HOT BEVERAGE POD EXTRACTION DEVICE
My old gym teacher, Coach Fortes, was the one who convinced me to try out for the soccer team, but over the summer his wife had gotten a job in Eastern Washington, so he followed her there.
Coach Bentley had been hired to replace him (and to teach History and Citizenship). She was a Black woman with warm, dark skin, a shaved head, and the kind of face that could go from glowing praise to nuclear rage in less than a second, especially if she thought you weren’t giving a hundred percent out on the field.
At her last school she led her teams to multiple Oregon State Championships, and now she was determined to make Chapel Hill High School Soccer a name to be feared. She had the determination of a Klingon warrior and the analytical prowess of a Vulcan scholar.
As I warmed up, kicking a ball back and forth with Chip, she kept shouting at us.
“Faster feet! Faster feet!”
I nodded and sped up our drill.
I was pretty sure I liked Coach Bentley.
Really.
But she could be a little intense too.
Across the field, the team from Crestwood High School, Chapel Hill’s district rival, warmed up in their white away kits trimmed with green and yellow.
I never really got the rivalry thing, which I suspected was because of our schools’ football teams, but their mascot was the Spartan, so I was genetically predisposed to dislike them.
Persians (even Fractional ones) and Spartans (even fake ones) are natural enemies. Whole epics have been written about it. Some racist movies too.
Coach Bentley blew her whistle. “All right, Chargers, circle up!”
Circling up is this thing Coach Bentley has us do before practices and games. We convene behind our goal and stand in a circle, arms crossed, holding hands with the people on either side of us. And we each go around in a circle, saying something nice a teammate did for us.
Coach Bentley brought it with her from her old school. She said it’s to promote team unity and fight the cult of toxic masculinity in sports.
I ended up between Chip and Gabe, across from Coach Bentley, who went first: “When we started off this season, you didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. But you welcomed me, and now we’re about to win our first game. I’m proud of you all.”
We went clockwise from there: Guys described favors someone did, notes shared, advice on footwork, even being a wingman for getting a date.
When it got to Chip, he said, “Ricky loaned me his charger when my tablet was about to die. Thanks, Ricky.” Ricky, our left wingback, nodded from across the circle.
And then it was my turn.
“Today in Conditioning, this guy from the football team was being kind of rude to me.”
I couldn’t name Trent, because there was this rule for Circle: You couldn’t say anything bad about other people. At least not by name.
Even then, Coach Bentley opened her mouth like she was about to correct me, so I said, “But Gabe and Jaden had my back. And that was really cool. It meant a lot to me. So, thanks, guys.”
Next to me, Chip shifted back and forth on his feet, and his hand twitched in mine.
He had to know I was talking about Trent.
Right?
On my other side, Gabe bumped shoulders with me and then said, “Speaking of which, Darius stayed and helped me clean up my weights in Conditioning, even though he was running late. That was really cool of him. Thanks, man.”
I nodded and looked at my feet.
I wasn’t used to getting compliments from the guys at school.
My chest felt like a plasma reactor.
I wanted to cry—just a little bit—but managed not to. I didn’t want to have a stuffy nose for the start of the game.
When we finished, Coach Bentley counted to three, and we all shouted together.
“Go Chargers!”
We were ahead by one, thanks to some excellent goalkeeping by Christian and a sweet goal in the first half by Gabe, but by the last few minutes of the second half, the Crestwood Spartans were living up to their names by not giving up.
I played sweeper for our team—a position Coach Bentley said I was uniquely suited for, whatever that meant—and the Spartans had been hammering our defense, trying to get a goal in.
I was drenched in sweat. My black shorts were stained green, the result of a tricky (but successful) slide tackle against one of Crestwood’s forwards. Sohrab had taught it to me, back in Yazd.
A few minutes later, that same forward slipped around Jaden and faked out Chip, but it was like I got a sensor lock on him. When he dove to my left, to take a shot at our goal, I dove with him.
I got a kick to my shin, but my guard caught it, and I managed to send the ball offsides.
Still, I groaned. The guard caught the worst of it, but I was going to have a nice-sized bruise.
“Hey.” Chip jogged over to me. “You okay?”
I flopped over onto my back. “I think so.”
Chip offered me a hand up.
“You sure?”
I stepped back and forth a few times. The pain was starting to fade.
“I’m sure.”
Chip bumped my fist. “Nice save.”
“Thanks.”
We won the game, 1–0.
I had never seen Coach Bentley smile so much in all the months we’d been practicing.
After we shook hands with the Crestwood Spartans, I ran over to the stands where Mom and Dad were waiting for me, with Laleh in tow behind them.
Despite me being disgustingly sweaty, Mom pulled me into a hug, but she definitely didn’t kiss me.
Dad laughed, though, and planted a kiss right into my messy hair.
“Good game, son,” he said. “Green’s a good color on you.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at my grass-stained shorts and arms and then back up. “Maybe I have a future as an Orion slave dancer.”
“Might need to work on your dance moves a little.”
“Hey!”
“Really, Darius. You looked great out there. Like you were having fun.” He mussed my hair and rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”
I got that burning plasma reactor feeling in my chest again, but I managed to smile too.
“Thanks, Dad.” I knelt down so I was level with Laleh. “What did you think? How’d I do?”
“Good,” she said, but then she coughed into the crook of her elbow.
“She wouldn’t stay home,” Mom said. “But at least her fever broke.”
“That’s good.”
I turned back to Laleh.
“I’m glad you came.”
She nodded at me and gave me a weak smile, but then she coughed again.
“We’d better get you home. I’m gonna shower.”
“We’ll get your bike loaded up,” Dad said. “Meet us in the parking lot?”
“Sure.”
“You hungry?” Mom said. “You need anything?”
“I’m good. Thanks, Mom.”
I ran to catch up with the other guys as we did a warm-down and some stretches and then headed for the locker room.
Chapel Hill High School had nice showers, where we all got our own stall, but the shower heads were apparently made for Student Athletes shorter than I was. I had to bend down to get my head under the spray, and the hot water didn’t last nearly long enough, which meant by the time I was clean I was also cold and slightly miserable.
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.