The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

  I am at the top and I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I’ve flipped myself around and my back is now facing Henry. I steady myself on the cross bar just below the spears. Henry is on the ground and I can feel him looking up at me. I may have lied about not being injured on this gate before. But I will not be injured by this thing tonight. I hold on tight and let go of the bars, pushing off the cross bar with my feet and landing on the ground below in a crouched ball, right next to Henry.

  “Dude, you didn’t even look to see if I was there. You could have landed right on me.”

  “But I didn’t. We have to go around back. Follow me.”

  “I could practically walk here from my house. Why haven’t I explored this place? Even more annoying . . . why didn’t you tell me about it again?”

  “Shh, Kimball. We’re done with that story.”

  I lead us past the front entrance, which looks like a cross between Wayne Manor and a church. We round one side of the building and I guide us with a sharp right in order to go past the hedge wall. Henry’s walking beside me like everything is perfectly normal. “It’s hard to believe that they store old farm equipment in here. This place looks like it should have something a little cooler going on. How did you discover it?”

  My phone vibrates again. I take it out and look down at the screen, trying to move in front of Henry so he doesn’t notice. “Told you, one of my bike rides.” It’s my mother. I turn the phone off and stick it back into my pocket.

  “Let’s take this path to the building and then we can wind toward the back, where the tall windows are.” I motion down a trail that goes past a large fountain to the east side of the monastery.

  In the back there are two very large sets of windows on either side of an even larger set of double doors, in the center of the wall. I point to the last set of windows. As we get closer to that part of the building, we’re farther away from the already sparse lighting on the property. Henry takes out his phone and turns on the flashlight function.

  “Scared?” he says as he shines the light right into my eyes.

  I squint and push his hand away. “Idiot. Point it down at the window.”

  Henry laughs and points his phone toward the window, and the light shines right inside the room. Once he sees them, he almost jumps back.

  “Shit!”

  “I told you. There’s got to be at least fifty of them.”

  It almost looks like some of the statues have been moved. I’ve never seen them this close to the actual window before. The two closest to us are almost touching the glass. Henry jiggles the handle.

  “Do the windows open in or out?” He’s still jiggling.

  “Out. Is it locked?” I grab the handle on the other side. Locked. “Hmmm. Strange. They’ve never been locked.”

  “Maybe the party got out of control.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to try the other doors.”

  “Wait for me. It’s dark—let me shine the light where you’re going. . . .”

  I jiggle the handle. Open.

  “Any luck?” he says from his side.

  “It’s open.”

  “Maybe they’re on to you. Maybe we’ll have company.”

  I turn around and grab his phone.

  “Hey. . . .”

  “I turned mine off. This is easier. I know where I’m going.”

  This room is not part of the statue room. It’s a different room altogether, floor to ceiling, wall to wall of wooden dark-stained, built-in bookcases stuffed with books in every possible direction, a very tall intricate coffered ceiling, and what looks like stone floors. There’s a very large old and dusty area rug, and a long wooden carved desk on one side that almost looks like it could have been an altar at one time. There’s this gold-leaf finish on it that’s very faded and worn off. The high-back desk chair is carved from the same material as the desk, and it has a deep-red velvet back and seat cushions, also faded.

  “I feel like I need a library now. I didn’t realize that I was missing one,” Henry says in his normal, nonwhispering voice.

  “You’re killing me here.” I’m still whispering. “Let’s try to lay low.”

  “No one’s here.”

  “If someone locked those windows, then someone was, or is, here.” I move toward the door, “Maybe this leads to the other room.”

  “Here.” Henry grabs his phone away from me. He opens the door and shines the light into what looks like a hallway. “This has to be the door to the statue party. It’s the room right next to the library.” He jiggles the door handle but it doesn’t move. He keeps trying. Nothing.

  “Pull on them,” I say.

  He sticks the phone in his mouth, grabs both handles, one hand on each, and pulls. The doors open. He takes the phone and shines the light into the room.

  “Success! Let’s go.” He closes the doors and we stand there as he shines the light slowly around us. This room is much larger than the office/library one, but it feels smaller. Partly because of all the statues, but also because the ceiling in here is lower. His phone light makes all the dust particles flicker. The walls are all paneled, and on the left wall, from where you enter, there’s an all-stone fireplace. The floor is a tiled, ornamental pattern that’s very faded in spots. But where it’s still intact, it has three borders that go all the way around. All three have some sort of braiding. Each row of braiding is a little different.

  “I love this place.” Henry looks right at me. “Let’s live here.”

  I’m glad he can’t see me blushing furiously in the dark.

  He has no idea what he’s saying or how it’s affecting me. Confusing me. At a time when I don’t have the luxury of confronting any of it.

  Instead I go into tour guide mode. “Let me show you around.” I motion to him for his phone. Holding on to it, I start to move among the statues. The phone casts a light on them that makes the stone look even more eerie. Depending on the projection and angle of the glow, the faces can look graceful or menacing. The light between the statues makes the air seem as if it’s shimmering.

  “This one with the outstretched arms is leading the way.”

  I light up the statue so that Henry can see him, especially the face. The eyes don’t look like they are staring blankly. They actually look alive, and if you move slowly, you can imagine them following you. I move toward the front and shine the light on three female statues close together. “These ladies with their books and goblets are holding my future. Now as you can see”—I slowly spin the light all around the room—“there are a lot of guys who seem to be in various positions of battle. These guys I call the Army.”

  I cast the light toward Henry. He looks around and then looks right at me. He’s an arm’s length away. “Why the Army? Why not . . . the Town?”

  I hesitate for a minute and then, before I can stop myself, I answer, “They’re fighting for my life.”

  He doesn’t look away. Usually, this long a gaze—a direct eye-to-eye gaze with anyone—makes me incredibly nervous. I normally can’t hold it for more than a second or two. In this moment, this heart-stopping, palm-sweating moment, I force myself to keep my gaze steady.

  “I think this qualifies as the something I don’t know about you.” Continuing his eye lock. “What do you do here?”

  “Sometimes nothing. Other times I draw. Sometimes pretend that everything is normal. Just a single normal day when nothing goes wrong.”

  I wonder if his eyelashes get stuck together when he blinks. There are so many of them. Upper and lower. He’s not blinking. He sits down right there in the middle of the room. I follow his lead and sit opposite him. He crosses his legs, leans in, and rests his elbows on his knees. I’m in a similar position, except my hands are behind me, palms to the ground. I’m leaning back.

  “Why aren’t you fighting for your life?” Now he’s whispering.

  I don’t say anything. I look around the room for a minute, then back at Henry. He reaches into hi
s back pocket. He takes out a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to me.

  “Here. I feel like I owe you something else.”

  I take it from him and unfold it.

  “Our list of places we promised we’d go to.”

  I look at it and then back at him. The flashlight function on his phone is casting shadows on his face in a way that, with his high cheekbones, makes him look like he belongs with the statue party. My hands start to shake, just a bit. Not noticeably but enough to make the paper move. I grip it tighter.

  “I remember.” I try to steady my voice. “I remember when we started this list.”

  “I carry it with me almost all the time. Ev, remember when we first wrote these down?”

  “We were kids. What, seven?”

  “Eight. We hadn’t known each other that well at the time, but you spent the weekend at our house. You slept on the floor in my bedroom in a sleeping bag.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It took a lot of convincing. Your mom was not thrilled.”

  “It helped that she was witnessing to your parents. She thought she’d convert them. I think I may have been used as a Trojan horse.”

  “It was the very first weekend without Dillon. That dog meant more to me than anything. I’ve never cried like that since. I was so embarrassed—and in front of . . .” He stops talking and stares at the floor. He runs his fingers over the tree patterns. “You got up and climbed into bed with me and held me till I fell asleep.”

  He looks at me. I don’t say anything.

  “Ev, you did that all weekend every time I couldn’t stop crying—when I saw his bowl, or his leash. You said that what we needed was to go someplace new. A new start, even if it was for a day.”

  He starts to laugh a little.

  “Like the underwater petting zoo and submerged airplane in Mermet Springs.” We both laugh. “What the fuck was that?”

  “I don’t know.” I’m looking right at him and feel closer to a human being than I ever have before.

  “This list, even if we never went to anywhere, made me feel better. You made me feel better.”

  It’s my turn to look at the floor.

  “Ev, how do you get your bruises?”

  Shit.

  I try to remember to breathe. I’m grateful it’s mostly dark in here.

  He scoots closer to me. “You have never tripped or fallen once when we play tennis, or when you ride your bike.”

  “I’m prone . . .”

  “It always happens when you’re at home.”

  I’m staring at the statues and I shift my body slightly away from Henry. He takes the waistband of my sweatshirt in his hand and pulls me in a bit. I put my head down, still turning away. He nudges himself even closer and starts to slowly lift the shirt over my head. I feel paralyzed, scared, thrilled. I stop him.

  “Henry. Please.”

  How is it possible to be cold and be sweating at the same time? He’s close enough that I can smell the mint chip ice cream on his breath. Henry whispers, “Ev, I want to be the one who helps you feel better.”

  Using whatever willpower I can grab onto, I pull away and say, “No. This isn’t what you want. What I want.” The truth is, it’s exactly what I want but I’m so scared of wanting it and even more scared of actually having it.

  Henry immediately lets go of my sweatshirt. And the moment is over.

  fourteen

  My eyes are closed.

  “Merciful Lord, protect this child. Protect his loins. Keep them, him from sin. Keep his mind and body pure.” She begins to speak in tongues. Only those truly filled with the Holy Spirit can be touched by this mystical language that only God understands. “Maaaalaaaaneeee kwaaannnntaaaaa moriiiinaaa.”

  I peek my eyes open and see my mother is sitting on the edge of my bed. Her eyes are closed. Her head is swaying slightly and her tone is hushed. I pretend to be asleep. She continues.

  “God of goodness and vengeance, we know You are not just love but also anger. Anger toward the unclean, the lustful, the disobedient. Make this child Yours and guide him with Your holy thoughts, not those of the world.”

  “Vee.”

  Now my father’s in the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh.”

  I’m holding my breath and trying to relax my eyelids so it doesn’t look like I’m fake-sleeping.

  “Vee, get out here.”

  “We praise you, Holy Father. We trust in Your word that never fails. We live on Your promise to cleanse us and deliver us from evil. This child needs delivering. In Your holy name. Amen.”

  With that I feel her get up from my bed and walk out, closing the door behind her. They are noisily whispering right outside my door.

  “What if he woke up? It would—”

  “He needs constant prayer. He got home late last night.”

  “This is getting out of hand and—”

  “Shh! You don’t know. I can’t trust the pastor for everything. You never know, Eli. You never know. Why don’t you look at his notebook? You can read better than I can. Maybe there’s something in there that tells us what he’s up to.”

  With that I sit up in bed.

  Wait.

  Where is it?

  “Vee, I’m not going to read his private things—it’s not right.”

  “He’s changing. He no longer follows my orders. He doesn’t listen.”

  My heart is pounding. It feels like my blood is pounding. And then it comes to me.

  Fuck!

  The notebook. It’s still in Henry’s car.

  “Vee, he’s never going to trust us or anyone if we continue like this.”

  “It’s time for you to be up anyway. Take him for doughnuts. He talks to you. Find out what he’s up to. What he does when he’s not here or at school. I’m tired.”

  I can hear her go into their bedroom and my dad into the bathroom.

  My thoughts are jumping from one thing to another.

  If I had let him, would Henry have kissed me last night? Did Henry find my notebook? Worse: Did he read it? What do I say to Henry when I see him today? I tell myself I did the right thing last night. But it doesn’t feel like it.

  fifteen

  As my dad and I walk into the Dunkin’, I’m trying to focus on him, but it’s nearly impossible. I keep seeing Henry’s face, so close to mine. Remembering the smell of the mint chip ice cream on his breath. The way he was looking at me, which I keep replaying in my mind. Why did I stop him? He must hate me.

  Linda is near the end of the counter pouring coffee for a woman in a gray business suit and a perfect black bob. Linda looks up and glances our way. My gift of seeing everything, hearing everything, is especially heightened today. The whole place and everyone in it is so clear and it all sounds too loud.

  “If it isn’t my two handsomes. Elias, Evan, how are you boys?”

  “We’re good, honey.” We take our seats near the door. It’s weird to hear my dad, even my mom, speak English. It’s even weirder to hear my dad refer to Linda as “honey.”

  “You boys going to get your usual?” Linda asks.

  My dad looks at me and I nod.

  “Wait,” I say. “I’ll have coffee this time.”

  “How was last night?”

  “Good.” God, this is awkward as hell. “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Did you follow me?”

  Looking at his hands, he takes a shallow breath. “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Just want to make sure you’re . . .” He stops himself. “I don’t know.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “We won’t do it again. I promise.” Then, changing the subject and his tone of voice: “Your uncle says that you made a new friend at camp. A Christian friend.”

  “Gaige. He’s in town to check out Bible college.”

  “Here you go, boys. The usual.” Linda places the coffees and doughnuts in front of us. “Enjoy and let me know if you want anythi
ng else.” She winks and walks away.

  “Can I go to Henry’s house for dinner tonight? After I do Mom’s hair thing.”

  “No homework?”

  “I can do it this weekend.”

  “Don’t forget Sunday. It’s all-day-church day. Everyone’s coming over to the house after.”

  I don’t ask about the pool party. One thing at a time.

  He looks uncomfortable. “We have to talk about Greek school. Registration is on Saturday. And we have to talk about the house.”

  I start on my doughnut and take a gulp, two, of my coffee. “What about the house?”

  “You may be getting too old for Greek school and . . .” He stops himself and takes a swig of coffee. He doesn’t look at me as he says this. “We may have to sell the house.”

  “Oh.” The thing about me getting too old for Greek school is a lie. We probably can’t afford any of this anymore. The house. My extra schooling. But admitting to that is too demoralizing for my dad. I can’t say I’m disappointed about the school thing, but the house? “Are we moving?” Wait, would we be moving away from Henry? My school? Plus my room—the only place in the whole house I feel safe.

  He shakes his head while downing his coffee.

  “I can work on the weekends at the deli. Maybe that could—”

  “We’ll talk it over with your mother about working weekends. A real estate agent from the church is coming by later today. I’ll be home at three. I’m no longer working the second job at the restaurant . . . they let me go. Not busy enough, they said. I’m just at the bakery now.” He takes another sip of his coffee. The thing about my dad, even when bad things happen, he never reacts. But I can see the seething. The discomfort. He wears it all over his body. “The agent understands both Greek and English, so you won’t have to deal with the paperwork.”

  “You know I’m not a real estate lawyer, right?” I’m being a smart-ass, but really.

  He takes his first bite of his cruller and says, with a full mouth, “You know the language. I don’t understand why you can’t explain this stuff to us and fill out the papers. I can only understand so much and your mother . . . your mother is right about some things. You can be lazy.”