Sohrab wiped his arm over his forehead. I couldn’t tell if he was sweating or not, but he was breathing hard.
“What’re you doing?”
“Helping Maman with some things.”
“Oh. How’re you doing? How’s school? Have you played football lately?”
“I’m fine. School is—”
Sohrab’s picture froze while he was scratching his nose.
“Sohrab?”
I waited about thirty seconds, but when he still didn’t unfreeze, I hung up and tried again.
This time it took a couple rings.
“Darioush?”
“Hey. I think we got cut off.”
“Yeah, sorry. Listen, I have to go. But we’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Oh.” I swallowed.
I got this feeling, right behind my sternum. This bubble of sadness that slowly floated upward toward my throat.
Sohrab had never rushed off a call like this.
Had I done something wrong?
I didn’t know what was happening.
So I just said “Okay.”
“Take care. Bye.”
We won our game against Hillsboro West that afternoon, 3–0. It felt kind of harsh to shut them out so badly, but after our loss against the Willow Bluffs High School Trojans, it did a lot to boost morale.
By the time I got home, everyone had already eaten. Mom had brought carryout from the Thai place near her office.
“I got your favorite.” She held up a foam clamshell.
“Sweet and sour?”
“Extra beef.”
“Thanks.”
I scooped the stir fry—it had beef and bell peppers and onions and pineapple—onto a dome of rice and stuck it in the microwave.
“How was your game?”
“We won.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah.”
