How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

  And so it is difficult, sir, to see him changing like this, so drastically. It changes the image that I had for him.

  The world is a hard place, sir. It is even harder for people who are different. I know this firsthand. I don’t want Amir to know that.

  When I was in my twenties, I knew a boy named Michael. He and I were lab partners together in my PhD program. Michael was brilliant. I was not the most organized person back then—I did not have all my systems in place—but thanks to Michael, I passed every advanced chemistry class. We were a team. Once I asked Michael if he had a girlfriend, and he told me he did not, that he was—that he was not interested in women. I responded politely, but Michael, I believe, got the message. It was near the end of the semester, and the following semester, we chose different lab partners.

  I lost touch with Michael. Last week, as I was thinking about Amir, I looked Michael up on Facebook. I found him. He is alive. He seems happy with his, um, family. I remember back to when I was a student, how disgusted I felt—betrayed, almost—by what I had learned about my lab partner. I don’t know how I feel about it now, but I did send Michael a friend request. I am still waiting to see if he will accept.

  I don’t want to lose Amir like that. My love for Amir—the boy I raised doing multiplication tables in the doctor’s office, the boy I taught how to drive, the boy I—it’s too much. I can’t lose him.

  So to answer your question, yes. I love Amir. I am not certain about all the other things, but I am certain that I love my son.

  One Day Ago

  SOMEONE WAS TAPPING the side of my bed. I craned my head over the edge, my eyes still half-closed. Neil was standing below, the sun shining behind him through the sliding glass door to the apartment.

  “Hey,” Neil said. “Hey, Amir. Wake up.”

  “Buongiorno,” I said, opening my eyes.

  Neil was looking at me in a very serious way. I heard footsteps outside, a group of people coming up the apartment building stairs.

  “I don’t really know how to tell you this …” Neil’s voice trailed off.

  The footsteps grew louder and louder until they reached the balcony outside the apartment. I gave Neil a confused look. Then the sliding glass door unlocked, and Francesco appeared with three people I knew very well.

  It was my family.

  I jumped and hid under the covers. I became a child in the dark. If the monster can’t see me, it won’t find me.

  Neil tapped the floorboard underneath my bed. “Amir, I know this might come as a surprise to you—”

  “No, no, no. No!” I yelled. “What the hell is going on, Neil?Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  Neil looked at my parents nervously. “We were afraid that if I told you, you might run off again.”

  I could hear my mom and dad and sister breathing heavily. An infinite number of questions were swirling in my head. What was happening? How did they find me here? Were Francesco and Neil really in on this?

  Some part of me wanted to go down and leap into my mom’s arms, smother Soraya with kisses, but I stayed hidden under the sheets.

  “Amir.” My mom croaked my name. She was so close; I could see her fingertips inches from me, on the edge of the mattress. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand so badly. “Please, come down. Please. I love you, joonam. Come home.”

  “Come on, Amir,” my sister pleaded.

  “Come, baba jaan,” my dad said. “Come.”

  I was cornered. I looked out from under the sheets, and there they were, lined up in a row: Maman, Baba, Soraya. Their eyes were tired; my mom’s were even puffy and red. My chest was burning, like I had been playing with matches and all of a sudden one of them sparked, lighting the whole stack on fire.

  “Why are you here?” I asked sharply.

  My mom and dad looked at each other.

  “You don’t want me back,” I said. “You don’t want me. We talked about this over the phone.”

  “That’s not true,” Neil said. “Amir, look. I talked to your parents. They’ve assured me that they love you”—he turned to my mom and dad—“just the way you are. You have nothing to worry about.”

  I didn’t believe it.

  I leapt down from the bed, standing face-to-face with my family for the first time since the morning of graduation. Except that morning, they thought they knew who I was. Now they were staring at me like I was a stranger, looking me up and down in my boxers and white undershirt and messy bedhead.

  I bolted past them and through the sliding glass door. Soraya tried to grab my arm, but I yanked it free. I ran down the stairs, but as I was rounding the corner to the second set of steps, I twisted my ankle and tumbled down five or six steps into the small grassy yard. I slammed my face into a clay flowerpot to the side of the stairs. I wanted to get back up, but my entire left side was throbbing.

  “Amir!” I heard my mom’s voice and her footsteps, rushing down the stairs. She knelt beside me. Her face was inches from mine, and she stroked my cheek like I was a little child.

  “I can’t go back,” I sobbed. “I can’t. I’m already here. And I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.”

  I was shaking my head, my chest rising and falling sharply.

  My mom just held me. She stroked my hair back. “Amir, we want you back. Please come home. It’s okay. We love you. Please come home.”

  I saw my dad running down the stairs, three steps at a time, his face intensely focused as he brought my mom a wet cloth. My sister helped my mom clean up my cuts, wipe the soil off my cheeks. I tried to protest, but they wouldn’t let me. I stopped talking, stopped whimpering, even, as I realized this: I was still their son. Their brother. Even knowing I was gay—even after I had exposed my whammies, even after the entire tally system broke down and there were no more points left, nothing else to score—they were still my family.

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  HOW AM I FEELING? Nervous. Emotional. It’s like I got swept up in a sandstorm yesterday and now I can’t see clearly.

  I’ve had this terrible thought stuck in my head ever since the drive back to Rome with my family. It sounds awful to say it out loud, but … I didn’t have to go with them. It all happened so quickly, and the fact that they flew all the way out to Italy—that meant something to me. So I went. But as we drove through the Italian countryside, I sat mostly silent in the back of the car with Soraya.

  My mom did ask if I wanted to stop somewhere and change into clean clothes, and I said no. I’m sorry, sir. If I had known I was going to end up in here, talking to you for so long, I would have at least taken a shower.

  Later That Day

  WE ARRIVED IN Rome sometime in the afternoon to pack up my stuff. My apartment was on the fourth floor, the first one in a corridor just off the stairs. On the way up, Soraya wouldn’t stop complaining about how hot it was. She was convinced the heat was going to damage her vocal cords. My mom commented that the flowers in the building’s central courtyard were very pretty. My dad carried my duffel bag and said nothing.

  When we reached my door, I let the key sit in the keyhole for a bit and closed my eyes. Then I pushed open the door.

  Soraya stepped inside first. “This is where you’ve been living?” Her eyes darted around the single room, the small kitchen in the back, the unmade bed underneath the window.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She put one hand on her hip. “My dressing room is bigger than this.”

  “Soraya,” my mom snapped.

  “You don’t have a dressing room,” I said, giving her a look.

  “Exactly,” she said with a smirk. “How did you even afford this place?”

  “Soraya! Eh!” my mom snapped again.

  I resisted a smile. You’d be surprised how many people are desperate for a Wikipedia page, I wanted to tell my sister. Maybe another time. We had a lot of catching up to do.

  My dad plopped down on the small futon next to the bed. “This is a nic
e apartment,” he said, resting his arms behind his neck. “Much nicer than many of the apartments I lived in before I met your mom. She really whipped me into shape.”

  I glared at him. My mom cleared her throat awkwardly. “Let’s pack up Amir’s things,” she announced.

  I went and stuffed the rest of my clothes in my duffel and backpack. My parents started to pack up the pots and pans, but I told them they weren’t mine, that the apartment had come furnished. My mom went to clean the bathroom, since she wanted to make herself useful, and since my landlady—an elderly artist who lived on the ground floor—had texted me on WhatsApp to leave the apartment immacolato. Spotless.

  A minute later, my mom emerged from the bathroom holding a dull purple glow stick. “Amir, do you want this?”

  I stared for a second, transported briefly back to Rigatteria, to Valerio. “Yeah, I’ll take it.” I stuffed the glow stick in my pocket.

  I wasn’t ready to pack up my things, much less leave Rome.

  Our flight back wasn’t until the next morning, and so my family wanted to go out for dinner. “Let’s get pizza. We are in Italy! Take us to the most amazing pizza, Amir,” my dad said in an overly cheerful tone.

  We made our way over to a pizza restaurant that I knew had outdoor seating, just off of Piazza Testaccio. As we crossed through the park, the white marble fountain alive as ever, I imagined Jahan and his friends sprawled out on the benches, opening a bottle of prosecco, pouring it in plastic cups. My heart was thumping hard—at the possibility of running into one of Jahan’s friends here, but also at the already distant memory of those afternoons.

  What was the point of Rome without Jahan? It felt empty now.

  My family and I were seated at a table on the sidewalk. The menu was long, and my parents asked the waiter a million questions—even after he had brought us English menus. Soraya and I rolled our eyes at each other like we always did when our parents embarrassed us like this. My sister looked really pretty with the wind blowing her hair, brown and shiny.

  After we ordered, I went inside the restaurant to go to the bathroom. My mom gave my dad a look, her eyes wide and worried. “Seriously? Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to run away again.”

  I weaved around the tightly packed tables inside and managed to ask one of the waiters in Italian where the bathroom was—dov’è il bagno. Thing is, I recognized that waiter right as the question came out of my mouth.

  It was his lips. They deserved an exhibit of their own.

  “Valerio?” I shook my head. “You work here?”

  “Amir! Ay, I am sorry I have not texted. It was a busy weekend. I was working many shifts, and I thought I would see you at the Rigatteria party last weekend, but I did not, and I meant to text you, but—”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  Valerio pulled me aside so another waiter could squeeze through. I flinched when he touched my arm. Valerio raised an eyebrow.

  “Who are you here with?” he asked. “I cannot imagine it is a date, as you do not believe in mixing Italian food with romance.”

  I looked away and smiled. “That would be impractical.”

  “The mixing of foods, yes,” Valerio said. “The date, it is all right. I would not be angry if you were here with someone else. You are an American in Rome. I imagine you are in very high demand.”

  I looked back at him. We stared at each other for a moment, Valerio and I. I was searching his face to see if he knew about Giovanni, how I had messed everything up, how nervous I was to be talking to him, but all I saw was the face of an Italian boy—those droopy eyes—endearingly cute and endearingly sweet.

  “I’m here with my family,” I finally said.

  Valerio’s face exploded. “What?”

  “Eccolo,” I said, and I pointed at them at the table outside.

  “Wow. I am happy for you,” Valerio said, squeezing my shoulder. “So they came around?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  Valerio’s eyes fell to his feet. “So you are going back. To America.”

  “I am.” I put my hands in my pockets and—oh my God. The glow stick.

  Valerio must have seen me react, because he went, “I apologize, but I must ask: Is that a phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

  “You did not just use that line.”

  “I have wanted to use that line for years! It is so American.”

  I took out the glow stick. Valerio gasped.

  “No way!” he exclaimed. He took it from me and chuckled. “You are crazy.”

  “Maybe I am.” I shook my head. “But you’re crazier. You’re the one who wanted to kiss at the Vatican.”

  “And I would do it again,” Valerio said. He bit his lip and smiled. “I should get back to work. These pizzas are getting cold. But promise me something, Amir. Promise me that the boy I met at Rigatteria, the one I kissed behind the door at the Vatican, that he will not go anywhere. That he will stay right here”—Valerio tapped my heart—“whether other people approve or no.”

  I pulled in his hand and hugged Valerio tight. “Good luck with your mom,” I whispered in his ear.

  “Good luck with your family,” Valerio said.

  When I turned around, I noticed my family had been watching us.

  After I went to the bathroom, I went back to our table outside, nearly knocking over a huge flowerpot on my way over.

  “Who was that?” Soraya asked as I sat down.

  “Who?”

  “That guy you were talking to.”

  I glanced over at my parents. My mom’s lips were a straight line. My dad’s eyes flickered down to the table.

  “Just a friend,” I mumbled.

  I hated myself as soon as that word left my mouth. Friend.

  A moment passed. I felt like we were all holding our breath. “Rome is beautiful,” my mom said, breaking the silence. “What have you seen here, Amir joon. The Colosseum?”

  “No. I didn’t see the Colosseum.” The waiter arrived with our pizzas, and it was like we could all breathe again. Everyone dove in to grab a slice. “But I saw the Sistine Chapel.”

  “That must have been very nice,” my mom said, cutting into her pizza with a fork and knife.

  “Yeah, but it took a while to get there.”

  As we ate, I thought about the Sistine Chapel—how that Amir felt like another person ago, another eon ago. How that Amir would judge me hard for lying to my parents about my relationship with Valerio.

  “Holy motherforking crap, this pizza is delicious,” Soraya said, picking up a chunk of cheese that had fallen on the table and popping it in her mouth. My mom gave her a disapproving look. “What kind of cheese is this?”

  “Gorgonzola,” I said, and then I giggled. “Gorgonzooola,” I said more slowly, gargling the word. “Gorgooonzzoollaaaa,” I said a third time.

  “Umm. Why are you saying ‘gorgonzola’ like that?” my sister asked.

  I looked over my shoulder at the busy park, the marble fountain, the benches at the edge, and I turned back to Soraya.

  “No reason,” I said, smiling.

  I took out my phone under the table and sent one last text from my Italian number.

  Interrogation Room 38

  Roya Azadi

  WE WERE SO happy to have Amir back.

  Interrogation Room 38

  Soraya

  IT WAS WEIRD having Amir back.

  Something just felt different. It wasn’t just that his hair was longer, curlier, or that he had a tan now and knew a bunch of Italian words. I don’t know. He was just in his head a lot. It was like his mind was somewhere else. When we went out for dinner, Amir hardly looked at us. He just kept looking up at those pretty Italian buildings. It was the first time since the Instagram video that I realized he really did have a life there, in Italy, with friends.

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  THE INCIDENT ON the plane. Right.

  I was sitting in an
aisle seat, across from my family. I remember looking down the row, out the window, and there were little droplets in that airtight space.

  Looking out that window, twisting my hands in my lap, I couldn’t believe how quickly my life had changed. And not for the first time. Italy was already starting to feel like a fantasy I had made up.

  Meanwhile, my family … they still didn’t know who I was. All of a sudden, they were strangers to me.

  I felt like a fraud. I couldn’t get that line out of my head: Just a friend. I felt like I had made myself small. I had given in to my mom’s tight lips, to my dad’s flickering eyes. I despised them for being so uncomfortable at the sight of me talking to Valerio. I despised myself for giving in to their discomfort.

  I looked over at them in their seats, my dad across the aisle, and I felt sad. They didn’t know me. They didn’t know this version of me, the me who had a crush on his tutor, who could give a speech in front of a group of weirdos and misfits, who could kiss a boy behind a door at the Vatican.

  Maybe they never would. Maybe they didn’t want to know that person.

  As I chewed my gum, harder and harder, I realized there was only one way they could know that person. If I talked about it. I know my family—we’re experts in avoidance. The apocalypse could happen and we would go about our day-to-day, pretending everything was fine. I practiced the words under my breath. “Mom and Dad … Mom, Dad … I want to talk … I want to talk about …”

  Every breath made my mouth drier.

  I took a short walk around the plane, up one aisle and down the other. I went the long way to the bathroom. I washed my hands, washed my face, dried my hands, dried my face. I came back to my seat.

  I want to talk about the gay thing.