“What would that entail?”
The drive home was quiet.
Grandma didn’t speak, because much like Oma, she never talked while she drove.
Unlike Oma, she didn’t listen to NPR: She left the radio off because she didn’t want distractions.
And Laleh didn’t speak. I got the feeling she was still kind of mad at Miss Hawn, too mad to process any of the good stuff Miss Hawn said about her. And mad at Grandma, for acting like everything was fine. And maybe mad at me too, for letting her down.
Miss Hawn wouldn’t listen to me. And Grandma totally derailed what I wanted to talk about. Nothing was going to change.
I was so ashamed.
I didn’t speak either.
When we got home, Laleh ran straight up to her room. I walked inside with Grandma.
“I’m going to call your mother,” she said.
I made a pot of tea—some Moroccan Mint that Laleh liked—and loaded a tray with cups and spoons and a jar of local wildflower honey.
My sister’s door was all the way closed again. I wondered if that was the new normal for her.
“Laleh? My hands are full. Can I come in?”
For a second I thought she was going to say no. Or just ignore me. But then the door unlatched and rested against the jamb.
I shouldered the door open, then closed it behind me with my foot.
“Want some tea?”
“Sure.”
Laleh flopped back down on her bed face-first, right back onto the damp spot she’d been crying into.
“Honey?”
Laleh nodded. I poured her a cup and spooned a dollop of honey into it.
“You want to stir?”
Laleh sat up and took her cup, clanging the spoon against the rim as she stirred.
She always clanged her spoon against the cup. At least that hadn’t changed.
“Hey.” I sat on her floor and leaned against her bed. “I’m really sorry, Laleh.”
“Why?”
“I let you down. With Miss Hawn.”
Laleh shook her head. “Why wouldn’t she listen to you?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
I sipped my tea.
Laleh sipped hers.
