“Everyone wants you here. We have a saying in Farsi. It translates ‘your place was empty.’ We say it when we miss somebody.”
I sniffed.
“Your place was empty before. But this is your family. You belong here.”
I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.
It was nice to imagine. Even if I didn’t believe him.
“Thanks, Sohrab.”
When I had finally finished excreting stress hormones, I said, “Don’t tell Babou. Or my dad.”
“What?”
“That I was... you know.”
“Oh.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk to your dad?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“Um.” How was I supposed to explain the vast gulf between Stephen Kellner, Teutonic Übermensch, and me, a D-Bag?
I sighed, bumping against Sohrab’s side. We had sagged closer together while I calmed down.
“It’s just... everything I do, he’s unhappy with me. How I cut my hair. What I eat. The backpack I take to school. My job. Everything. He’s always disappointed in me. He’s always trying to change me. To make me do things the way he would do them. To make me act how he would act.”
“Darioush...”
“You know what he told me? He told me people wouldn’t pick on me so much if I was more normal. What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.” Sohrab bumped me again. “You get picked on? At school?”
“Yeah. Some of the guys tease me. A lot.”
“Sorry.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad would just say that they’re wrong. That they’re wrong about me. That they’re wrong to do that. But he acts like it’s my fault. Like if I could make myself into a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy they’d leave me alone. Andit’s not just school. It’s everything. It’s every mood I have. It’s like Dad’s convinced I’m going to...”
“To what?”
I swallowed.
“Darioush?”
“So. I’m depressed. I mean, I have depression. Clinically.”
“Did something bad happen? To make you so sad?”
Some people meant it judgmentally when they asked, but not Sohrab.
He said it like I was a puzzle, one he was enjoying putting together.
Even if the pieces didn’t quite make sense.
“No. I’m just messed up. My brain makes the wrong chemicals.”
