The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

“This isn’t right. It has to stop. One day he won’t survive this and it’ll be on you.”

  I can tell he’s too tired to continue, but I don’t want him to stop.

  I want him to yell at her.

  To hit her the way she hits me, beats me, throws things at me. But I know that will only make her stronger.

  We pull up in front of the house. I stare down at my box of doughnuts and take off my baseball cap.

  “Evan, just try. Please.”

  Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for years?

  I take a breath and look out the passenger window. “Why the credit card freeze?”

  “Things are kind of tough right now. My hours are getting cut back. And this house. It takes a lot. Plus there’s your Greek school to pay for.”

  “We didn’t have to buy these doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts aren’t the problem.” He reaches over and musses my already wild nest of hair.

  “Dad.” I duck my head away.

  “It’s okay—I didn’t mess up your precious hair. It would be easier if we could afford to send you to the private church school. It’s difficult straddling both worlds.”

  “I need a haircut. It looks ridiculous.”

  The thing he doesn’t know: I’m actually straddling multiple worlds.

  “I wish I had your hair. Look at this.” He points to the sides of his head, where his hair is the thickest, and pulls his wavy strands out as much as he can. “I look like Larry from the Three Stooges.”

  My dad loves the Three Stooges. They’re one of the few things that make him laugh out loud.

  Inside the house, I place the box of doughnuts on the kitchen table and go downstairs to the small bathroom to take a shower. I don’t want to wake her. She usually doesn’t fall asleep till three, four, sometimes five a.m. She sleeps her hardest in the early morning. It’s when I feel the safest. I want to get out and go to school before she’s up.

  I grab my backpack and open the drawer where I put my notebook. I stick it in my backpack and head out as quietly as possible.

  three

  Walking to school is one of the best parts of my day. I’m alone. I can dream all the way there, usually uninterrupted—totally at peace. Daydreaming is one of those things on my mom’s Sin List or Lazy List. So I try to get it in when I can.

  Until this summer, the dream in my head has been pretty much the same every time. Kind of basic, boring, completely unsexy stuff. If someone accidently stumbled into my fantasy life, they’d be seriously disappointed.

  It consists of me living on my own, preferably in a big city. The bigger the better. My days are stress free. Normal. I have better hair. The kind of hair that I don’t have to pay attention to. You know the guys who just wake up and go? I’d be one of those guys. Like Henry Kimball. We can play tennis for hours and I wind up looking like the offspring of the Bride of Frankenstein and Albert Einstein. Henry looks like—well, he looks like Henry.

  I pull out my phone and start to text him:

  Hey. Sorry I missed texts earlier. Walking 2school. CU later?

  “Panos!”

  It’s Jeremy Ludecker. He’s a last namer. He’s running up behind me and I can hear him wheezing. I think it’s his allergies.

  “Panos! I know you can hear me, Pube Head. I’m running out of breath here. You know my asthma’s a bitch.”

  Asthma, right. I get the two mixed up. I stop and look behind me. He runs right into me, knocking us both to the ground, landing on top of me. My phone is knocked out of my hand. He is wheezing straight into my face. I can smell bacon.

  “Jeremy. Always a pleasure.” I’m trying to pry him off me and find a way to not make the whole exchange look awkward. Failing miserably on both counts.

  He springs up and holds out his hand. I ignore the hand and lift myself up, adjusting my backpack and going after my phone. Before I can say anything, he starts in.

  “What was with all the cars in front of your house yesterday? I rode my bike past it to see if you wanted to go to the trails and there were cars everywhere. Your driveway was stupid. You weren’t returning my texts and then I was going to knock, but I didn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of people who didn’t speak English. Are you seriously still the only one in your family who can communicate with the outside world? Because I have to—”

  He’s known forever that my parents demand we speak Greek at home, but he still has to be a jerk about it. “Jeremy, my parents had company over for dinner. Don’t be a dick. You can’t spell shit and we do it in two different languages. Did you go to the trails? Anything cool?” I look down at the phone. Nothing yet.

  “Sorry, man. No trails.”

  The trails are old bike paths where there were once open fields. They go on forever. They start in our subdivision, which used to be nothing but farmland, and keep going. Most of the land is empty, with the occasional abandoned and in-shambles barn, but if you go for a while, like at least fifteen miles, the trails start to merge into existing working farms. The people who live and work there don’t like us, or anyone, coming through. If you aren’t careful, they’ll shoot right at you.

  I want to change the subject. I’ve become a bit of an expert at separating my worlds. I don’t want them merging. Especially now.

  “I went to your uncle’s bowling alley instead,” says Jeremy. “You know I can’t pass up the awesomeness of free games.”

  I’m so uncomfortable with this arrangement. My uncle Tasos knows that Jeremy is my friend and he lets him bowl and play video games without having to pay. He even gives him free food. Besides my dad, my uncle is probably my favorite family member, maybe because Tasos married into it. The bowling alley he owns is attached to a full restaurant and dining hall.

  Here’s the thing: Jeremy knows I don’t like him going there without me. Not because I always long for his company, but because it’s not a good idea.

  It’s just not. Worlds colliding sort of thing.

  “I told you not to go there without me.”

  “It’s one of the perks of being your friend, Pubes. That and you doing my art class homework for me. Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Panos, what the fuck are you staring at that phone for?”

  “Just waiting for a—”

  “Fucking Kimball, right? It’s always Kimball. Did you miss your boyfriend while you were at Camp Holy-Hole?” He snort-laughs at himself so hard his asthma kicks in.

  “It’s like you’re aging backward. Idiot.”

  Still no text from Henry. What’s he doing?

  “If you two didn’t spend so much time together, maybe you and I could actually get some shit done. How much tennis can two people play? It’s the most boring sport.”

  We’re almost at the school entrance, and Jeremy spots Tess Burgeon. He shouts in her direction, “Burge! I have a lollipop with your name on it. It’s grape. You want it? I want to watch you lick it.”

  “What the fuck, dude?” He’s all class, that Jeremy.

  “I know she digs me. Jorgenson too, probably.”

  “Kris?”

  “They’re always hanging out together and I can feel the vibes.”

  I laugh. “You’re delusional.”

  “There she is. You’ll see.” Jeremy cups his hands and yells. “Jorgenson!”

  Kris sees him wave and starts heading this way. Oh, this should be good.

  Jeremy turns back to me. “Wait for it.”

  “I will.”

  Kris has one of those faces that are difficult to read. It looks like she’s in a good mood even when she’s not smiling. Her light-brown eyes are set far apart and her hair is all big, natural curls right past her shoulders. A little blond and a lot of dark roots.

  “What’s up?” Kris asks as she approaches us. She’s right next to Jeremy now and she’s taller than he is, which in this moment I really appreciate.

  Jeremy starts, “Let’s be honest, Jorgenson. You and Burge are taken with me.”

  Withou
t missing a beat, Kris nods. “Totally.”

  Jeremy smirks and raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Go on,” he says.

  “Well, it’s a classic problem. Two friends. One boy. Who will he choose? You know how it is.”

  I’m dying.

  Jeremy puts his hand over his heart. “Kris, I’m not one to break hearts, but you know my love for the Burge.”

  Kris closes her eyes and takes a breath. “She’s my friend and I want her to be happy. Go to her, Jeremy.”

  He puts his hand on her shoulder and says, “Jorgenson, don’t miss me too much.”

  Then he turns to me before he bolts off. “I’ll see you at lunch. Let’s make plans for tonight. Oh, and some guy named Cage was at your uncle’s. He was asking about you. What kind of name is Cage?”

  “It’s Gaige.”

  Shit.

  What the hell is Gaige doing here?

  Kris breaks into my panicked thoughts. “I know I’m kinda new here, but how is it that you two are friends?”

  I laugh. “He’s one of the first people I met when we moved here. Can’t really shake him.”

  “I can see that. Much respect to you for putting up with him. Sometimes I really just want to punch him in the face,” she says, but she’s smiling.

  “Oh, please don’t. You’ll break him. Actually, maybe you should. It would probably be good for him.”

  “Not a good idea. Got into trouble at my old school for all the wrong reasons.”

  “What, violence?” I’m half joking.

  “I have a difficult time letting people get away with shit.”

  “Huh?”

  She smiles again. “Rumors become fact real fast. See you later, Evan.”

  As I’m trying to piece together what she means, another thought strikes me. What must it be like to feel so comfortable in your own skin?

  Our high school isn’t spectacular, but it does have one thing that I love—an atrium. The school is basically a square with a hole in the middle, and in that hole is the atrium. Which means the literal heart of the school is this open-air garden. All the hallways have doors that lead out to the center.

  This is where I go now. To get away from the Jeremys and my dad and my mother. And sometimes, myself. And now to get away from Gaige.

  Who is apparently here.

  Here in my town. Where I live. Where my parents live.

  Mr. Overstreet, head janitor and gardener, is in there working on the plants. The door from the north hall is propped open with an enormous trash bin. I walk in, duck down, and make my way to the plantings on the west side, where there are tall grasses and plenty of Virginia bluebells in bloom. I lie underneath them and stare up at the clean, blue sky.

  It’s funny how you get so used to winter that you forget there are any other seasons.

  I close my eyes.

  I breathe.

  The atrium was closed all last year. No one was allowed to go out into it because Lonny Cho, Scott Sullivan, and Gabe Jimenez were all caught there at night with a bunch of other kids from River Park High. The janitors found condoms and cigarette butts along with beer bottles. It was a huge deal. Bigger than it should have been, if you ask me. I mean, at least they were using condoms. The boys from our school were suspended and the atrium was off limits for a whole year.

  I take out my notebook and turn to the first blank page. With a pen I begin to sketch this garden. Not exactly how it looks but how I see it in my mind. My phone buzzes. It’s Henry.

  Just saw. Running late 2day-talk after schl?

  K

  I continue drawing. The garden is wild and out of control. The plants and flowers grow higher than normal and at a certain level they start to intertwine—almost like they’re forming bridges. Canopies. I stare at my sketch. Rumors become fact real fast. Hmmm. What if Gaige is here to expose me? My breathing starts to get short.

  Maybe I want to be found out. Maybe it’s time to have something real to be in trouble for.

  No.

  Not now.

  I’m heading to first period, which is English, and it’s a decent class. Decent in the sense that I do my work with very little interruption. The teacher, Mrs. Lynwood, doesn’t try too hard to connect with us and I can kind of go unnoticed. That’s pretty much my goal in school. To not stand out.

  I’m running a little late, so I cut through the cafeteria even though we’re not supposed to during class hours. The cafeteria is empty except for Tommy Goliski, heading in the opposite direction.

  Great.

  Tommy is the guy you do not want noticing you unless you’re in his crowd or a great athlete, which I am not. He has very little patience for anyone else.

  I’ve spent my whole high school career cultivating an air of nothingness. I put my head down and keep walking.

  “Evan Panos.” He stops right in front of me.

  I look up at him, and I must have the face of someone who’s just been told they’ve been randomly chosen to sing the national anthem at a Cubs game. Like, “Hi, you in the back row of the bleachers. Yes, you, with the striped shirt and khaki shorts. Please come down and sing the national anthem in front of all these people!”

  I have that face. Because how the hell does Tommy Goliski even know my name?

  “I know you’re late, but this is important. I want to help you. Save you, actually.”

  I try to keep a neutral “listening” face, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. Why is everyone trying to “save me”? Is Tommy going to perform some kind of dork-nerd exorcism?

  “You know, you could be a cool kid. Maybe.” He gives me a casual once-over. “The makings are there, I think, but you need some kind of personality. Probably some other stuff too.” I continue to look at him blankly, which is totally proving his point. “I think I can help you. Help this.” He points at me as if I’m a kind of food behind glass in the cafeteria that he wants to make adjustments to before he puts it on his tray.

  What is happening?

  “Do you want my help? Do you want to stop looking like a nobody?”

  I don’t know what to say to this.

  “I’m going to be really late,” I mumble.

  “No one can figure you out. Are you smart? Dumb? Gay? Are you even interested in anything? Even your clothes are, they’re just, I don’t know. Nothing.”

  I stiffen.

  He continues, “You’re not gonna say anything?” I’m almost equal parts embarrassed and mad. More mad. “You know, it’s not that you’re ugly, exactly. It’s that you’re . . .” He steps back and shakes his head. “Fuck, the hair would be the first thing to go.” He laughs and oddly—for a big guy—his voice squeaks.

  He starts to walk toward the exit. “Also getting you to the gym. You’re like a Twizzler. With stupid hair.” Now he’s all-out laughing, practically hunched over.

  Asshole. I want to fight back, but I don’t. I’m afraid of what I might do to him.

  four

  I slink into Mrs. Lynwood’s class. Luckily I sit toward the back. Easy in, easy out. It’s part of my no-identity identity. Tess Burgeon sits directly in front of me. The back of her head is so shiny. I mean her hair. It’s perfectly straight and kind of mesmerizing. So golden and bright, with subtle hues of red.

  I notice too much. Every little thing in a room about a person, place, anything, feels like it’s giving off a signal, like everything is trying to communicate with me. That’s why I love neat, well-organized rooms. There’s less noise and my head feels calm.

  “Miss Burgeon, can you hand the short stories back to everyone?” Mrs. Lynwood points to a stack on her desk. She always wants us to write on paper, with a black pen. It frustrates almost everyone in the class. They just want to write on their laptops and email her the finished product, but she insists on something we can all hold, mark on, and flip through. I don’t mind it. I actually prefer it. It helps me focus to have a pen or pencil in my hand and write, draw, scribble something. Lately, since coming back fr
om camp, it seems like all the stuff in my head is slowly drifting off, as if it’s smoke escaping from a window and into the sky, far away, making room for things I want to put in there. I think I want new experiences. New memories, not the ones others have given me. Using a pencil and paper to mark, draw, write something different is another opportunity to give myself something new. Something good.

  Mrs. Lynwood is standing behind her desk with her hands on her hips. Not in an I’m about to let you kids in on some Lynwood wisdom sort of way, but more disappointment.

  Tess approaches my desk, places my short story on it, and whispers, “Tell your asshole friend to leave me alone.”

  I’m not totally surprised. Anyone can see why she’d say that. Jeremy can be a complete dick, but there’s something good in there. I’ve seen it. I think he genuinely likes Tess and I thought she liked him back. She asks me about him all the time. “What did you and Jeremy do last night? Are you guys going to Lonny’s party?” Could I have read the whole thing wrong?

  Mrs. Lynwood says, “The lesson I want you to take away from these stories is that there is no right or wrong way to write them. But most of you took the approach of what you thought I wanted to see.”

  We all just look at her.

  “So I am not going to grade them, because I don’t think you did the work you were meant to do. I’m giving you a chance to write your story again. You can take the rest of the week and this weekend. I’ll collect them on Monday.”

  No one is happy about this, including me. I don’t know when I’m going to have time to write something else. I’m working this weekend, our family is hosting a church luncheon on Sunday, and I have to register for Greek school, which I’ve been going to since I was seven.

  Mostly, I’m scrambling to do different things to please different people. I wonder what would happen if I only spent time doing what interested me.

  five

  My mother is calling.

  I let it go to voice mail.

  There’s no mistaking that my mom’s not originally from Kalakee. Her accent is heavy. She’s barely five foot one but claims to be five foot two. She has thick dark brown hair that rests just above her chin, worn in a tight curl. Her face is round. Broad and pretty with full lips, big black eyes, a generous nose, and perfectly arched eyebrows. Everything about her appearance is meticulous. The only makeup she wears is Walgreen’s no-name-brand lipstick. Color: Nude.