Darius the Great Deserves Better

by Adib Khorram

  “Leave me alone, Trent.”

  I brushed the little white crumbs off my pants and went to wash my hands at the farthest sink from Trent’s.

  I hadn’t done anything, but I still had to wash my hands when I’d been in a bathroom.

  It was a thing.

  Trent stuck his hands under the dryer. “Having fun with your boy?”

  It was an innocuous question, but nothing about Trent Bolger was ever innocuous.

  “Yes.” The only other hand dryer was right next to Trent, and I didn’t want the water to get onto my cuffs.

  He gave me this sidelong look, and then he said, “Did you paint your nails?”

  “Yeah.”

  He snorted—an alarming experience, given the size of his nostrils. “I don’t know what Chip sees in you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t act like you can’t tell. He’s got such a boner for you.”

  I swallowed.

  “Chip is my friend. Sorry if you’re jealous or whatever.”

  Trent rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Chip and me, we’ve been friends forever. And we’re family now. I’ll still be here, long after he gets over you.”

  He pushed past me, slamming my shoulder on his way out.

  “Later, D-Cheese.”

  THE FORESKINNED FIDDLE

  I waited in the bathroom for a few minutes, playing on my phone and turning what Trent had said over in my mind.

  Trent Bolger was a bully, no matter what anyone said. No matter how many times he avoided punishment because he was on Chapel Hill High School’s varsity football team.

  And Cyprian Cusumano was my friend. Even if I still didn’t understand why, exactly.

  But what did Trent mean, that Chip had a boner for me? He was jealous of us being friends, and jealous that Chip was outgrowing him, and he would say anything to make trouble.

  There was no way Chip liked me as more than a friend.

  For as long as I’d known him, Chip had only ever dated girls. If he liked guys too, he would have said something.

  Even if he didn’t like me, he would’ve said something.

  Right?

  I slipped my phone into my pocket. Landon was waiting, and I refused to let Trent Bolger ruin my night.

  “You okay?” Landon asked as he led me back to the dance floor.

  “Yeah.”

  “Your face is red.”

  “It’s hot in here.”

  Landon’s hands rested on my hips as we swayed along to the music—DJ Loud Noises had picked a nice slow song, one I’d heard Dad sing to Mom when he thought no one else could hear.

  I waited for one of the chaperones to come along, but no one did.

  “This is nice,” Landon said. He stepped in closer to me, so close our bodies were nearly touching. I could smell his cologne and a little bit of his sweat too.

  The song switched to a faster one, with thrumming bass and some innuendo-laden lyrics. Landon stepped closer, and even though I was okay with breaking the Chaperone-Mandated Minimum Distance, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with him grinding against me on the dance floor. Not when everyone could see us.

  Landon did this thing where he rolled his hips against me. I arched my back to pull away a tiny bit.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I just don’t want to get in trouble,” I shouted over the music.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You’re no fun.”

  All around us, everyone else was dancing and smiling and even stealing a few kisses here and there.

  But Coach Winfield was prowling the fringes of the dance floor, frowning at anyone who got too close to their dance partner.

  Landon followed my gaze and kind of shrugged. He backed away, just a little bit, but kept dancing. I did my best to keep up, swiveling my hips to the beat. I wasn’t the best dancer, but I wasn’t the worst. Years of dancing at Persian functions had at least given me a sense of rhythm, and some decent footwork.

  Cyprian Cusumano, on the other hand, was an abysmal dancer, but he didn’t seem to care. I caught sight of him across the gym: He was jumping and flailing and smiling and laughing, like he didn’t care who saw him. He caught my eye and waved, this goofy grin splashed across his face. I shook my head.

  “What?” Landon shouted. He glanced behind him and watched Chip hopping around. “Wow.”

  He took my hand and spun me around. I grinned and spun him back.

  And then I decided to risk it: I leaned in and gave him a super-quick kiss, barely more than a peck on the lips.

  “Kellner!” Coach Winfield bellowed from behind me. “Watch it!”

  “Sorry, Coach.”

  He stared me down for a second—despite being a few inches shorter than me—and then disappeared back into the nebula of dancing bodies.

  Landon started laughing.

  “How did he do that?”

  “Coach Winfield has it out for me.”

  “Well. You’d better behave, then.”

  “I’ll try.”

  When the heat from so many people packed together started getting to me, I led Landon off the floor to rehydrate. The drinks table was a mess, though, so I pulled him out to the hall. As soon as the gym doors closed behind us, the wall of noise pressing against us fell away, except for the bass hum that reverberated through the soles of my shoes.

  I dabbed the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I can think again.”

  “I can breathe again,” Landon said. “I think some of your classmates forgot their deodorant.”

  “That’s a recurring nightmare of mine. Forgetting my own deodorant.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “I just don’t ever want to be that guy who smells bad.”

  “You always smell nice.”

  “Thanks.” I wound my fingers through his and led him down the hall toward the bathrooms where I’d run into Trent Bolger earlier. There was no wait for the water fountain.

  Landon drank his fill, and then stood aside for me.

  Once again, I wished Chapel Hill High School used paper towels, because that would have been great for wiping off my sweaty brow.

  The hallway walls were lined with pictures of Chapel Hill High School’s student athletes. Closest to the Main Gym was the varsity football team; and next to that, above the restrooms, the JV team. Landon nodded at the row of photos.

  “You got a picture up somewhere?”

  “Down the Art hall.”

  “Show me?”

  I led Landon back past the gym toward the Art hall. The fluorescent lights were off, except for a few intermittent panels that were always on at night. Our dress shoes sounded like hooves clop-clop-clopping on the tiles.

  As we neared the corner, the photos changed from the varsity wrestling team (where a photo of Chip in his red-and-black singlet from last year still hung on the wall), to the JV wrestling team, and finally to the varsity men’s soccer team.

  Go Chargers.

  Here’s the thing: I don’t photograph well. I think it’s genetic.

  Iranians always frown in photos.

  (As a Fractional Persian, I only looked constipated, but still.)

  I was wearing my jersey and had my arms crossed in front of my chest: the Standard Student Athlete Pose. We took the photo the first week of school, before I got my hair cut, so my former halo of black curls framed my face.

  “Your hair was so cute.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I should grow it out again.”

  I rubbed the back of my head.

  Landon reached up and put his hand over mine. “Nah. It’s sexier this way.” He pulled my head down to kiss me.

  I kissed him back, but not too hard: We were still at school, and it just felt weird to
be making out in the halls of Chapel Hill High School.

  The sound of echoing footsteps made me pause, my lips hovering over Landon’s. I opened my eyes and looked around, but I didn’t see anyone.

  I rested my forehead against Landon’s. He slipped his fingertips under my waistband, right along my hip crease.

  “You remember what we talked about?”

  “Um.”

  “My dad’s gone tonight.” He leaned in and kissed me again. “We’d have the house to ourselves.”

  “Oh.”

  My face felt so hot, I was surprised Landon’s forehead hadn’t melted into mine.

  “Um.”

  My heart raced.

  “Want to come over?”

  I almost wanted to.

  Almost.

  But what if Landon didn’t like the way I looked?

  What if I was too big?

  What if I was too small?

  What if we didn’t fit together the way Landon wanted us to?

  What if I didn’t like it?

  What if I didn’t want it yet?

  “Um.”

  Maybe that was the only thing I was capable of saying anymore.

  Landon looked up into my eyes.

  “What do you say?”

  I swallowed. “Nervous.”

  “It’ll be fun. I promise,” he said. “I want this for us. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He frowned.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I mean it’s a big step. For me.”

  “Well. You’ve got to take it sometime. Right?”

  I don’t know why it bothered me, the way he said it. Like I had to want sex.

  There were lots of people who didn’t.

  To be clear, I did want sex. I really did.

  And I even thought maybe it would be fun to do it with Landon.

  But every time I thought about it, it felt like the end of the world. I don’t know why, but it did.

  I was scared.

  I thought maybe I’d be ready for sex when that fear was overshadowed by the wanting. When the gravity of my desire shifted.

  “I . . .”

  Landon sighed. He opened his mouth but then glanced to the side.

  We heard footsteps again, right around the corner. And voices.

  “Dude, you struck out so hard.”

  “Shut up.”

  It was Chip and Trent.

  “It was painful to watch. Like having teeth pulled,” Chip said.

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m not sure I can be seen in public with you anymore.”

  “Like that’s new.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chip asked.

  “I mean I only see you at school, or when we’re watching Evie. It’s like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

  “You’re my best friend.”

  Someone’s shoe scuffed the floor. The squeak echoed down the hall.

  Landon bit his lip and glanced between me and the corner where Chip and Trent stood, just out of sight.

  We were trapped.

  “Then why don’t you act like it?” Trent said. “You always . . .”

  But whatever Chip was always doing, we didn’t find out, because they picked that moment to round the corner.

  Trent stared at us—our arms around each other, Landon pressing me back against a locker—while Chip’s brow furrowed.

  “Oh,” Chip said. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  Trent’s lips curled. His eyes lingered where Landon’s fingers were still hooked under my waistband.

  “Um.”

  “Taking a break?” Chip said.

  Landon nodded. “It was getting kind of stuffy in there.”

  “I think we’re going to take off soon,” Chip said. “Seems like things are kind of winding down.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re gonna go back to mine and play video games or something. A couple other guys from the team are coming. You two wanna join?”

  I looked at Landon.

  “I think we’re gonna go back to my place.” He grinned at me. “Spend a little time together.”

  Trent snickered.

  “Time to play the foreskinned fiddle?”

  Time stood still, like we were all suspended on the event horizon of some black hole about to swallow us.

  And I finally understood why Trent had started calling me D-Cheese, right after Chip saw me in the locker room.

  My eyes met Chip’s for a split second. They were full of shame and panic.

  “What the heck, dude?” he shouted.

  And even though my ears were ringing, and I felt like a stellar nursery had ignited in my chest, I thought about that. How Chip said “heck” instead of actually swearing.

  Trent just laughed. “What?”

  Chip had this horrified look on his face. Like maybe he was the one who wanted to cry.

  Landon looked at me, and then Chip, and then Trent, and then back to me. He studied my burning cheeks and bit his lip.

  “Not cool.” Chip shoved Trent down the hall.

  “Have fun!” Trent cackled. “Rubber up!”

  Chip dragged Trent away, shooting me an apologetic look as he went.

  Landon stepped away from me, and I shivered, with the cold locker against my back and Landon’s warmth removed from my front.

  “What was that about?”

  “What?” My voice croaked. I cleared my throat. “Um. What?”

  “That got really weird all of a sudden. When he mentioned us having sex.” He glanced down at my pants. “Playing the ‘foreskinned fiddle,’ huh?”

  “Trent is an asshole,” I said.

  And then I said, “They both are.”

  “I thought Chip was your friend?”

  “So did I.”

  I pulled away from the locker and wrapped my arms around myself.

  I still kind of wanted to cry.

  “So are you . . .” Landon’s eyes darted down again.

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  I shook my head.

  “Uncut?”

  “Intact,” I said.

  “Oh. Huh.”

  I hated that word: huh.

  I wiped at my eyes, because I wanted to cry but I didn’t want Landon to see me do it.

  I was more or less immune to Trent humiliating me. I had adapted.

  But what was I supposed to do when it was Chip who did it?

  “It doesn’t bother me. I’ve hooked up with uncut guys before.”

  “Hooked up?”

  “Just jerking off and stuff.”

  I didn’t want to know about Landon masturbating other guys.

  “Is that all you want to do? Hook up?”

  “No. That’s . . .” Landon’s cheeks were on fire. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  My own cheeks began to burn too.

  “Why are you so mad at me?”

  “Why won’t you be honest with me? Why does Chip know you’re uncut anyway?”

  “He saw me that day when I got hurt.”

  I wiped at my eyes again.

  This felt like a knee to the balls.

  Worse, even.

  Landon stared at me for a long moment.

  And then he said, “Do you have a thing for Chip?”

  “What?”

  “Do you like Chip?”

  “He’s my friend,” I said. “That’s all.”

  I didn’t have a thing for Chip.

  I couldn’t.

  “You won’t even take your shirt off around me. But he’s seen your dick?”

&
nbsp; “That’s just soccer,” I said. “It was an accident. But us . . . you . . . I need more time. I told you I’m not ready.”

  “Well, what about what I need? What about what I’m ready for? Why is it always about you?”

  “It’s not,” I said. “I care about you. And what you want.”

  “I’ve told you sex is important to me. But you never want to talk about it. You want to go to dances and look cute together, you want me to cook for you and your family, but when it comes to doing stuff—stuff that I told you I wanted, stuff that matters to me in a relationship—you say you’re ‘not ready.’ We’ve been together for four months now and you won’t even take your shirt off around me. You’re a coward. And you’re selfish.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”

  “But you’ll go around swinging your dick in front of Chip?”

  “It’s a locker room. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t even know.” Landon closed his eyes. “You know what? I’m going to go.”

  “What?” I squeaked.

  “It’s clear you’re not coming home with me. Are you?”

  “Um.”

  I wanted to say yes.

  I wanted to say yes to everything.

  But I couldn’t.

  I wiped my eyes and said, “Landon . . .”

  But he shook his head and said, “This is bullshit.”

  And then he said, “I’m leaving.”

  And then he walked away.

  SUITABLY MELANCHOLY

  I wanted to follow Landon.

  I wanted to chase him into the rain, and reach out for him, and have him change his mind and turn around, and tell me he was wrong and he was sorry and everything would be okay.

  But first of all, it was barely drizzling. Not nearly heavy enough for any sort of dramatic reconciliation.

  Second, I was a coward.

  And third, I didn’t know anything I could say that would change his mind.

  I hovered inside the double doors while he waited for his ride to pick him up. Once he was gone, I slipped outside into the empty parking lot and watched the car’s taillights disappear into the haze, which at least felt suitably melancholy.

  It was the type of situation that called for some sort of heavy piano music, or maybe a haunting cello motif, but the only soundtrack was the bass beat of “Despacito” rattling off the windowpanes of the Main Gym behind me.