My ears burned.
“Nothing bad has ever happened to me.”
I felt terrible saying it out loud.
Dr. Howell—and Dad too—always told me not to be ashamed. But it was hard not to be.
“How long have you had it?”
“I dunno. A while,” I said. “It’s genetic. Dad has it too.”
“But you don’t talk to him about it? When you are sad, like now?”
“No.”
Sohrab chewed on his bottom lip.
“Sometimes,” I said, “it feels like he doesn’t really love me. Not really.”
“Why?”
I told Sohrab about telling stories. I told him about soccer andabout Boy Scouts. I told him about all the steps Dad and I had taken away from each other. And how we never really went back.
Sohrab was a good listener. He never played devil’s advocate or told me what I was feeling was wrong, the way Stephen Kellner did. He nodded to let me know he understood, and laughed if I said something funny.
But eventually, even the topic of Stephen Kellner ran its course.
I played with the hem of my Team Melli jersey, twisting it around and around my index fingers.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“You never talk about your dad. And he’s not here. Is he...”
Sohrab looked away and bit his cheek again.
“I’m sorry. I just wondered.”
“No.” He looked up at me. “It’s okay. Most people already know. And you are my friend.” Sohrab pulled down another jasmine blossom to play with. “My father is in jail.”
“Oh.”
I had never known anyone who knew someone in jail.
“What happened?”
“You saw in the news about the protests? Years ago. When there were elections?”
“I think so?”
I would have to ask Mom to be sure.
“There were protests here, in Yazd too. My dad was there. Not protesting. He was on the way to work. He owns the store with Amou Ashkan.”
I nodded.
“The police came. They were dressed like protesters too.”
