by Adib Khorram
“Thanks. How was it?”
“It was . . .”
I didn’t know what to say.
How could I explain Mamou and Babou and Sohrab and football and the rooftop to someone who had never experienced them?
How could I talk about them when I still felt the ache?
“It was?”
“It was,” I said. “I don’t know. It’s hard to talk about.”
Javaneh nodded.
“Maybe I’ll get to go one day. We still have family there too.”
“I hope you get to,” I said. “I really do.”
* * *
“We’re on the South Field today,” Coach Fortes said as we emerged from the locker room. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
The South Field was a huge stretch of grass behind the Chapel Hill High School Library. It was not technically a field—it was more of a lawn, really, and there was a slight grade to it—but that was where Coach Fortes took us to play football/American soccer.
It felt very strange, wearing my red Chapel Hill Chargers T-shirt and black swishy shorts, instead of my Team Melli jersey.
It felt very strange wearing my own tennis shoes, instead of Sohrab’s well-loved cleats, or even the new ones Mamou and Babou had gotten me for my birthday. (We weren’t allowed to wear cleats in physical education. Supposedly it was for “safety reasons.”)
It felt very strange playing on a full team, with my classmates calling out “Darius” or “Kellner” instead of “Darioush” or “Ayatollah.”
I kind of missed that.
It was nice to discover I was actually one of the better players in our class. Better than Trent Bolger, at any rate, who was on the opposing team.
I kept blocking him, stealing the ball and passing it forward again, until he looked ready to burst into flame like an angry Balrog.
When we rotated positions, and I took a turn at goalie, I knew he would try to get even. He wove around our defenders, and tried to sneak a shot to my right, but I knew what he was going to do.
I dove for the ball, brushed the grass off my shins, and tossed it back out.
After dealing with the Iranian Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy, Trent Bolger and his American ones didn’t seem so tough.
“Nice save, D-Breath,” he said. “But you’re used to balls flying at your face.”
“Asshole,” Chip said. He ran over to give me a fist bump. He had trimmed his hair over break, and pulled it back into a little topknot.
I kind of hated how cool it looked.
“Nice save, Darius.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Trent glared at Chip, but Chip just shrugged him off and grinned at me.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
Maybe Cyprian Cusumano wasn’t as soulless as I thought.
Maybe.
* * *
Coach Fortes caught me on the way back to the locker room.
“You were pretty good out there, Kellner.”
“Thanks,” I said, but then I stepped in something.
It was squishy, and as soon as I smelled it I knew.
“Oh. Shit.”
“Language!” Coach said, but then he turned back and saw me scraping my shoe on the grass.
People in the neighborhood let their dogs run through the South Field sometimes.
“Oh. You meant that literally.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Come on. We’ve got towels inside. I’ll write you a tardy slip.”
“Thanks.”
I guess Coach Fortes was okay as far as coaches went at Chapel Hill High School, even if he was part of the Sportsball-Industrial Complex that allowed Fatty Bolger and his Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy to thrive.
(Go Chargers.)
Coach said, “Soccer is pretty big in Iran, huh?”
“Yeah. They call it football, though.”
“You play a lot while you were there?”
“I guess.”
“How come you never tried out for our team? I didn’t even know you played.”
I thought about Coach Henderson.
I thought about lack of discipline.
“I guess I didn’t think I was that good.”
“Well, you’ve got some skill. Why don’t you try out in the fall?”
My ears burned. I almost told Coach no.
Almost.
But that’s what Darius would have done.
Darioush would have tried out.
I thought about telling Sohrab that I had made the team. And sending him photos of me in my kit. And him squinting and congratulating me.
I thought about having fun on the field, like I did with him and Asghar and even Ali-Reza and Hossein.
“Maybe I will,” I said. “Maybe I will.”
DARIUS THE GREAT
I kind of wished I could shower after physical education.
There was something to be said for getting clean and fresh again after a game of football.
But guys didn’t do that at Chapel Hill High School.
Instead, I cleaned off my shoes with the towel Coach Fortes found me, got dressed, and headed to geometry.
* * *
My throat tightened when I saw Chip Cusumano sitting on the curb by the bike rack after school, twisting the end of his top knot around his index finger with one hand and fiddling with his phone with the other.
I checked my bike for any obvious signs of damage, but it seemed fine, and besides, Trent was nowhere to be seen.
“Chip?” I said.
“Oh. Hey. What happened to you after gym?”
“I had to clean my shoes off.”
“Dog shit?”
“Yeah.”
Chip shook his head.
“Did you need something?”
“No. Just wanted to make sure your bike was okay. I still feel bad about that.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s okay now.”
“Good.”
“How was your trip? And your grandfather?”
“You knew about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Um. It was good. Really good. Thanks.”
We unlocked our bikes and walked toward the road. Chip kept glancing at me.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Not really.” Chip grinned again. His eyes crinkled up, almost like a squint. “You just seem different somehow.”
I shrugged.
“Maybe you brought some of your ancestor back with you.”
“What?”
“Darius the Great. Or Darioush. You were named after him. Right?”
I was amazed that Cyprian Cusumano, Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy (maybe), had made that connection.
I was amazed he knew the proper pronunciation.
I was amazed he never once tried to make a joke about it.
“Yeah. I mean, I was named after him, but I’m pretty sure we’re not related.”
“Well, it’s still cool.” Chip adjusted the rubber band holding his hair in place. “Hey. Glad you’re back, Darius.”
“Um. Thanks.”
“Cool. See you.”
“Yeah. See you.”
* * *
Chip followed me the first mile, laughing about the awkwardness of saying good-bye and then not actually parting ways, until he turned right at the Safeway and I kept going straight.
I didn’t know what to make of his sudden and inexplicable change in attitude.
Maybe he was right, and I was different somehow.
Maybe I had brought a little bit of Darioush the Great back with me.
I would have to ask Sohrab what he thought.
He and I emailed every day.
Well, it was more like every other day,
given the temporal differential involved in waiting for a reply. Sohrab lived half a day into the future.
This is why I hate time travel.
* * *
That night, we ate carry-out from the sushi restaurant around the corner from Dad’s office. And then we watched “Family,” which is the episode where Captain Picard goes home to France to visit his family and recover from being assimilated by the Borg.
It was his first time seeing his family in years.
“Is it just me, or is this really weird timing?”
Dad laughed.
“Not just you.”
Mom sat down on my other side during the opening credits. Dad and I both turned to stare at her.
“What? I like this episode. It’s all on the farm.”
“Vineyard,” Dad said.
Mom reached across me to swat at Dad’s chest.
“Whatever.”
Dad caught Mom’s hand and kissed her on the palm, which made her laugh.
Mom spent the whole show running her fingers through my hair. It was nice, sitting there sandwiched between her and Dad.
(Laleh had gotten bored before the teaser was even over.)
Dad and I watched the ending credits all the way through, and then I got up to make some tea. Grandma and Oma had taken me to Rose City Teas when we got back, to celebrate my birthday, and I’d picked up some new Ceylon Nuwara Eliya to try.
While I steeped the tea, Dad pulled down a pair of cups for us and set them on the kitchen table. And then he sat down and waited for me.
We had started doing this, most nights, after Star Trek.
We sat together and I told him the story of my day. It was our new tradition.
I poured his cup, and then mine, and brought it up to my nose to smell it. Dad copied me.
“Hmm.” He wrinkled his nose. “Lemons?”
“Yeah. And floral notes.”
He sniffed again and took a sip.
“It’s good.”
“Yeah. Smooth.”
We sipped and talked. I was a little nervous to tell Dad what Coach Fortes said, but he surprised me.
Stephen Kellner was full of surprises these days.
“Don’t let him pressure you,” Dad said. “But if you want to do it, we’ll all come cheer for you.”
“Okay. Maybe. I don’t know if I’ll have time. I was going to try for an internship at Rose City Teas next year.”
“Paid or unpaid?”
My ears burned. “Unpaid.”
“That’s okay. It would be good for you.”
I stared at my father—Stephen Kellner, the Übermensch—with his fingers wrapped around a teacup, drinking fine Ceylon tea, and telling me it was okay to take a job that didn’t pay, in a field that was nothing like his own.
“Really?”
“Really. You love it. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then.”
* * *
We finished off the pot, and while I pulled down our medications, Dad put the kettle on for another round.
“Something less caffeinated, though.”
Mom and Laleh wandered back in as I set a pot of Dragon Pearl Jasmine on the table.
“This smells like sabzi,” Laleh announced. She had elected not to use an ice cube, since it was steeped at 180º and not a full boil.
“It smells like Babou’s garden,” Mom said.
We sat around the table, drinking and laughing and smiling, but then we got kind of quiet.
It was a nice kind of quiet. The kind you could wrap yourself up in like a blanket.
Dad looked at me.
“You okay, son?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said.
I took a long, slow sip of my tea.
“I’m great.”
AFTERWORD
In telling Darius’s story, I wanted to show how depression can affect a life without ruling it—both as someone who lives with it, and as someone who loves people living with it.
I was twelve years old when I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, and I spent four years working with my psychiatrist to find a medication (or, as it turned out, a combination of medications and counseling) to manage my symptoms. I count myself very fortunate: Because my family has a history of depression, my parents knew to get me treatment, and provided the support structure I needed. I was fortunate too that my depression never led me toward self-harm.
Depression takes different shapes for different people: For me, it took the shape of comfort eating (a lot). It took the shape of avoiding school for a month because I couldn’t drag myself out of bed and face the morning. It took the shape of not doing my homework because I couldn’t see the point in anything.
Even now, it sometimes takes the shape of staying at home, playing mindless video games, when I don’t feel up to engaging with the outside world.
Living with depression can mean getting stuck in cycles of misunderstood motives, of always imagining the worst in people, or thinking they are imagining the worst in you.
It can mean pushing people away because you don’t think you’re worth their time.
It can mean taking medication to stay alive—to combat self-harm or suicidal ideation—even if it dulls parts of yourself you don’t realize are there. (It’s absolutely worth it.)
It can mean imagining that the people who love you will never love you enough.
But depression can be just as hard to witness as it can be to live with. It’s frustrating to love someone and be unable to help them.
It’s frustrating to repeat the same cycle of misunderstandings over and over again.
It’s frustrating to constantly tell yourself that, if you could just figure out the secret, you could make everything better—but you can’t.
No matter what, though, depression doesn’t have to rule your life.
If you’re living with depression, there is help out there.
If someone you love is living with depression, there is hope for them.
It takes patience, and kindness, and forgiveness.
I’m still learning how to take care of myself, and learning how to take care of those I love.
If you’re learning, too, there are resources available.
National Alliance on Mental Illness: nami.org
Anxiety and Depression Association of America: adaa.org
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance: dbsalliance.org
Crisis Text Line: www.crisistextline.org or text HOME to 741741
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: suicidepreventionlifeline.org or call 1-800-273-8255
The Trevor Project (LGBTQ Lifeline): www.thetrevorproject.org or call 1-866-488-7386
Trans Lifeline: www.translifeline.org or call 1-877-565-8860
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are so many people who had a hand in bringing this book into the world, but if I taarofed as much as each and every one of you deserve, the acknowledgements would be longer than the book.
Thank you to my agent, Molly O’Neill, for being a tireless champion, a wise counselor, and the best partner in this endeavor I could have asked for. Thank you for your generous advice, your excellent phone calls, and an amazing cake.
Thank you to the entire team at Root Literary: Holly Root, Taylor Haggerty, and Chelsee Glover-Odom, for all your support.
Thank you to my editor, Dana Chidiac, who understood the secret heart of my book, and helped me bring the best possible version into the world. Thank you for your patience, your passion, your keen eye, and your endless good humor.
At every stage of this process, I’ve counted myself lucky to be part of the Penguin family. Thank you to the entire Dial team, who have invested so much in Darius: Lauri Hornik, Namrata Tripathi, Nancy Mercado, and Kristen Tozzo.
> Thank you to my copyeditor, Regina Castillo, for a fantastic copyedit, and for including my first ever en-dash.
Thank you to my cover designer, Samira Iravani, for a gorgeous, unforgettable cover. I still get goosebumps every time I look at it. Thank you to Adams Carvalho for a stunning illustration. And thank you to Theresa Evangelista, jacket art director, for making it all happen.
Thank you to Mina Chung for making the book’s interior as beautiful as the exterior.
Thank you to my rockstar publicist, Kaitlin Kneafsey, and to the entire publicity team, especially Shanta Newlin and Elyse Marshall.
Thank you to the marketing team, including Emily Romero, Erin Berger, Caitlin Whalen, and especially Hannah Nesbat. Persian Penguins Unite!
Thank you to the school & library team, headed up by Carmela Iaria, and to the sales team, led by Debra Polansky.
Thank you to the team at Listening Library, especially Aaron Blank, Emily Parliman, Rebecca Waugh, and the fantastic narrator, Michael Levi Harris, for bringing Darius to life in audiobook form.
Thank you to the entire production team. Holding this book in my hands has been a dream come true.
Thank you to Laila Iravani, Parimah Mehrrostami, and Iraj Imani, for filling gaps in my knowledge.
Thank you to Janet Reid, the most famous of fishes, for telling me to go forth and conquer.
Thank you to Brooks Sherman, for insight and inspiration.
Thank you to all the booksellers, librarians, teachers, and bloggers who have spread the word about Darius.
Thank you to my Northwest Tea Family: James Norwood Pratt, Valerie Pratt, Emeric Harney, Rob Russotti, Tiffany Talbott, and the late Steven Smith. Tea is love.
Thank you to Andrew Smith, Christa Desir, and Carrie Mesrobian, for encouragement, friendship, and advice.
Thank you to Arvin Ahmadi, Becky Albertalli, Laurie Halse Anderson, Sara Farizan, Nic Stone, Jasmine Warga, and John Corey Whaley for loving Darius as much as I do.
Thank you to Lana Wood Johnson, for keeping me sane. Thank you to Kosoko Jackson, for keeping me honest. Thank you to Lucie Witt, for keeping me laughing. Thank you to Mark Thurber, for keeping me grounded. Thank you to Ronni Davis, for keeping me going.