by Arvin Ahmadi
“Amir,” my mom snapped. She was growing frustrated. “Enough is enough. This is all very American of you. This whole running away thing is American. Come home.”
That’s what my parents said about gay people, the one time the topic came up at the dinner table: “It’s an American thing. It’s part of their culture. Not ours.” I remember sitting there quietly as Soraya argued with them, my heart sinking in my chest.
Sometimes I would tell myself that if I’d just been born into a nice, liberal, American family, none of this would be a problem. I wouldn’t be a double whammy. I would just be me.
The line got silent. “I have to go,” I said, ending the call.
Interrogation Room 38
Roya Azadi
I WAS TERRIFIED after that phone call. If I could have just known what was on Amir’s mind—if I could tell him he could trust me, that we could just talk about it … In any case, I remember I looked at my husband differently after Amir hung up. Before, he had assured me that Amir would come home, that it was just like the last time he had left home. Something had happened, and he needed to get away for a few days. But this wasn’t like the last time anymore. Or maybe it was. Because the last time Amir had run away, it had been over a comment. My husband had said—he had said something unkind about a trans … transgender woman on television, and he and Amir got into an argument. Amir called us backward, and he stormed out of the house and didn’t come home until the next day.
We did not call the police then. And we certainly couldn’t call them this time. Our son was eighteen. We knew well enough that they couldn’t make an eighteen-year-old come home. And we didn’t want it to look bad for Amir, that he had left home.
We told Soraya we were in touch with Amir. She asked to talk to him herself, but we said he needed space. That we were handling it.
I keep thinking back to the last time. The last time, Amir came home on his own. The last time, he didn’t pick up when we called him. The last time, he just walked back into the house the next day, saying salaam, as if he had just come home from the grocery store, and before my husband could raise his voice, I clenched his hand and said salaam back to our son. We never talked about it. It was as if Amir had never left.
Now I see the bigger picture.
Twenty-Eight Days Ago
I HAD TO check out of my Airbnb that day. Waking up was a struggle, not just because of the anvils pounding against my head, but because I had the fuzziest memory of that phone call with my parents. I knew this much: it did not go well, and they still didn’t know, and I would not be going home.
After I packed up, I stood outside on Via Della Gensola, the little street with the clay windowsills, the motorcycles parked along the walls, the whispers of Italian conversation flowing out the windows. What was my next move?
I managed to bum around Rome for a few hours. In a café. On some steps. And then I remembered: Jahan lived nearby. I thought I’d go ask him for advice—whether I should stay in Rome, what I should say to my parents. He seemed to know everything, and he’d been in my boat before, or at least half of it, with his Iranian dad.
Jahan’s apartment was across the street from an art gallery– themed café in Trastevere, I remembered—“I like to look at the artwork from my window,” he had mentioned the night before. I didn’t know which unit was his, so I buzzed every single one. I got a few angry and confused Italians, but eventually I got Jahan. He let me up.
When he opened the door, Jahan was buttoning up a short-sleeved shirt with dinosaurs printed all over. “What a surprise. It’s the American!” he exclaimed. “I’m getting dressed for a dinner party at my friend Giovanni’s. Would you like to join?”
“Oh no,” I said, flustered. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t taarof me, Amir. I invited you. Accept.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Taarof—the Iranian tradition of pretending to turn something down out of politeness. And hey, it’s not every day you’re invited to an Italian dinner party. I’d figure out a place to stay later. I accepted Jahan’s invitation, he told me to leave my duffel in a corner next to a stack of poetry books—he didn’t ask any questions—and we took off.
The apartment was gigantic. It took up three floors in an old building in Monti, a neighborhood near the Colosseum. It was like entering a museum, with marble busts and antiques sprinkled around, and a twelve-foot-tall painting hanging over the dining room table. The apartment belonged to Giovanni Marcello di Napoli, who opened the door and air-kissed Jahan on each cheek. Giovanni was wearing a tight black shirt, tight jeans, and a belt with the letter G on it. I guess he really liked his name. He led us through an ornate room to a group of men, all fit, all wearing tank tops or tight T-shirts.
Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour, so we floated around the room. Everyone was in their late twenties, like Jahan, maybe their early thirties. Jahan introduced me to his friends, and I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t just the age difference. One of them was wearing hoop earrings. Another had pristinely arched eyebrows and spoke with a strong lisp. I thought being around people like me would feel like the perfect shoe fit, but instead, it felt like I had stepped into high heels.
-15: Might not get along with other gay men.
“Ciao, Giovanni!” I heard from the other room. I recognized the voice, even though I’d only heard it speaking English before. It was like an avalanche, the way that perfect human rushed right back into my mind. The mess of brown hair. The perfectly symmetrical face. The not-too-muscular arms and tousle of chest hair poking out of his loose tank top.
I was standing next to the big painting—a Caravaggio, Jahan had told me—when Neil entered the room, and as he approached, I puffed my shoulders and bumped into the gilded frame. “I remember you!” he said, pointing at me. I swear I died right there. It’s possible I literally melted into the canvas. “You’re the boy from the bookstore,” Neil added, and this time, I managed a smile.
We were huddled in the back of the dining room, away from everyone else. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni, me, and this naked painted lady with her arm in the air, all ta-da in the painting. “So, Jahan tells me you are a writer,” Giovanni said, eyeing Jahan and Neil. His voice was a mix of Italian and high-society British, and if I had to describe his aesthetic, it’s tank-top-monocle-chic. “Do you write books?”
“No, no,” Jahan said. “He’s far too young to be a novelist.”
“We did meet in a bookshop,” Neil added kindly.
“Who do you write for?” Giovanni asked quickly. The three of them exchanged glances, like they had already discussed my prolific writing career on some text thread. Even Caravaggio’s naked lady looked suspicious.
I was about to reply when Jahan cut me off. “We know who you really are, Amir.”
I froze. And then Jahan looked at the other guys, clapped his hands up to his chest and giggled. “Oh! That was far more dramatic than I intended it to be. I just meant to say, we know you’re not really a writer.”
“What?” I replied.
Jahan gave me a side-eye. “Oh, come on. You’re hiding something. I mean, you’re eighteen years old and you’re in Rome, by yourself, to ‘write.’ Come on. Either you’re the Nigerian prince of ‘writers,’ or some Talented Mr. Ripley wannabe, or something is up. You’re not fooling anyone. Now, just tell us. We’re your friends. What really brought you to Rome?”
I looked around frantically at the antique busts and miniature ships all over the room. It was seriously a wonder that this place didn’t have air-conditioning. My armpits were damp, and my palms were slick. I was burning up. I felt exposed, I wanted no part in this conversation, and I wanted to leave. But I also wanted to know who this “talented” Mr. Ripley was, and was it a compliment? Yet another reference I didn’t understand. Yay.
But then one magic line struck me like paint hitting a canvas: we’re your friends. Jahan had stated it as plain, unambiguous fact. Was that how it worked in gay world
? Was being attracted to men somehow all it took to be friends—a common experience to bond us instantly and forever? In this moment, it seemed that way. It seemed these people had accepted me into their tribe for no other reason than that. And if that was the case, then it was entirely possible that they would understand why I’d lied to them. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni—they would uniquely understand why I came to Rome.
I decided I would tell them the truth.
“I was supposed to graduate high school this week,” I told them. “But I ended up leaving home instead, because …” They formed a circle around me, leaning in closer like I was telling them a secret. “Because …” I got nervous. My mind raced through all the shit I’d have to explain: Jackson. The blackmail. My parents. I would have to explain the tallies, the signs, the culture. And suddenly, I wondered if these seasoned gay men maybe wouldn’t understand my situation—if they would judge me for not having the courage to just say the words. To come out to my parents like they had.
So I switched gears: “My parents kicked me out for being gay.”
Interrogation Room 37
Amir
I CAN’T HELP but notice that you keep staring at the cut on my face. It’s fresh, from yesterday morning, after my family found me in the mountains with Neil. There was a bit of a scuffle, as you’ve probably guessed. And it did get a little violent. But I’ll get to that later.
That was the last time I saw Neil. Yesterday. I saw Jahan three days ago. I saw Giovanni seven days ago.
Here’s the thing: I could have told them the truth. I could have told them the real reason I was in Rome when they were huddled around me, just like I’ve been telling it to you. But to tell them the truth would have been to admit to myself that I had abandoned my family. That I wasn’t brave, but a coward. No matter how many times I told myself that it wasn’t my fault, that Jake had hijacked my coming out, that the numbers just didn’t add up for my parents—I still felt like a terrible son.
And that’s why I’m ashamed, sir. More than you could know. But right now, I’m mostly ashamed about how everything blew up in the end.
Interrogation Room 38
Soraya
SOMETHING FROM THE vending machine? That’s very nice of you, ma’am—I mean, Officer. I was getting a little hungry. What are my options? I’ll definitely have the ice cream, yes. A chocolate éclair or ice cream sandwich, if you have either of those. Please don’t listen to my mother; I definitely want ice cream. Thank you. This is very yummy.
Actually, this reminds me of last summer—our last summer in Bethesda—of a time when Amir really pissed me off. There was an ice cream truck, one of those big white vans with pictures of all the different ice creams on the side, that would come into our neighborhood every morning in the summer. We knew it was coming because you could hear its loud jingle from inside the house, and the entire neighborhood would come running out. Amir and I had been going since we were kids. I was always surprised he never found it silly or juvenile as he got older, but I wasn’t going to complain.
So this one time, near the end of the summer, the ice cream truck drove off without giving me my change. I had paid five dollars and needed three twenty-five back. I told Amir to go chasing after it—he was a much faster runner than I was, and I had hurt my ankle in the pool that summer—but he didn’t. He said, “Don’t worry. It’s not worth it. I’ll just give you the money.” But then one of the neighborhood kids, Junior, went after it instead. He sprinted and banged on the white van, and the driver stopped and gave him my change. I was so angry at Amir. I didn’t get it. Usually I liked that he wasn’t like Junior; Junior was always beating people up or talking about beating people up. Boys can be really dumb about proving their manhood. But in this moment, I just wanted my brother to stand up for me and fight. And he just wasn’t willing to fight.
Amir doesn’t like conflict. I’ve always been the fighter in the family; I think that’s why my parents always liked Amir better. Don’t make that face, Mom, he has always been your favorite. He was the polite, well-behaved child. I was the stubborn one. But that’s also why I was so determined to find him.
You probably know a thing or two about investigations. Your job is to take clues and find answers, isn’t it? That was the job I assigned to myself after Amir went missing, and so before I could go off and interview the people who knew him, I had to hunt for clues in our own home. That meant looking around his room.
Amir had cleaned his room before he left. Made his bed. There wasn’t a single dirty sock in his hamper. It was like the whole time he lived with us, he had been a houseguest and not my annoying older brother who kept his boxers in four different piles, one for each corner of his bed. My parents and I messed it up a little bit that first day when we went searching through his room … but no one had touched it since.
I went back in one afternoon when my dad was at work and my mom had run to Costco. Yes, Mom, you still went to Costco while Amir was missing. Come on, that doesn’t make you look like a bad mother. Life still had to go on. You still had to buy basmati rice in bulk.
Anyway, I was pretty much a detective that whole afternoon. I slipped into Amir’s room, careful not to leave a trace, and poked around.
I checked around his desk, under his bed. I went through his drawers full of college junk mail and chargers. I saved everything that might have been a clue. I found a movie stub for Jumanji, which was weird because Amir and I saw that the weekend it came out, and this ticket was for a different date. Plus, it was for a movie theater in another town.
I went and got a step stool so I could look around the shelf inside his closet. There were a ton of textbooks and notebooks up there. I went through each one of them. On the inside cover of one of his notebooks, Amir had written all these to-do list items, stuff like “haircut” and “wiki citations” that didn’t seem helpful, but also stuff like “cap and gown,” which meant he wasn’t planning to skip graduation, right? Then I noticed a phone number scribbled in the bottom-left corner of the page.
I called the number. It rang a few times before an automated voice answered.
“We’re glad you called Trevor Lifeline. If this is an emergency—”
Then it rang again, and someone picked up.
“Trevor Lifeline, this is Clark. How are you doing?” I was confused, so I didn’t say anything. “Hello, are you still there?” This Clark person sounded worried now. “I understand it can be scary to make this call, and I think you’re very brave—”
I hung up the phone. I’d never heard of Trevor Lifeline, but I already knew it was for people who were thinking about taking their lives.
I tried to imagine a world where my brother was gone—really gone—and my brother’s room started to feel very small and tight around me. I even had trouble breathing. Eventually, I googled Trevor Lifeline on my phone and learned that it was a suicide hotline for LGBTQ youth. When I read those words, I had to sit down on Amir’s bed.
Was my brother gay?
You’ll see that my mom’s head is turned away right now. And for once, I’d like to defend her. Because it’s not the kind of shame you’re thinking of. I sort of turned my head away like that, too. It was because I was sad … almost disappointed. I wasn’t ashamed by the possibility of my brother being gay, but by the possibility that he was hurting and I didn’t even notice.
Twenty-Eight Days Ago
AFTER I FINISHED my lie, Neil placed a hand on my shoulder. He delivered a big speech about how he and his friends were my “found family” now, and as Jahan and Giovanni nodded on, my mind shifted dramatically, and all I could think was, The hot bookseller’s hand is on my shoulder. This is not a drill. There is a literal Hemsworth brother right in front of me, and his strong hand is clenching my shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.
The actual content of Neil’s kind words noodled through my brain like soggy spaghetti. I do remember I was supremely uncomfortable. It wasn’t just his hand; it was the unquestionable Italian energy in the ro
om, the fact that I had just lied to my new friends, the guilt simmering beneath the lie, the guilt for how quickly my hormones had one-upped the other guilt … it was all so overwhelming. An alarm was going off inside of me, and I needed to get away. I needed to catch my breath. So I stepped out of the circle. I was going to get a glass of water. Or wine. Who knows, maybe I was going to get out. But with my clammy hands balled up and my eyes glued to the floor, I collided right into one of Giovanni’s friends, who was transporting meatballs. A massive. Plate. Of meatballs.
Meatballs went flying everywhere. It was like Vesuvius had erupted.
“Cazzo!” Giovanni’s friend yelled angrily.
“Eccolo,” Jahan bellowed.
I sent red lava and hot magma exploding all over with my brilliantly klutzy act. Thankfully, none of it touched the art—it just splattered over my shirt and his—but still. I was mortified.
A crowd formed around me as I sputtered my apologies. Giovanni refused to let me apologize and instead led me to his bedroom—massive, by the way, just totally insane—where I took a quick shower and changed into one of his shirts. It was a blue button-down, made from the smoothest Italian thread. He watched closely as I changed into the shirt. I asked if he had something less expensive, that felt less like clouds and more like cotton, and he just clucked his tongue. “Keep it,” he said. “The clouds are yours.”
Obviously, we didn’t have meatballs for dinner, but we had everything else. I piled pesto pistachio pasta on my plate, juicy slabs of tomato and mozzarella, and a butter chicken that was decidedly not Italian but tasted better than any other chicken that I’d ever had … probably because I was having it in Italy. Some people took their plates to the fancy couches in Giovanni’s living room. I pulled up a chair at the desk in the office room, where Jahan and Neil were sitting. It seemed safer for me to eat next to an iMac than on an antique sofa.
