Excerpt from One Word, Six Letters by Adib Khorram, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Your dad takes the seat next to you and runs a hand through his hair. It used to be blond like yours, but you only know that because of pictures. Now it's a golden brown, matching the neat, slightly pointed beard on his chin. His hair is messy, which means he didn't have any meetings this morning, or at least none worth styling it for. Including you.

He doesn't glance at you, though you try to meet his eyes. They're dark blue, the same color as yours. Everyone says you look like your dad. That you're a carbon copy of him back when he was younger, when they actually had carbon copies. Though maybe that was more your grandpa's time than your dad's.

Dr. Matthews tugs his shirtsleeves down where they're caught beneath his sweater. He sits behind his desk and nods to Mr. Clemens, who steps out and closes the door behind him. Then it's just you and your dad and the principal and that word you used hanging over all your heads.

Dr. Matthews looks from you to your dad and then back to you. He's younger than your last two principals, younger than your dad, even. You wonder if he got his PhD just last year. He's earnest-looking, though, not stern. His hazel eyes look big and sad, magnified in the thick lenses of his clear-framed glasses. His tanned white skin is freckled, and his thick, rust-colored eyebrows, which match his short-cropped hair, are always arched in a way that makes him look a little bit morose.

He sighs.

Why do adults sigh so much?

And why do they sigh so much at you, lately?

"So, as I told you earlier, there was an incident," he tells your dad.

Your dad finally looks your way, but this time it's you who avoids his eyes, staring at the painted-on wood grain of the desk in front of you. You wonder if you could get away with another mint. Your stomach growls again.

"You still haven't said what," your dad says, exasperated.

Dr. Matthews waits for you to fill in the silence, but you're too embarrassed to admit what you did.

Now that the challenge of Reggie's dare and the weird energy of the crowded assembly have faded, you don't even know why you did it anymore.

All you know is you shouldn't have shouted it. You didn't mean anything by it. You'd take it back if you could.

Another sigh.

"Our freshman English classes had an assembly today with an alumnus. Adam Markham. He's an award-winning poet who came back to give a talk on writing to our students."

"I see," your dad says, but it's clear he's never heard of this poet guy, either.

And honestly, you forgot he even went here. He graduated before you were born. He was basically a stranger. Looked like one, too, wearing a jacket and scarf even though it's still eighty degrees out, like he forgot what September is like in Kansas City because he lives out in California now with all the other fancy people who wear their pants way too tight and their shoes way too pointy and their shirts only tucked in on one side.

Sigh number three.

"Dayton here decided to disrupt Mr. Markham's presentation."

Now it's your dad who sighs. "I'm sure he's not the only kid who can't sit still through a long talk."

You're not a kid anymore. You're fourteen! You're in high school. But your dad refuses to treat you as anything but a child.

"Maybe, but he was the only student who shouted a slur at our guest."

That gets your dad's attention. You take a sly peek at him. His face is turning red and blotchy, which it always does when he's embarrassed.

You embarrassed him.

"What exactly did he—"

"I'm not going to repeat it, but everyone heard it. Thankfully, Mr. Markham was able to recover quickly, and we pulled Dayton out." He turns to you. "Dayton, do you have anything you want to say?"

You shake your head. No.

Except:

"Sorry."

And you are. Really sorry.

But it was just a word. You didn't think it would be as big a deal as it ended up being. You thought people would laugh it off and move on. You thought—

Excerpted from One Word, Six Letters by Adib Khorram. Copyright © 2026 by Adib Khorram. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.