Darius the Great Deserves Better

by Adib Khorram

My ears burned.

  Grandma was acting like that was all that mattered.

  But Mom just nodded.

  “Oh, are you doing that, Laleh?” Landon asked.

  “I don’t know.” Laleh looked up at me and then down at her food. “Maybe. I guess.”

  I pushed some stew onto my spoon.

  “I used to do that. All the way through eighth grade.” Landon squeezed my knee under the table. “Were you in it too?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh.” Landon looked down at his plate. “Well. It’s really cool, Laleh. I think you’ll like it.”

  Laleh said, “Okay.”

  I stared into my stew. It was verdant green, with seared chunks of beef like dark brown islands in a lush swamp.

  Lots of Persian stews look like swamps, even—no, especially—the most delicious ones.

  I swallowed away the lump in my throat.

  I wanted to cry.

  I don’t know why.

  But I couldn’t cry at the dinner table.

  * * *

  Landon had band practice early the next morning, so we could only steal a few minutes in my room before his dad picked him up. I waved at Mr. Edwards as they drove off and then went to help Mom wash the dishes.

  While we worked, Grandma and Oma planted themselves in the living room to watch reruns of Law & Order. The original one.

  I could see where Dad got his television habits from, because they watched a single episode every night. And there were a lot of episodes of Law & Order.

  “What did you think of the meeting?”

  “I think Miss Hawn doesn’t get that Laleh’s classmates are being racist. Or maybe she doesn’t care.”

  Mom sighed. “I don’t think she knows. Or at least she doesn’t know how to deal with it. But I do think she cares about Laleh.”

  I chewed on my lip and dunked my sponge into the rice pot, which I had cleaned and filled with sudsy water.

  Mom turned the sink back on and started rinsing again.

  “Landon did a good job with the khoresh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s something special, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d your test go, by the way?”

  “Okay. Chip helped me study.”

  “How come you never ask Landon to help you study? Sounds like he’s smart too.”

  I swallowed away the lump in my throat again.

  “I don’t know. His classes are all different.”

  “Hm.”

  The back of my neck prickled.

  “Remind me when your next game is?”

  “Friday.”

  “Maybe your dad can catch it while he’s home.”

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  Our game against the Beaverton East Eagles was tough. Neither team scored, so we ended up in a shoot-out.

  The Eagles’ first shooter scored with a tricky shot that ricocheted off the corner and into the net, but Gabe got them back with a slick shot of his own. No one else scored after that: James and Nick and Jaden all missed, and so did Beaverton’s shooters.

  But then it was Chip’s turn.

  I held my breath as he sized up the goal and took the shot.

  And scored.

  The stands went wild—at least the small cluster of parents and friends did. People didn’t care about the Chapel Hill High School varsity men’s soccer team the way they cared about the football team.

  Dad was conspicuously absent. His flight got delayed.

  The guys all clustered around Chip, laughing and shoving each other and high-fiving and exchanging sweaty hugs.

  I hung back a little bit. I don’t know why.

  But then Jaden saw me. He laughed and pulled me into the scrum too, and he slapped my back and hung his arm around my neck, and Gabe fist-bumped me, and Chip grinned at me, and I smiled back in spite of myself, and we shouted and jumped until Coach came and told us to calm down so we could shake hands with the other team.

  She was grinning too, though.

  And for a second, at least, it was okay that Dad was gone.

  Just for a second.

  * * *

  Chip found me at the bike rack.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey. You were awesome.”

  “Lucky shot.”

  I shook my head.

  “You doing anything tonight?”

  “Headed home. My dad’s supposed to be in town.”

  “In town?”

  “Yeah. He’s been in California for a job.”

  “Oh.” Chip’s grin dropped just a bit.

  “Why?”

  “Trent’s coming over. We’re gonna watch Evie and play games or something. I was gonna see if you wanted to come.”

  I blinked.

  Sometimes Chip just didn’t make sense.

  “You know he hates me, right?”

  Chip shook his head. “He doesn’t hate you. And Evie loves you.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  But Chip’s phone dinged at him. He grimaced and looked at the message.

  “Sorry, I gotta go. Guess no one actually got any dinner.”

  “Oh. Sorry. See you.”

  Chip sighed.

  “Yeah. See you.”

  Like I said.

  I didn’t know what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.

  * * *

  Dad was at the table eating leftover khoresh-e-karafs when I got home. He leaped up from the table and wrapped me in a Level Seven Hug.

  I held him tight.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He held my face for a second and then kissed my forehead.

  “How’d you do?”

  “Won it in a shoot-out.”

  Dad beamed. But then his shoulders kind of slumped.

  “I hate that I missed it.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Dad squeezed my shoulder. “I’m almost done. I’ll do the dishes if you make the tea.”

  “Okay.”

  I made us a pot of Genmaicha and we settled onto the couch for “Family Business,” which is about Quark’s mother earning profit even though it’s against the law for Ferengi females to do so.

  “What do you think would happen if I started calling Mom ‘Moogie’?” I asked.

  Moogie is what Quark called his mom.

  Dad snorted. “I wouldn’t try it.”

  When it was over, we sat on the couch together, drinking our tea. Dad had his arm wrapped around me.

  “How’re you doing? Really?”

  “Okay.” I chewed on my lip for a second. “Miss you.”

  Dad nodded and sighed. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple days, and now that I was sitting right next to him, I could see dark crescents under his eyes.

  My father looked rumpled.

  I didn’t know people could look rumpled.

  “Dad? Are you okay?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Tired.”

  But there was this thing in his voice, this unquantifiable timbre that sent a chill down my spine.

  I scratched the back of my neck.

  Dad sighed again.

  Stephen Kellner never sighed.

  “It’s rough being on the road.”

  He squeezed my shoulder.

  “Being away from you all . . . it’s harder than I thought it was going to be. I would’ve turned this job down, but we need the money.”

  Dad drummed his fingers against his teacup.

  And then he sighed again.

  “Sorry. I just . . . I’m having a bit of an episode right now. It’s going to be okay.”

  “A depressive episode?”

  He nodded.

  �
��Can I help?”

  Dad squeezed my shoulder again.

  “No. I’ve got it under control, and I’ve been talking with Dr. Howell about upping my prescription.”

  “I could ask Mr. Edwards for more hours. Or get a second job.”

  “Absolutely not. You work hard enough as it is, with your job and soccer and school. And besides, it’s our job to take care of you, not the other way around.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “You are helping. By being happy. By helping with your sister.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “No buts.” Dad smiled. “We’re going to be okay.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Dad let out a long breath.

  “Come on, enough heavy stuff. Tell me something interesting that happened while I was gone.”

  “Well,” I said. “I got kneed in the balls last week.”

  Dad winced, and his hand twitched, like he wanted to cover himself.

  “I’m okay, though. Don’t worry.”

  Dad shook his head.

  But then he chuckled a little.

  And then he started laughing.

  It felt good to make Dad laugh.

  TERRIBLY PEDESTRIAN

  “Can you grab two more boxes of Tencha?” Alexis hollered. “And one of Masala Chai?”

  I set the Tencha by the door, then went to the black tea shelf. It was in total disarray: Ceylons and Darjeelings and Earl Greys all stuffed haphazardly onto shelves without their labels pointing outward.

  I shoved a couple boxes of Ceylon to the side and found the Masala Chai hidden toward the back.

  “Got it,” I called back.

  I straightened out the shelves as best I could and took the boxes to the front.

  “Restock? Good.” Kerry nodded toward the empty shelf space and then turned back to her customer, a twenty-something white guy with long blond hair, a full blond beard, cargo shorts, and one of those colorful sweater-hoodies that looked like it was made out of alpaca wool or something.

  Truth be told, the guy looked like he should have been out on a mountaintop, herding alpacas too.

  I slipped past Alpaca Man, getting an unfortunate whiff of his musk as I did (at least I hoped it was him and not me), dodged around Alexis, who was carrying a gaiwan service to a table in the corner, and made it to the shelves.

  Rose City Teas had never been so packed. But it was an unusually warm Saturday, and we were launching our new Nitro Earl Grey, served float-style over vanilla ice cream from this artisanal ice creamery down the block.

  I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the crook of my arm and started unboxing, using a little retractable box knife to slice the tape and flatten the empty boxes.

  Each box of sixteen tins had four smaller cardboard boxes inside, with four tins each.

  I didn’t understand the point and purpose of double-boxing.

  “Do you have any English Breakfast?” a voice asked behind me.

  “Oh.” I stuck the knife back in my pocket and turned around to face a woman about Mom’s age, with her purse slung over her shoulder and her arms crossed. “We don’t have any traditional English Breakfast. But we have an Assam that’s similar, and—”

  “Can you check in the back?”

  I blinked.

  We didn’t have any English Breakfast in the back, because we didn’t actually make any English Breakfast.

  Mr. Edwards once told me that English Breakfast was “terribly pedestrian.”

  I never knew exactly what he meant by that, until now.

  “Sorry. I mean we don’t make it at all. But I can help you find something similar. We’ve got lots of great options.”

  I pulled down a couple different Assams and one Keemun.

  “These are all single-estate black teas. These two are from India, and this one is from China.”

  I had the woman smell each tea (just the dry leaves) while I described the flavor profiles.

  I felt kind of like Mr. Edwards, using words like malty and smoky and umami as we talked. The woman’s eyes lit up when she smelled the Second Flush Assam.

  “This smells great!” she said.

  “Want to try a cup? I can steep you one.”

  “All right.”

  I led her to the tea bar and got a cup steeping. As the leaves unfurled, she told me about how she and her wife had just moved to Portland and were looking for a new tea store.

  I was telling her about some of our other teas when Mr. Edwards hollered at me.

  “Darius, aren’t you supposed to be stocking?” Mr. Edwards asked. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the winding vine tattoo on his left forearm, and his cheeks were flushed.

  “Sorry, I was—”

  “I need more nitro. Like now.”

  “Sorry.” I turned back to the lady, my ears burning. “Sorry. Enjoy your tea.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  I tried not to blush.

  I loved it when I could help someone find the perfect tea.

  I squeezed past Kerry toward the stock room, where we kept the wooden palette of nitrogen tanks. They were about three feet tall, with no handles: awkward, but not that heavy. I weaved it back out to the tea bar, where Mr. Edwards had me set it down.

  “Thanks.” He knelt under the bar and disconnected the empty tank. “Here. You know where the empties go?”

  “Yeah.”

  But before I could grab it, there was a tinkling crash of porcelain from one of the corner tables.

  Mr. Edwards made this sound that was part sigh, part laugh.

  “Can you . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  I had been back and forth from the store to the stock room so many times, I was surprised I hadn’t worn a groove into the floor. I grabbed the broom and dustpan off the wall and snagged a couple towels off the shelf.

  “I can clean that up for you,” I said to the pair of older men, who had managed to knock two gaiwans off their table. Shards of white porcelain and long green leaves of oolong lay in a forlorn puddle of wasted tea on the floor.

  One of the men nodded at me but didn’t make eye contact. I swept up as best I could and knelt down to get it all into the dustpan, but as I did, I heard something.

  A terrible something.

  A ripping sound.

  I scooped up the last few pieces of gaiwan and sopped up as much as I could with the towels, but there was so much.

  “I’ll be back with a mop. Sorry.”

  “Could we get some more of your Da Hong Pao?”

  “Um. Sure.”

  I tugged my shirt down behind me with one hand and hurried into the back.

  Something terrible had happened to my pants.

  I hid behind the door and felt my pockets to find the problem.

  The edge of the box knife I’d been using was still sticking out, just enough to poke a hole into my jeans. A hole that had stretched and expanded, bit by bit, every time I bent over or squatted, until my jeans had finally experienced a non-passive failure.

  I glanced toward the door and then reached my hand inside my pants just to make sure nothing felt bloody.

  What was I going to do?

  I heard a commotion outside, in the store, so I grabbed a roll of packing tape off the shelf, ripped off a couple pieces, and patched my pants together as best I could.

  I hoped no one would notice.

  I grabbed the mop and more towels and went back out.

  “There you are,” Landon snapped when I emerged, waddling slightly so I wouldn’t make the rip worse. “What took you so long?”

  “Uh.”

  Landon’s cheeks were red, and his brows were creased.

  “Someone almost tripped over your spill!” Landon’s voice was sharp as a box knife. Everyon
e turned to look at us: Kerry at the register, and Alexis at the tea bar, and the customers in line.

  I’d never heard Landon use that voice before.

  I felt like I’d been kneed in the balls again.

  My eyes prickled as I mopped up the rest of the tea. I wiped my face against my shoulder and sniffed.

  I had to get back on my hands and knees to get the last of it up, an operation that was destined to further damage the structural integrity of my jeans. The packing tape tugged on my leg hairs, and when I stood back up, I felt cool air against my inner thigh.

  Great.

  “Sorry about that,” I said to the table above me. I cleared my throat and squeezed my legs together to hide the damage to my jeans. They were already sipping on new cups of Big Red Robe.

  “It’s fine,” they said without even looking at me.

  I nodded at the floor.

  “Enjoy your tea.”

  STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY

  I wanted to cry.

  I mean, I was crying. A little bit. But I wanted to cry more.

  I locked myself in the bathroom so no one would see me.

  I’d had bad days at work before. My old job, at Tea Haven, had Corporate-Mandated Clearance Sales once a quarter, which had been way worse.

  But I guess I thought Rose City would be different.

  I thought it was going to be about serving people the finest teas, and helping them discover new favorites. Not profit margins and import taxes.

  I had this feeling for a second.

  Like I didn’t like working at Rose City.

  But that was ridiculous.

  I sniffed, kicked off my shoes, and slid out of my damaged jeans.

  They were utterly destroyed. The rip had lengthened along the inseam, up to the crotch seam and down about twelve inches. Frayed edges waved in the air like tiny blue anemones.

  I closed the toilet lid and sat on it in my underwear (a pair of green square-cut trunks with a shiny black waistband) and pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket to check the time.

  I had another hour on my shift.

  What was I supposed to do?

  Someone knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Darius?”

  It was Landon.

  “You okay?”