Don’t be this person right now, Dad. I need you to be more than this.
“I’m not lazy.”
“Don’t talk back to me.” He lowers his voice to an angry whisper and looks around to make sure that no one is watching or listening. “I lost my job. We’ll probably lose the house, and all you care about is yourself.”
I fall silent, and guilt instantly takes over for not recognizing how this must make him feel. I want him to save me, but he can barely save himself.
His voice gets soft again with a little bitterness. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to translate the real estate documents. The agent will do it.” We both stare straight ahead in silence for a few minutes. “Sorry about following you last night.” He sounds like he genuinely means it.
I nod.
“She worries.”
“Do you?”
“No. What time is dinner at Henry’s? I can drive you if he brings you back.”
“I’ll check with him.”
“More coffee?” Linda always shows up at the exact time you need her.
“For both of us.” My dad signals to our almost empty mugs. “Is Henry still dating—”
“No, but this girl from Bugle’s last night invited him to a pool party on Saturday. He’s going to go.”
“You?”
“Gaige was at Bugle’s too. Mom asked me to invite him. She thinks he’s a good influence.”
My dad’s voice is low. “It’s okay to have a—you know. To have someone you like. You should go to the pool party. If Gaige is going, your mom won’t mind. He comes from a good Christian family.”
“He does. He’s a good guy and we don’t really know each other very well. Plus I’m not . . .”
“Maybe if he moves here because of college you could get to know each other.”
I’m trying so hard not to go full-on red-faced right now. Is he actually cool with this? The mixed messages are coming a little too fast and furious. We finish our coffees and doughnuts in silence and get in the car.
“It’ll be good to have a group.”
“Dad?”
“If Gaige is someone you can talk to. And you have Henry and Jeremy. It’s good.”
I don’t know where’s he’s going with this, but I agree. “Yep.”
“The people at the church are that for your mother. You know?”
“What about you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Never really felt that way for me. Do you want me to take you home first, or straight to school?”
I want to say something. Something that will somehow comfort my father, but all I can say is, “School. I can do some work in the library.”
He pulls out of the Dunkin’ parking lot and starts to drive away. Fast.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
“I’m . . . frustrated. Yes, mad. I mean, c’mon, Dad. You think I’m lazy? You agree with Mom and out of nowhere you tell me we have to sell the house. You’re apologizing for following me, but . . .” I stop talking and look at him. His face is the usual blank stare when confronted with an uncomfortable moment, but his eyes are anything but empty. “You’re right about one thing. I’m making this about me. You must also be so mad—worried.”
“I can’t give you a good reason why we follow you. I do what I think is right every day. Every day. I work hard. I try to pay all the bills. Send you to school and try to make it all work, and no matter how much . . . how hard . . . everything still feels like it’s out of reach. We’re on the outside. You’re even more on the outside.”
Any anger I had dissolves into sadness. Sadness for him and for how difficult it must be to balance so much while trying so hard to make it all work. We drive quietly for the next few blocks. It seems like miles.
“Uncle Tasos said Gaige was a very polite, handsome young man. Does he play sports?”
This is how we move on. We just do. No transitions. “No. He’s more of a book/tech guy. I think he wants to study something with science.”
“You like him?”
Oh. My. God. So much awkward.
“He’s nice. We get along and . . . he’s nice.”
“Henry and everyone else meet him?”
“Bugle’s was packed. He met a lot of people.”
“Mm-hm.”
I feel hot and cold all at once. I employ the signature Panos family deflection technique. “Are you going to look for another job? You know, if I wind up working weekends—”
“I am. Your work money should be for college. You’re going to need it. I don’t know how much we can help.”
“I didn’t expect any help.”
More silence.
I reach into my pocket for my phone.
“Have a good day. I’ll tell your mother about dinner tonight and the pool thing on Saturday. Come right home after school so you can help with her hair.”
“I will. Thanks.”
As soon as I walk into school, I race to the atrium. The door is propped open with a large, round, plastic trash can. I need to make my cloudy head feel less foggy. This is the best part of coming to school early—no one is in here.
I find the farthest bench from the door and text Henry:
Hey, I think I left my notebook in ur car. Under my seat. Can u bring it? In atrium.
Please. Please don’t read it. Please, Henry. Please.
Part of me also wants to text: Hey, so . . . how are you feeling about last night? Because over here, I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.
Today feels like one of those days when it’s hard being here at school. The kind of day when faking it is harder than usual. I can do a pretty decent job pretending to be normal. I think if you were to ask kids here what they thought of me, they would fall into one of two groups. One group would wonder if they even knew who I was. Like literally have to wonder if I was even a real live kid who went to their school or just some guy who the person asking the question made up as part of a social experiment. The other group would say that I was a shy, awkward kid who keeps to himself.
I take a breath and write out another text.
Hey, Gaige, it’s Evan. I should have info on pool party later today. Will send. Hope ur enjoying Chicago. Sorry about last night.
I sit back.
Let me worst-case-scenario this:
Henry reads the journal.
Finds out about my kiss with Gaige.
Discovers the abuse.
Finds out the extent of crazy religion stuff.
Decides it’s too much.
Exposes me (is that possible?).
No more Henry.
Worlds colliding.
My phone buzzes.
Gaige.
Cool. Let me know when u do. Want to talk.
I lie down on the bench and think about Henry.
About the monastery.
Breathe, Evan. Think back to the monastery.
Back to Henry.
Back to what almost happened. What did happen.
If we kissed, would it be different than with Gaige?
I hate to think this, but . . . Gaige was almost a test. Why didn’t I see this before? Because you hadn’t kissed Henry yet! A test for me to see. Do I? Am I?
My phone buzzes.
I have ur notebook. B there soon. ☺
Oh God. An emoji. He never sends those. Never. What do I say when I see him?
Hey there, buddy, did you happen to read my journal? Then what? What’s he going to say if he did? What’s he going to say about everything? I wonder if he’s thinking as much about last night as I am. Maybe I scared him away from ever attempting to kiss me again. I am freaking out.
“Ev!”
Henry walks in with his big, dimpled smile. Not today. Not now. Stop it, Henry.
I smile at him. “Hey.” He stands in front of me, slightly out of breath. “Did you run here?”
“Yep. I was clear on the other side of campus. Here.” He holds my notebook out in front of him. We’re standing so close th
at his long reach almost hits me in the chest.
I grab the notebook and shove it into my backpack. “Thanks. I was so tired last night I didn’t even think . . .”
“So . . .”
Before he can say anything else, I blurt out, “I can come to dinner tonight.” I scan his face for any kind of recognition. Any kind of tell that he may know more now in this moment than he did last night.
“Cool. I’ll let my mom know.”
Nothing.
I think. I can’t tell. All my signals are crossed. He couldn’t have read it. He’s not that good a liar.
“Do you want me to pick you up?”
“My dad’s going to drop me off. Can you take me home after?”
“Sure. And we should, maybe, talk about what happened. . . .”
There it is.
“Totally. Oh yeah. So important.” I don’t mean to, but it comes out incredibly insincere. “I agree. We should. Talk.”
He looks dejected. Did I do that? “I gotta get to class. Later.” With that, Henry exits, and I feel like one of those Illinois State Fair balloons that no matter how full and bright it is while you’re at the fair, when you get it home it’s completely wilted.
sixteen
“Does this look like anything?”
“Is it supposed to?” I lean into Jeremy’s easel and squint at the canvas.
“I don’t know, Panos.”
“Jeremy, just do what you feel. It’s not really about looking like anything.”
“Ugh. I feel like you should do this for me.”
“Jeremy. Evan. How’s it going?” Mr. Quinones, our art teacher, may or may not be on to the fact that I do a lot of (most of) Jeremy’s art projects.
“Trying to figure out the best way to do a collage, Mr. Q.” Jeremy isn’t helping matters. He sounds guilty. Mr. Quinones walks over to our table.
“It’s taking shape. This isn’t a test, Jeremy. Collages are one of the most free-form ways to express yourself. Don’t feel limited. You can mix materials.” He looks over at mine, which may be a bit too collage-y. “Mr. Panos here isn’t afraid of mixing anything. He’s decisive and deliberate with his choice of materials.” He walks through the rest of the class and back to his desk. “Let’s finish these up before class ends and leave them here. No working on this project at home this weekend.”
“Maybe Mr. Panos should be decisive and deliberate with other things as well.” Tommy is looking in my direction with his left hand up to his mouth, gesturing oral sex.
“Mr. Goliski.” Mr. Quinones sternly motions for Tommy to come up to his desk. “You’ve earned yourself some new after-school activities.”
Tommy rolls his eyes and makes his way up to the front of the class.
“I think he knows, Panos,” Jeremy says.
Beads of sweat are forming on my upper lip. I whisper, “Oh my God.”
“I think he knows you do my work.”
“What?”
“Panos, I told you to scale back. You make my shit look too good. Follow the golden rule: Always, always aim for C+ work when doing my stuff.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You going to the pool party tomorrow or do you have Geek school?”
This time I’m the one who rolls my eyes. “Apparently I’m done with Greek school.”
“Shit! Since when?”
“Mr. Ludecker? Everything okay?”
“Sorry, Mr. Q. Panos just helped me get a collage breakthrough over here. Exciting stuff.”
“Let’s keep the conversations low. People are trying to focus.”
I look over at Tommy, who gives me the finger.
Jeremy leans in and lowers his voice. “This is epic. It’s a whole new era.” For as long as Jeremy and I have been friends, I’ve been going to Greek school on Saturdays. Between that and helping my mom clean the house, it was nearly impossible for us to hang out on the weekends.
“I think I’m going to pick up extra shifts at the deli. I need to save for college and a car.”
“Still. No extra homework. We can squeeze in a ride and stuff. How’d this happen?”
“My dad’s down to one job and . . .”
“Classic cutting back. Seen it before. My parents threatened to make my sister and me share a phone last year when they were both worried about layoffs at their jobs. Can you imagine that shit? Sharing a phone? They fucked my world with that. This time that shit has an upside.”
Seriously? Jeremy is a classic narcissist and I’m too exhausted to deal with him right now. I just say, “Looks like I’m going to Ali’s party.”
“I guess I’ll go too. While the weather’s still good. Is that guy from camp coming?”
“Yep. Tess will be there, right?”
“Who cares? You heard her at Bugle’s. Everyone did.” He lowers his voice even more. “Fucking waste of time.”
“Maybe you should have gone with less smart-ass and more—”
“I should have options. I’m in my prime.” He leans back on his chair and takes a good long look at his art project, then at mine. “You get this. I don’t know how. You do.”
Mr. Quinones announces, “Okay, let’s start cleaning up. And don’t forget the goal for this weekend. Bring one thing from your life away from school to add to this collage.” Mr. Quinones looks over at Jeremy and me and motions for me to come over to his desk as he’s handing Tommy a piece of paper and sending him on his way. Probably to the principal’s office. Tommy shoots me a dirty look.
Jeremy goes, “Never admit anything.”
“Thanks. A lot.” As everyone files out, I finish packing up the last of my supplies and walk up to Mr. Quinones’s desk. “Hey.”
“Evan, there’s something that I think you should take part in.”
“Okay.”
“An internship program at a gallery that I’m on the board of in Chicago. We take three interns every year. It can lead to actual paid work sometimes, but mostly it’s just good exposure to art and opportunities. Plus it looks really good to colleges. You’re applying to the Art Institute, right?”
I stand there, not really believing we’re having this conversation.
“Are you interested?”
“Um. Yes?”
He laughs a little. “It’s a good thing. They would want to see samples of your work and you’d have to fill out some paperwork.”
“What do I . . .”
“Can you get me a few of your sketches, stuff I haven’t seen in class, by Monday? Work you already have. No need to do anything new.”
“It’s not finished. I mean, I’ve got a few things, but . . . everything is just . . .”
“That’s okay. Gather what you can. We’re used to seeing artists’ work in various stages of completion. It’s less about things being finished. More about process and technique.” He called me an artist. I don’t even call myself that.
I’m trying to think of what I have. What I wouldn’t be afraid to show someone else, much less an entire group of people.
“Let me see what I can pull together.” And then I pause. “Thank you.”
“You’re talented. This can be something for you. Not just the internship, but in life. Art can be something you do in the world.”
Now I think he’s making a joke. A cruel joke.
“Thanks.”
“I’m excited for you.”
I go back to my desk, grab my backpack, and head out of class. For a minute I’m not sure I know where I’m supposed to be next. My brain is blank.
“So, did he bust you?”
I jump back about three feet. “Jesus, Jeremy. Were you waiting the whole time?”
“What’s up? You can tell me all about it at lunch. Should I give up on my dreams to be a great artist?”
Lunch. Right. “He wants me to apply for an art internship at a gallery in the city. He didn’t even mention you.”
Henry walks up and falls in next to us. I scan his face to check for signs of—I don’t even know
. I want to know what he’s thinking after last night.
“Panos here is doing some fancy art shit. At a gallery. In Chicago. Mr Q is all over it. He’s gay, right?”
“Because he’s an art teacher?” Henry fires back.
“Well, yeah, and because he’s not married and he’s, like, thirty. What?”
“I don’t think he’s thirty-anything. I think he’s still in his twenties,” I offer, as if it will prove something.
“What I’m saying here is that all the pieces fit. He’s old and not married, or doesn’t have a girlfriend as far as we know. He’s an art teacher. He dresses nice and his hair is never, ever not camera ready.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Suddenly I don’t want to be around Jeremy. I don’t want to hear any more about Mr. Q. “I’m hungry and it’s tacos, so . . .” I speed ahead of them into the lunchroom, get my tray, and food and drink, as fast as I can. So fast that I lose them in the crowd. I find a place to sit far, far away in one corner.
I tell myself to calm down. Jeremy’s an idiot. It’s like being mad at a baby. Let it go. Henry finds me anyway.
“How hungry are you?” Henry scoots in across the table from me. “Slight change for tonight. My parents have date night. I forgot. They forgot. Actually, date weekend. It was planned months ago. They’re taking in a show in the city and spending the weekend there.”
“Oh. No dinner?”
“Yes dinner. We’re still on for meat loaf. Mom’s making all the stuff and they’ll probably still be at the house when you arrive. It’s just that it will be you and me. Claire’s still at school.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure how to feel about this. I really wish Claire was going to be there. I like her. Plus she’d be a good buffer.
“Tacos look gross. Panos, I don’t know how you can scarf them down.” Jeremy slams his tray down on the table.
I shrug, not quite ready to let him off the hook yet.
“So, Kimball, Ali seems to have a thing for you. I could feel her flirting all the way across the room at Bugle’s.”
Henry says around a mouthful of beans, “You think? Ev, you were right next to the action. In the epicenter, in fact. Thoughts?”
Shoving as much taco in my mouth as possible, I go, “Hmmmmm.” And nod.
“The Greek chipmunk over here agrees. This pool party is going to be very good for you, Kimball. A new hookup. A new regular for a new school year. You can be over Amanda for real.”
The Dangerous Art of Blending In Page 8
