How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

  “Buongiorno, sleepyhead,” Jahan said. He leapt over the couch and sat down on my knees.

  “Ouch!” I yanked my feet out from underneath him. “What time is it?”

  “Two in the afternoon,” a voice with an Italian accent said.

  “What? Ugh,” I groaned. Slowly, I rubbed my eyes and looked around the living room. Someone was sitting in the armchair. A girl. Maybe Jahan’s roommate? I couldn’t remember if Jahan had a roommate. “Buongiorno,” I said to her.

  She and Jahan kept their eyes glued to the TV.

  “What is that?” I asked. My head hurt. Miraculously, there was a glass of water on the coffee table, next to my phone.

  “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” Jahan said. “It’s our Sunday church.”

  I took a big sip of water, and it was like the pearly gates of heaven had opened in my mouth. I picked up my phone and saw that I had a text from Neil, whose WhatsApp profile picture—at some beach, leaning forward, smiling—woke me up in other ways.

  If you still want to start those tutoring lessons, I finish up at the bookstore at 5 today. Meet me there?

  Whoa.

  I also noticed I didn’t have any missed calls or texts from my parents. When I first got to Rome, they were calling nonstop; now, I hadn’t heard from them in almost two days. That worried me. I wondered if Jake finally decided to pull the trigger and spill my secret. If my mom and dad had already erased me from their lives.

  I got up off the couch and went to the bathroom to get my shit together. My hair looked moppy as hell. When I came back into the living room, there were a bunch of drag queens lined up in a row on the TV screen.

  Jahan looked at me funny. “You look like you’re watching aliens descend upon earth for the first time.”

  “No, I—it’s just …”

  “You’ve never seen a drag queen before, have you?”

  I shrugged. “They kind of remind me of clowns.”

  Jahan shook his head. He scooted over on the couch and gestured for me to sit next to him.

  “Do you see that?” Jahan pointed at a drag queen who had just come out of a limo wearing a sparkly jumpsuit and a big white wig. “A clown would never.”

  He was right. Drag queens were far more advanced than clowns. I had never watched RuPaul’s Drag Race before, but it didn’t take long before I was asking questions about the rules and the competitors. It was like America’s Next Top Model but with men in high heels. And the shade. These people threw incredible amounts of shade.

  +10: Enjoys RuPaul’s Drag Race.

  During the lip-sync portion, I texted Neil back.

  Buongiorno.

  Neil responded:

  Wow, you’re already fluent! Maybe you don’t need me after all …

  I wrote back immediately.

  Beginner’s luck.

  He replied:

  So what you’re saying is you still need a tutor?

  I paused.

  How do you say yes in Italian?

  Neil wrote:

  Sí. Like Spanish. Perfetto. Meet at the bookstore then?

  I started to type out “see you there,” but I just sent a thumbs-up emoji.

  After the Drag Race episode ended—a tall white queen appropriately named “Milk” got eliminated—Jahan’s friend left, and Jahan went into the kitchen to make pasta. I kept checking my phone to see if my parents had decided to call or text.

  “Everything okay?” Jahan asked as we were eating. I had hardly touched my food. “Fine. I’ll fess up. The Bolognese sauce came from a jar. I have clearly ruined Italian food for you. You can go home now.”

  Home. Jahan winced at his word choice.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know you can’t …”

  His voice trailed off. He was right, though. Because if Jake really did tell my family, I couldn’t go back home. I imagined showing up at our doorstep, meeting my parents’ blank stares. They wouldn’t recognize me. They would only see the person in that photo, kissing Jackson in the car.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said to Jahan.

  He nodded. “What’d you think of Drag Race?” Jahan asked.

  I forced down a bite of pasta. “It was good,” I said, chewing, swallowing. “You and your friend seem to really be into it.”

  Jahan’s eyes lit up. “Oh, we’re obsessed. You know why? Because drag queens don’t give a shit. There is no group of people on this planet that gives less of a shit than drag queens. People can call them freaks, say they’re confused or sick or whatever, and they don’t give a shit about any of it.”

  I smiled. “Even clowns care what people think of them,” I said.

  “Oh, clowns are the most fragile bitches in the world. They can hardly take criticism. Trust me. I’ve dated enough clowns to know. Drag queens, though”—Jahan made a chef’s kiss with his fingers—“ugh, I just love them.”

  “Also, on a technical level,” I said, swallowing down another bite of pasta, “it’s amazing how they can just transform like that.”

  “Exactly! They transform. They sing. They have fabulous wigs. They’re like—what’s the name of that Disney star who was a regular girl but secretly a pop star at night?”

  “Hannah Montana.”

  “Right. I knew it was something Midwestern. Anyway, drag queens are like Hannah Montana but less tacky.”

  “First of all, how dare you diss Hannah Montana like that?” I said, pointing my fork at Jahan. “Second, I don’t think Montana is even in the Midwest. It’s technically part of the Northwest.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I … once spent a whole Saturday editing all the Wikipedia pages for the different geographic regions in America?”

  “I’m not even going to ask.” Jahan ruffled my hair. “Weirdo.”

  “Says the guy who watches drag queens on TV every Sunday.”

  “Well, it sounds to me like you’ve come around on the matter of drag queens,” Jahan said, winking at me. “You thought they were like clowns, but they’re so much more. See? You just had to give them a chance.”

  I told Jahan I was meeting Neil soon for our first lesson.

  “What are you doing today?” I asked.

  “I was going to go to Naples—it’s such an easy day trip from Rome—but that seems out of the question now, doesn’t it?” Jahan sighed. “I should really do my algebra homework. I’m a few lessons behind.”

  “So you’re working?”

  “Probably not. It’s too lovely a day to be responsible. If we’re being honest, I think I’ll just head down to that café across the street and, oh, I don’t know.” He gestured out the window. “Maybe write.”

  “A poem?”

  Jahan shrugged. “Possibly. Or something else might catch my attention. A friend. An aperitivo. I can’t control these things.”

  The bookstore was still busy when I arrived. Neil asked me to hang tight for a minute while he moved around the store, recommended books, plucked them off the shelves. He was friendly to everyone he interacted with, even as he wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. His Big Bookseller Energy was on full display.

  “All right,” Neil said after the door jingled behind the last customer. He grabbed his shoulder bag from behind the checkout desk. “Let’s go.”

  We made our way to Rigatteria, where there would be more space to spread out and have our lesson. Even walking next to him, I couldn’t bear to look at Neil. It was like God had neatly hidden a secret Ryan Reynolds lookalike in Italy, far away from the tabloids but right before my very hormonal eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired from last night.”

  “You’re telling me. I got maybe two hours of sleep,” Neil said.

  I tried looking at Neil, but my eyes just leapt over him to the Tiber River. We were crossing the same same bridge over the Tiber River as the night before, the one where those Italian boys heckled us. “I appreciate you
doing this,” I said.

  “Oh! I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad,” he said. “Trust me, I’m happy to be sleep deprived. We haven’t had a night like that in a long time.”

  “Really? I assumed you guys did that all the time.” I kept my eyes focused on the shimmering water. A bunch of food stands and white tents were setting up along the edge of the river.

  Neil laughed. “We used to, but then everyone grew up. Became boring. Got boyfriends. I know Francesco and I look like we’re thirty, but trust me, we’re seventy on the inside. Don’t ever get a boyfriend, Amir.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What, are you my dad now?”

  “Maybe your daddy …”

  Oh my God.

  “Just kidding,” Neil said. “You probably don’t even know what that means.”

  “Hey, just because I came out like five seconds ago doesn’t mean I don’t know what a daddy is!” I defended. “I’ve been on the internet. I know who Anderson Cooper is.”

  Neil shook his head. Now that we were joking around, I was able to look at him. It was just like when I had cheated in that first un-staring contest with Jackson, when I snuck that first glance.

  “Anyway,” Neil continued, “I think this summer will be different, actually. You know Jahan is leaving in a few weeks, that bastard. We’re all devastated. But I can already tell that our friends are more willing to come out, see him, do things, now that it’s our last summer together. Plus, we have Rigatteria. Italians love their rooftops when it’s warm out. You’re catching us at a good time.”

  For a moment, I closed my eyes and let myself imagine an entire summer with these people. I drew the picture in my head, and it was a masterpiece.

  We arrived at Rigatteria. Neil had a fresh notebook for me, which I felt stupid for not bringing myself. We said “ciao” to Francesco, who was cleaning the rooftop, and found a small cherry desk by the downstairs bar. It was old and lit only by the dim glow of a green desk lamp. Neil started the lesson by teaching me the alphabet and numbers, and eventually we moved on to some basic vocabulary.

  “‘Avere’ is the verb for ‘to have,’” Neil said. He wrote it down in my notebook. “But it’s an irregular conjugation. ‘Io ho,’ I have. ‘Tu hai,’ you have. Lei, lui, lei ha …”

  When Neil would reach over to write down a word, his forearm kept brushing my wrist. It meant nothing to him but stirred everything in me. My skin became electric. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the setup, too. Francesco eventually made his way downstairs to clean up the area behind us. I felt like he was watching us, could sense that every fiber of my being was aroused as Neil spoke softly and filled my notebook with Italian words.

  It was a good thing Neil was writing everything down. I would have to review it all later, when I was less distracted.

  Toward the end of our lesson, I asked Neil, “What’s the word for ‘question’ in Italian?”

  “Domanda,” he said.

  “All right. I have a domanda. Io. Ho. Domanda,” I said, making sure to use the right verb conjugation. “What’s the deal with Rocco?”

  Neil reached for my notebook and wrote: Io ho una domanda. Damn. I was close. “I actually don’t know Rocco very well. He and Jahan used to work together in a pizza shop, I think, or some kind of tourist trap in Piazza Navona, way before we were all friends. That’s how they got close. When I first met Rocco, I just knew him as Jahan’s artsy friend.”

  “But he’s with Giovanni, right?” I asked.

  Neil’s eyes shifted. “Yes.”

  I sat in silence for a few seconds. Neil asked why I was asking about Rocco, and I explained to him what happened last night.

  “Oh boy,” he said, though he didn’t seem surprised. “I’m sorry.”

  “What I don’t get,” I said, “is why Rocco would hit on me if he’s dating Giovanni.”

  “Well. Yeah,” Neil said. “But they’re open.” I cocked my head back. “It means they’re not monogamous. They’re allowed to hook up with other people.”

  “I know what an open relationship is,” I said defensively.

  “Right, because you’re on the ‘internet,’” Neil mocked.

  I glared at Neil, but he was right; I knew what it meant abstractly, the way you know a billionaire is a person with billions of dollars, but to see it applied in the flesh, to real-life people I had met, was new to me.

  “So, um. Is that … common?” I asked.

  Neil laughed. “I don’t know. A lot of gay couples are open. I have some straight friends who are in open relationships, too.”

  “But isn’t the point of a relationship that you’re with one person?”

  “Depends on your definition of a relationship. Some people would insist that a relationship is only between a man and a woman.”

  “Good point,” I said. “I guess if you look at it like that, anything works.”

  “Yeah. Though I don’t want you thinking every gay couple is open.” He lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder. “Francesco and I aren’t open.” The way he said it, almost emphasizing it, I felt like he was making a point. “There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s not for everyone. It just comes down to what you’re most comfortable with.”

  Suddenly, I felt guilty about my feelings or hormones or whatever I was experiencing around Neil. I shouldn’t have been lusting after someone who not only had a boyfriend, but was kind enough to tutor me in Italian. Things like this don’t work out when they’re secret or forbidden. Exhibit A: Jackson.

  Neil ended our lesson with some helpful phrases like “come si dice” (how do you say …) and “vorrei” (I would like …), phrases I could use to get around Rome, and he asked if this time next Sunday worked for our next lesson. I realized he had assumed that I was really staying in Italy. I needed to figure that out.

  I hesitated. “Um, sure.” It also occurred to me we had never discussed payment, which seemed especially stupid on my part considering I was on a limited budget. “How much do I owe you for the lesson?”

  “No, no. Please,” Neil scoffed. “I’m not charging you.”

  “What? Come on. Please.” I started to pull euros out of my front pocket, but Neil shoved my hand back.

  “You’re a friend,” Neil insisted. He held my wrist and looked me straight in the eyes. I nearly had a heart attack. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  Neil walked me to the door and gave me directions for getting back to Trastevere, even though I told him I had Jahan’s address saved on my phone. I thanked him one more time for the lesson and said “arrivederci.” Neil corrected me.

  “‘Arrivederci’ is more formal. You should use ‘ciao,’ or ‘a dopo.’”

  “What does ‘a dopo’ mean?”

  “See you later,” Neil said. “Or ‘a presto.’ That means ‘see you soon.’”

  I considered my options. “A presto.”

  “A presto.”

  Interrogation Room 38

  Soraya

  THE DAY AFTER I talked to Jake at the mall, I met with Jackson Preacher at Starbucks. He was wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, with brown flip-flops. He was cracking his knuckles.

  How did I get there? Mom, don’t act so surprised. You drove me. Sort of. You dropped me off at the movie theater next door. I said I was seeing the new Mamma Mia movie with Madison. There is no new Mamma Mia movie. Besides, even if there were, you know Madison’s mom doesn’t let her watch PG-13 movies. I’m sorry I lied.

  Jackson was super friendly. He bought me a pastry. Though he seemed nervous, too. When I messaged him on Instagram the day before, he messaged back right away, like, less than a minute later. He asked if we had heard from Amir. I thought that was kind of weird. Either this guy murdered my brother or Amir actually had a friend at school.

  We started talking, and it was obvious we were both being careful with our words. I didn’t want to out Amir, in case Jackson didn’t know, so I said things like “I feel like he’s hiding so
mething” and “I wish I could know the real Amir.”

  Jackson took a big sip of his coffee and went, “You know, don’t you?” Again, I tiptoed. I wasn’t sure if Jackson was the villain here or what. Maybe he was the reason Amir left. Maybe he had made Amir believe that our family wouldn’t love him. Jackson took one more sip, then chugged the rest of his drink and said we should go for a walk.

  We found a bench in a park and sat down. Jackson kept taking deep breaths, looking around, shaking his knee. I had a feeling I knew what was going on at this point, so I asked: “Jackson, were you my brother’s boyfriend?” He broke down. I couldn’t believe it, this football player, his hands covering his face. He told me he hadn’t ever talked to anyone about this, any of this—no one knew that he was gay except for Amir. But they had stopped talking a couple of months before graduation.

  I asked Jackson why they stopped talking. He said Amir just stopped texting him, made up excuses and stopped wanting to hang out. He knew something was wrong. Jackson thought maybe it was something at home, because when he asked if it had to do with his parents, Amir got really snappy. He said Amir couldn’t even look at him.

  The last thing I asked Jackson on that park bench was “Did you love my brother?” Jackson thought for a bit, and then he said, “I loved how he made me feel.”

  I asked, “How was that?”

  He said, “Like myself.”

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  WHAT’S MY RELATIONSHIP with my sister like? I love her. I admire the hell out of her. I think she’s the most talented person I know.

  The first time I saw my sister in a musical, she played one of the boys in Newsies, and I’m telling you, she was electric up there. The way she tapped her feet on that stage, tipped her hat, the way her face was dirtied up but glowing the entire time—it was unforgettable. That was four summers ago. She did The Music Man the next summer, Honk! the summer after that, and then last summer, because we were moving, she wasn’t able to do a musical. That’s why I was so happy she got the role she wanted in Cats this summer.