by Adib Khorram
I dried off and wrapped myself in my towel, sucked in my stomach, and went to get dressed.
Most of the guys were gone, but I passed Chip pulling his shirt on as I padded to my locker.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, and turned into my row. Gabe was already gone, which was good, because I hated getting dressed next to him.
Between playing soccer every day and my new medication, I had lost a little weight, but it wasn’t like I was suddenly skinny. I still had way more stomach than I wanted, and now the stretch marks had gotten way more noticeable, despite the scar cream I put on at night.
I kind of hated the way I looked.
That’s normal.
Right?
I pulled on my shirt first, even before my underwear, because the risk of someone seeing my cold penis still seemed less alarming than having them see my stomach.
From the other side of the lockers, Chip said, “You headed home after this? You wanna grab a bite or something?”
“My family’s waiting for me.”
“Oh. Cool. Maybe some other time?”
“Maybe.”
Chip got quiet again as I packed my dirty kit into its mesh bag.
And then he said, “What you said in Circle?”
“Yeah?”
“Was that about Trent?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I slung my messenger bag over one shoulder and my soccer bag over the other and stepped around the partition.
“Well. Sorry about that.”
“You don’t need to be,” I said.
And I meant it.
Really.
I didn’t expect Chip to apologize for the things Trent did.
I just wished I knew why the two of them were friends in the first place.
I didn’t know quite what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.
* * *
I tossed my bags into the trunk of Dad’s car and then opened the passenger-side door.
“Sorry for the wait.”
Dad shook his head. “No worries.”
But as soon as I closed the door, I felt trapped.
No one said anything, but I could feel it: an invisible particle field of frustration or anger, I wasn’t sure which. It pressed against my ears and thrummed in my chest.
I rolled down my window a bit. “Is this okay?”
“Laleh’s got an earache,” Mom said from the back, where she sat with Laleh to give me more leg room up front.
“Oh.” I rolled the window back up and turned the air on low instead. “This better?”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
As Dad pulled out of the parking lot, I saw Chip emerge from the locker room, headed toward his bike. I waved, but I don’t think he saw me, because he didn’t wave back or anything.
With no music playing, and no one talking, the vibration in my chest started getting worse.
I didn’t know what was going on with my family, but I didn’t like it.
So I said, “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”
“Of course we came,” Mom said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Dad glanced a smile my way and then looked back to the road. Behind me, Mom ran her fingers through Laleh’s hair while she slept against the window. Quiet crept back over the car. I pulled out my phone to text Landon about the game and tried to ignore the prickly feeling in my stomach.
What was going on?
* * *
When we got home, Mom got Laleh ready for an early bedtime, while I warmed up some of the leftovers from Landon’s soup. Once the adrenaline of the game had drained out of me, I was starving.
While I stirred my little pot of soup, Dad stood at the sink, doing the dishes.
“I can do those,” I said. “I’m making more anyway.”
“No, it’s okay. I should have done them during the day. Just didn’t get around to it.”
Dad huffed and reached into the sudsy water to pull out a mug.
Stephen Kellner always liked to fill one side of the sink with sudsy water and soak the dishes in it. I wasn’t a fan of that method, because I hated reaching into dirty, soapy water and not knowing what I was going to find.
But Grandma and Oma did dishes the same way, so it must have been genetic.
Grandma and Oma also used one of those wand things, the kind that you filled with soap that had a sponge on the end, but Mom was adamant that those didn’t get the corners clean, so she bought us regular washcloths instead.
Shirin Kellner had strong opinions about dish-washing, opinions I had apparently inherited from her, since I did the dishes a lot more like her than I did like Dad.
The Level Nine Awkward Silence had followed us from the car to the house, like a shrouded Jem’Hadar warrior lurking in the shadows, observing our weaknesses and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
All the joy I’d felt from winning our first game had leeched out too, until I was left feeling as prickly and unsettled as the rest of my family.
I cleared my throat. “How was work?”
“Didn’t get much done today,” Dad said. “Had to take care of your sister.”
“Oh.”
“Richard thinks we might have a project lined up in California soon. A community center outside LA.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Richard Newton was my dad’s partner at Kellner & Newton, the architecture firm where he worked.
I guess he kind of owned it.
To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure how his business was structured. I just knew that he didn’t get to work from home as much anymore. That he was always tired, like Mom.
“I’ll be doing a site visit next week. Need anything from Tehrangeles?”
Dad had been traveling a lot more for work too.
“I’m good. Mom will probably have a list, though.”
Dad smirked. “She already gave it to me.”
“Oh. Good.”
I transferred my soup to a bowl. “Want to watch a DS9?”
“Sure. Give me a minute to finish up?”
“I’ll make some tea.”
I filled my electric kettle and set it to 165 degrees. “Want to try something new?”
“What is it?”
“Kabusecha. Mr. Edwards gave it to me.”
“Tell me about it.”
I did my best to explain what Mr. Edwards had said, about shade-growing and theanine and flavor compounds, but I had already forgotten some of it since I hadn’t taken any notes.
It was almost embarrassing, how little it turned out I knew before starting at Rose City. My first day I thought I would be able to jump right in, but I ended up needing a ton of training. There was so much more to learn when you’re at a place that actually makes the tea. I had to learn about seasons and the fickle politics of tea growers and the magic of terroir.
For some reason, people always said terroir like you could actually hear the italics.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
“The kiss of the earth itself,” Mr. Edwards said. “Words can only approximate it.”
I didn’t really know what he meant by that.
Not really.
But I wanted to.
* * *
Once Dad finished the dishes, and I had steeped the Kabusecha in a small pot for two, we curled up on the couch to watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
It took some doing, but I’d managed to convince Dad to watch the entire series in one go, instead of interspersing it with The Next Generation and Voyager in broadcast order, like we usually did.
“It’s one big story,” I had said. “And what if Laleh wants to watch with us?”
Dad was still on the fence until soccer practice started up, and we weren’t always guaranteed a window to watch
an episode each night. Then he finally relented. Sticking to one series made it easier to follow.
As I poured Dad’s tea, he cued up “Distant Voices.”
“My twin,” I said, pointing at Quark—DS9’s Ferengi bartender—when he showed up in the teaser.
Dad snorted.
“Your ears are perfect,” Mom said from behind us. She reached over and tugged on one of them.
“Want to watch?” I scooted closer to Dad to make room for her.
“Not tonight. Your sister’s still sick.”
“Can I help?”
“Let me take care of her,” Dad said, but Mom put her hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay. You two watch your show. I’ve got work to do anyway.”
Mom wandered into the kitchen and I heard the distinctive sounds of her Hot Beverage Pod Extraction Device, which I refused to either name or use strictly on principle. As the opening credits finished, she passed back through, kissed me on the head and Dad on the temple, and headed upstairs with a steaming mug of coffee cupped in her hands.
Dad’s eyes followed her up the stairs. He bit his lip and rubbed his stubbled chin for a second. Then he put his arm over my shoulder and turned back to the TV.
And we both tried to relax.
THE MOST HARROWING SOUND IN THE UNIVERSE
I had trouble falling asleep that night.
One, my nerves were still humming like a warp core in the aftermath of the game.
Two, I’d tried to Skype Sohrab, but he didn’t answer, so I spent half an hour writing him an email instead.
Three, my parents were arguing.
Well, maybe arguing is the wrong description, because I don’t think they were actually mad at each other. They were frustrated, and worried, and they were doing that weird Parental Voice where they’re agitated but trying to keep their voices down, like they could shield me and Laleh from knowing bad things if only they whispered.
I had gone to the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee before bed, and I heard them talking (my bathroom shared a vent with theirs), which is how I ended up sitting on the toilet listening to them.
“I just don’t see how we can make it work,” Dad said. “I’ve already got the California project lined up, and another after that in Arkansas if it gets confirmed. You’re working overtime. And we still can’t—”
Mom sighed. “I know. I know. I just hate not being there.”
“I know, love.”
Dad murmured something too quiet for me to make out.
“Not good. Mamou says it won’t be long. Most days he doesn’t even wake up long enough to eat.”
They were talking about Babou again.
Things got muffled after that, but I could hear the sound of Mom crying.
It was the most harrowing sound in the universe.
I pulled off a handful of toilet paper to wipe my own tears, but I accidentally bumped the tank on the toilet.
I flushed the empty toilet, just to keep my cover, but that meant I heard even less.
When the roaring water quieted down, I caught a little bit more between my own sniffles.
“ . . . kids about it sooner or later,” Mom said.
“Tomorrow,” Dad said. “Let me check with my parents first.”
Things got quiet after that. Either they’d started to whisper, or they’d moved away from their bathroom.
I washed my hands and took a couple deep breaths and went to bed.
But I still couldn’t sleep.
* * *
When I got home from practice the next afternoon, Laleh was sitting upright at the table, drinking tea and reading an overlarge paperback book. The color had come back to her cheeks, and she perked up a little when she saw me.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, Laleh.” I leaned down to kiss her head. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
What’re you reading?”
“Dune.”
“Oh.”
I blinked.
“Is it any good?”
Laleh shrugged. “Kind of boring.”
“Oh.”
I went to the teapot and poured myself a cup.
Ever since our trip to Iran, Laleh had taken it upon herself to make tea when I wasn’t home to do it.
She always made Persian tea—black tea bursting with cardamom. It felt like being back in Iran, with Mamou and Babou (when he was sick but could still do things). In their house, the kettle was always on.
I swallowed away my sadness.
“This is good, Laleh,” I said. “Thanks.”
She didn’t look up. “Not too much hel?”
“It’s just right.”
Laleh nodded and kept reading.
I thought about sitting with her, but she seemed like she didn’t want company.
She wasn’t sick anymore, but there was something going on with her. Something she wasn’t saying out loud.
I studied my sister, but she just sipped her tea and turned the pages of her book.
So I went upstairs to do my Algebra II homework. Ms. Albertson had assigned us a bunch of exercises, but I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the point and purpose of conics.
Who goes around slicing a cone to see what it looks like on the inside?
I ran a hand through my hair, tracing the line of my fade. I liked the way my skin tingled.
Dad knocked on my door frame. “What’re you working on?”
“Parabolas,” I groaned.
“That bad?”
I shrugged.
“Want me to look?”
“Sure.”
Dad stood over my desk, resting his hand on the back of my neck. He gave it a squeeze as he read over my equations.
The light from my desk lamp cast his face into sharp relief. The lines around his eyes looked deeper, and I remembered the weird tension in the car ride home from my game, and how he and Mom had been whispering last night.
“Is everything okay?” I blurted out.
“What?”
“Just . . .” I swallowed. “Things seem weird. With you. And Mom.”
Dad sighed.
He moved his hand down to my back.
“Things are okay,” he said. “Money’s just a little tight right now, after the trip to Iran, and sending money to help out Mamou.”
I nodded.
Dad drummed his fingers on my back. I didn’t think he knew he was doing it. “With your mom working so much overtime, and me being out of town, we thought it would be good if your grandparents came to stay with us for a while.”
“Oh,” I said.
The thing about Dad’s moms was, even though I knew they loved me and Laleh, I never got the feeling they actually liked us.
They lived in Bend, which was three hours away, but we only saw them a few times a year: birthdays and, for some weird reason, Easter. (Like Dad, Grandma and Oma were secular humanists, but Easter brunch was still a favorite meal for them.)
I couldn’t remember a time where I didn’t know my grandmothers were queer. Even before I figured that out about myself, they were just part of the fabric of my life.
Well, maybe they were the trim on the fabric of my life: forever on the edges, an embellishment you might notice if you’re looking for it.
I thought, when I told them I was gay, it might bring us closer.
That we could share this thing that set us apart from everyone else.
That they would talk about when Oma came out.
That they would tell me about the history I was too young to witness going on around me: Prop 8, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and the fight for marriage equality.
But all Grandma said was “I thought you might be,” and all Oma said was “We love you just the same,” and then
we drank our tea in silence like always.
I didn’t know what I’d done to make my grandmas so disinterested in me.
And it wasn’t like they were any more interested in Laleh, which was strange, because everyone liked Laleh.
Even Babou adored Laleh at first sight, and he didn’t like anyone until he’d warmed up to them.
In fact, the only thing my grandmothers and I had in common were tea and soccer.
They were almost excited when I told them I had made Chapel Hill High School’s varsity men’s soccer team.
Almost.
“We’ll have to come see a game,” Grandma had said.
“If you make it to the championships, for sure,” Oma had added.
I didn’t know how to feel about that: their excitement being conditional on us winning.
I was on the team because it was fun, because I liked my teammates, and I liked Coach Bentley.
I didn’t know if I had it in me to be a winner.
* * *
“It’ll be nice to see them, huh?” Dad said.
His fingers kept drumming against me, like I was a console on the bridge of a starship, and he was trying to plot a course through some kind of unstable stellar phenomenon.
To be honest, I never got the feeling Grandma and Oma actually liked Dad either.
I don’t know why I thought that.
It was an awful thing to think.
So I said, “Yeah.”
They were coming to help us out. To help Mom be less tired.
To give Dad a chance to breathe.
“Yeah,” I said again.
And I tried to mean it.
JUST HYPERBOLE
It was still dark out when I got back from my morning run, just in time to say bye to Mom as she pulled out of the driveway.
“Hey,” she said out the window. “Will you check on your dad after you shower? He’s sleeping in a little.”
Dad never slept in.