“Thanks,” Chip said.
And then he said, “Hard to beat being named after a king, though.”
“Technically Darius the Great was an emperor.”
“Yeah, well. Darius suits you too.”
My ears burned. I thought maybe the rain would start steaming off them. “Thanks.”
“And it’s cool you have this, like, connection. With your family back in Iran.”
“I guess. It’s hard sometimes too. I’m still only a Fractional Persian. And sometimes the Persian part is all that matters. And sometimes, the American part is too much of a barrier.”
Chip looked at me for a second.
I blinked away the rain.
“You know what?” he asked.
But before he could finish, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and held it above his head, typing into it as a grin crept across his face.
He sat back up. “Sorry. That was Trent.”
“Oh.”
I still couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea of Trent Bolger, Soulless Uncle of Orthodoxy.
It seemed to violate some fundamental law of the universe.
I sat up and wiped my palms on my knees.
“I’m gonna go hang out with him. You want to come?”
I stared at Cyprian Cusumano as my brain experienced a cascade failure.
Maybe when you’re a guy like Chip Cusumano, and Trent Bolger has always been your friend, you can’t conceive of why anyone would want to avoid him like a hull breach.
“I think I’m gonna head home. I need to shower anyway.” I stood and pulled my helmet on.
“Aww, come on.”
Another cascade failure.
Why would Chip want me to come along, anyway?
Chip reached his hand out, and I helped him up. “Maybe next time?” he asked, his eyebrows all perked up in hope.
“Maybe.”
Like if we ever found ourselves in mirror universe where people had goatees and inverted senses of morality.
“Cool.” Chip hopped onto his bike. “See you, Darius.”
“See you, Cyprian.”
He grinned at me and pedaled away.
I shook my head, wiped off my face, and headed home.
