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.
“Okay.”
Mom gave me a sad smile. “See you tonight.”
I swallowed away the lump in my throat.
I hated seeing my parents so tired.
“Yeah.”
I showered and packed my soccer bag, and tucked my curl cream in too. I’d be seeing Landon after practice and wanted to look nice. I knocked on Dad’s door, but he hollered he was up and getting ready.
And then, since I hadn’t heard from Sohrab in three days, I sat down and tried him again.
This time he answered right away.
“Eh! Hello Darioush.”
“Hey! Chetori toh?”
I didn’t speak much Farsi, but what few words I could say—heavy with my American accent—I felt okay practicing with Sohrab, who never criticized my pronunciation.
Sohrab let out a dramatic sigh. “Darioush. Have I ever told you about my Ameh Mona?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She lives in Manshad. You know Manshad?”
I shook my head.
“It’s across the mountains from Yazd. It’s very beautiful. But it’s a long drive.” Sohrab glanced behind him and hollered something to his mom.
“Maman says hi.”
“Oh. Tell her hi too?”
Sohrab shouted back at his mom.
“Anyway. Ameh Mona broke her leg.”
“What happened?”
“She tripped over her cat.”
“She what?”
Sohrab shook his head, and then he snorted.
“She tripped over her cat.” He snorted again. The snort turned into a chuckle.
And then his eyes crinkled up and he started laughing. He laughed so hard it made me start laughing too, even though tripping over a cat and breaking your leg sounded awful. I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.
But eventually the laughter petered out, and Sohrab said, “We hadn’t seen her in a long time.”
His image jittered for a second as he looked to the side. I thought he was going to say something, but he just sat there, his jaw twitching. He’d been keeping it more stubbly, like he was trying to grow a beard but couldn’t quite manage it.
His face looked longer too. Either he’d gotten taller or he’d lost some weight.
Maybe both.
Eventually he turned back and said, “How was football?”
“It was good. We won our first game!”
I told Sohrab everything: about circling up, about how I used the tackle he showed me, about how the team was starting to feel like actual friends.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, Darioush.”
“Me too.” I swallowed. “I was kind of scared.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You were my first real friend. I thought, maybe I didn’t know how to make more. Maybe you were special.” I cleared my throat. “You are special. But I thought . . . I don’t know.”
Sohrab’s eyes crinkled up again. “Best friends are special, Darioush. But you’re a nice guy. Of course you are making more friends. I’m happy for you.”
Sohrab always knew what to say.
“Thanks.”
Sohrab looked away again, his jaw twitching.
Sohrab’s jaw twitched when he ground his teeth.
Sohrab ground his teeth when he was thinking about his dad, who died just before we left Yazd. He had been in prison when he died: Sohrab’s family was Bahá’í, and the Iranian government had a tendency to harass and imprison Bahá’ís.
It cast a shadow over him, one that came and went.
I knew him well enough to sit with him until it passed.
That’s the kind of friends Sohrab and I were.
Finally he said, “Darioush. How did you know you were depressed?”
“Oh.”
I didn’t know what to say at first.
I never thought I’d hear Sohrab ask me that question.
I don’t know why. Lots of people deal with depression.
“Well,” I said. “There’s a difference between being depressed and having depression. And for having it, a doctor can diagnose you, but I think it’s usually because you’ve been depressed enough times or over a long period of time.”
I swallowed.
“You know how it looks in the mornings in Yazd, when it’s still a little foggy, and you can see things but they’re kind of grayed out and blurry around the edges?”
Sohrab nodded.
“That’s what it felt like for me. When it was bad. It was like I could make out the shape of life but I could never quite see it. It’s different for different people, though. My dad told me when he was depressed, he was just tired all the time. And he never wanted to do anything.” I swallowed again. “Do you think you might be depressed? Or have depression?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Sometimes I feel like that. The fog.”
“Can you see a doctor about it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about your mom? Can you talk to her at least?”
“Maybe.” He sighed.
Sohrab was one of the happiest people I knew, but even he had his sadnesses.
To be honest, it felt like I’d been seeing them more and more lately. That, and his angers.
Sohrab had a lot of anger inside him, anger he didn’t always know how to talk about, unless I could pry it out of him.
I hated how far away my best friend was.
“You know you can talk to me, right? Ghorbanat beram.”
“I know, Darioush. Always.”