’d called me Ayatollah Darioush. But I still felt the burn of jealousy behind my sternum.
I really hated myself for that.
I hated how petty I was.
Mamou started talking to Sohrab in rapid-fire Farsi. All I caught was “chai mekhai,” a phrase I had memorized because it meant “Do you want tea?”
“Nah, merci,” Sohrab said, and then something else I couldn’t follow. Whatever he said, it was magical, because Mamou didn’t even offer again.
He had defeated taarof in a single sentence.
“I’m sorry,” Mamou said, “I forgot.”
Sohrab squinted at her. I hated that he was squinting at my grandmother. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re fasting?” Laleh said from my side. She had snuck up to inspect our visitor.
“Yes. I can’t eat or drink until sunset.”
“Not even tea?”
“Not even tea.”
“Not even water?”
“Only if I get sick.”
I hadn’t realized Sohrab’s fast included water. I wondered if it was wise to work up a sweat playing soccer/non-American football if you couldn’t hydrate after.
Then I remembered the locker room, and I decided I didn’t care if Sohrab passed out from dehydration or not.
Dad cleared his throat from behind me.
“Oh. Uh. Dad, Laleh, this is Sohrab. We played soccer together. Football.”
Dad gave Sohrab a firm Teutonic handshake. Laleh looked up at Sohrab and then back to me. She could sense the tension hidden between us like a cloaked Romulan Warbird.
“I’m going to put these away,” I said, holding up my Vans. “Thanks.”
Sohrab followed me down the hall.
“Darioush. Wait.”
