I hated that Dad thought that about me.
I hated that he was right.
I hated that Sohrab could hear him.
“Uh,” I said, louder than I needed to.
Dad looked back and saw me. His ears turned bright red too.
I wanted him to say something. To take it back.
But Stephen Kellner never said things he didn’t mean.
It was Sohrab who rescued me.
“Khodahafes, Agha Bahrami. Eid-e shomaa mobarak.”
“Khodahafes, Sohrab-jan.”
“Uh. Good night,” I said.
I led Sohrab to the living room, which looked like it had been host to a Level Twelve Party by twenty or thirty Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy.
Like I said, alcohol was illegal in Iran (not that it stopped everyone, but it stopped the Bahrami family), so there were no empty bottles or red Solo cups to pick up, but there were dirty plates and teacups and piles of split tokhmeh shells and several white powdered-sugar handprints on the walls.
There could only be one culprit for those. They were at perfect Laleh height.
At the door, Sohrab kicked off the pair of Babou’s garden slippers he had worn outside. He still had on his black socks. I never wore socks with sandals, but Sohrab had managed to pull it off.
He was a True Persian.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Darioush. You remember what I told you? Your place was empty?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place was empty for me too,” he said. “I never had a friend either.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. If you like. I mean, I think so.”
Sohrab cocked his head to the side, like I had said something funny, but then he shook his head and squinted at me. “Okay. Khodahafes, Darioush.”
“Khodahafes.”
THE BORG OF HERBS
Clank. Clank.
The Dancing Fan was still dancing, its rubber feet beating out the same syncopated Persian rhythm I’d been listening to all night, but that wasn’t what woke me.
I slipped out of my bedroom, sticking to the rugs where I could. The floor tiles were cold as my feet slapped against them.
