“You did?”
I felt terrible. I hadn’t gotten Sohrab anything.
How could I have predicted I would make a friend in Iran?
Sohrab produced a small package, wrapped in advertisements from an Iranian newspaper. He tried to hand it to me, but I remembered the appropriate Social Cue.
“I can’t,” I said.
I wasn’t just taarofing.
I couldn’t stand how selfish I felt.
“Please.”
“Really.”
“Go on, Darioush. Taarof nakon.”
He shoved the present toward my chest.
Resistance was futile.
“Okay, Sohrab. Thank you.”
I peeled the paper off and a silky white shirt slithered onto my hands. It was a soccer/non-American football jersey, with a green stripe across the shoulder, a red one across the chest, and the lightly drawn outline of a cheetah’s head on the stomach.
“Wow,” I said. The smooth jersey slid through my fingers as I inspected the logo on the chest.
“It’s Team Melli. Iran’s national team. From the World Cup.”
I pulled the jersey over my head—the collar of my Persian Casual shirt stuck up underneath—but still, I felt like a real Iranian. Even though the cheetah’s head stretched over my stomach.
“I love it,” I said. “Thank you.”
I blinked a couple times, because I didn’t want Sohrab to notice my mood was performing a severe Slingshot Maneuver. I knew soccer/non-American football jerseys weren’t cheap. Sohrab could have used that money on some new cleats for himself, but he had gotten me the jersey instead.
“Are you okay, Darioush?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I blinked some more. “It’s just really, really nice.”
It made me feel like I belonged.
“I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry, Sohrab.”
Sohrab squinted at me. “Don’t be. I wanted to surprise you.”
Sohrab’s mom appeared in the doorway behind her son, camera in hand.
I used the distraction to wipe at my eyes and sniff a bit.
“Sohrab! You gave him the shirt.”
“Baleh, Maman.”
“I love it. Thank you, Khanum Rezaei.”
“It was all Sohrab.”
