“Um, I’m good. Thanks.”
I’m watching Henry with Ali look like they’re having a good time. I’m not swimming but my head sure as hell is.
Tess leans in toward my left ear. “I want to ask you something.”
I nod.
“Hey, guys, we need to see about starting a pool volleyball thing. Right?” Jeremy swoops in, clueless as ever. He genuinely wants to play volleyball. He links his arm with Tess’s and then walks up to Kris and links his other arm with hers. They’re being whisked away like contestants on some game show they had no idea they were part of. As they’re walking away I hear, “Panos, get your ass out here and play with us!”
Tess and Kris finally break away. “Jeremy, you’re an asshole, and I don’t want to play volleyball, at least not with you!” Tess heads back toward me.
Jeremy tries to shrug it off and says to no one in particular, “Let’s get some volleyball started.” He turns around briefly and yells in Kris’s direction, “You may want to join us for this, Jorgenson. It is your area of expertise, after all.”
Tess wastes no time. “Okay, now that that’s over, let me just get—”
“She has a crush on Henry,” Kris blurts out, and then looks at Tess and shrugs. “Sorry, I had to. I was afraid you were never gonna do it.”
I snort-laugh a little, relieved that it’s not me. Tess glares at me, then at Kris. I’m completely blown away. “What’s happening?”
Tess looks right at me intently. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I have had a crush on Henry since moving to this boring-ass school. You’re always around him. You know him better than anyone, and now that Amanda is out of the picture . . .”
“Well, there’s Ali now.”
“Ali is merely a simple distraction. I can take care of that.”
I say, “Listen, I gotta get out there and—participate.”
Tess seems excited about this idea. “Oh, brilliant. Get out there and separate Henry from Ali. She has had him cornered since he got here.”
And I go.
Just do this. Be normal.
“Henry. Ali. Thanks for inviting me. It’s great. Place looks awesome.”
They stare at me. She’s visibly not happy about me showing up.
“Hi, Kevin.”
“Evan.”
“Right.” She laughs. “You were the one who loved my mom’s landscaping. She’s over by that fountain. She had to be here.” Ali rolls her eyes big before continuing, “My last party got a little out of hand, so now we’re being chaperoned. Cute. Anyway, she’d love to talk to you more about it.”
Nice. She’s clearly trying to shoo me away. Henry gets the girl and I get landscaping.
“You should probably grab something to eat before all the good stuff runs out. I need another go-around myself. Be back.” Henry smiles at Ali. He looks at me and motions with his head to follow him toward the kitchen.
“I didn’t think you’d show up,” says Henry.
“There was a moment . . .” I try to be cool, but it just comes out sounding sad.
“Really?” He sounds surprised.
“Can we go inside for a minute?”
At first I think he’s going to say no, but then he says, “Okay.”
Somehow we’ve bypassed Tess and Kris and we’re standing in the middle of the most 1980s bathroom ever. There’s a crazy-big whirlpool tub in the corner with two giant spotlights above it. The shower is trimmed in brass, as is the large Hollywood-style light bar above the mirror and sinks. I don’t even know what I’m going to say, but everyone outside and all this back and forth—Go. Stop. Talk. Don’t.—is messing with my head.
Suddenly he leans in. Hard. He puts both of his hands on the back of my head and plants an awkward, sloppy kiss on me. I push him back. I smell alcohol on his breath.
“Henry.” I pull away.
He slowly pulls back and looks at me, his hands still on the back of my head.
“What?”
“I don’t want to get caught. In here.” Plus not like this. Not here in Ali’s house. “Have you been drinking?”
He removes his hands from the back of my head and puts two fingers up to his lips. “Shhh.” Then laughs.
“You have. Where’s alcohol? Ali’s mom is . . .”
“Shhh . . .” He leans in, trying again to kiss me. I squirm as he puts his hands on the back of my head, this time running his fingers clumsily through my hair. Shit. He feels the bumps. I wince and move away.
Suddenly he’s focused. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“It’s nothing. It’s from my fall. From before.” I pull away.
“Ev.”
I raise my shoulders, trying to create some sort of release. Something. “I wasn’t sure I’d come today, and when I decided to, I didn’t know what I’d do. Say.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I just had a few drinks. I needed to loosen up.”
“This isn’t the right time to talk about this.”
“Fuck you! It never is.”
My eyes go wide and for a split second I’m scared. Not scared of someone hearing us in here, but scared of Henry. His face instantly goes soft before he says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
He has no idea that I live with a constant fear that any kind of confrontation will lead to violence.
“I messed this up, didn’t I, Ev?” He tries to get closer.
“You were right, Henry. There’s so much I don’t tell you.”
We look at each other.
“I’ve got something to show you. It’ll explain a lot and it’ll probably make for more questions, but it’s the only thing I can think of.”
“Henry?” Ali’s voice comes through the door. Shit.
“Be right out.” Henry looks at me with a What do we do now? face. I motion for him to go out. “Just a second.”
From the other side of the door: “What?”
He walks out, shutting the door behind him. I stand there listening.
“I was looking all over for you. Just wait for me. Don’t run away.” The door opens. As I’m standing there.
“Hi, Ali.”
Her mouth drops open. “Evan?”
Henry re-enters. “We were looking for a Band-Aid.” He seems perfectly sober right now.
“What?”
I quickly put my hand up to my head where the cut is practically healed. “I thought it was all better, but . . .”
“It opened right back up,” Henry offers.
“I didn’t want to go in the pool and bleed everywhere, so . . .”
“Why didn’t you guys”—she looks at me, at Henry—“just ask me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know, so stupid . . . I think I have one in my backpack.” I fly out of the bathroom and head toward the entry hall. Henry follows me. Ali’s still in the bathroom. Please let it still be there.
I grab my backpack and dig out a small Band-Aid from the front pocket. Because of course I have one. I always have one, just in case. I tear it open and place it on my head.
“I’m going to get going.”
“No need. Once Ali comes back out we can all—”
“It’s only going to make things more awkward. Plus I took the day off from the deli today for this and I could still probably rush over there and grab a few hours. I need the money.” I unzip my backpack and reach inside. “We can talk later. Here. Take these. For better or worse, these journals will explain a lot.” I hand Henry my five notebooks. The sixth one, the one currently in play, is still in my backpack. Do I give that one over as well? He looks at me.
And then my hand is reaching into my backpack and I’m pulling out number six. If everything is going to collide I might as well go for it.
“Here.” I hand him the last notebook.
“Henry?” Ali is coming. Henry bends into the closet, sticks the notebooks into his travel bag, and pulls out a towel.
“Are you leaving?” She looks at me suspiciously.
“I have to work. But it was an awesome party. Thank you.”
twenty-one
Getting ready for church is always a big deal. We have to get up extra early so that we all look as pressed and perfect as possible. My dad and I have to wear a suit and tie and my mother is either in a dress or skirt-blouse-blazer combo. We look like a Greek political family about to do a press conference.
My mother enters my room. We still haven’t spoken about what she did to my artwork. Apparently she said all she needed to. I feel nauseous and angry. “Let me take a look at you. Still haven’t picked a tie?”
“This one.” I hold up a navy tie with a graphic print of small turquoise flowers outlined in white.
“No. Here.” She reaches into my top dresser drawer and pulls out a politician’s tie. Stripes. Navy, Greek-flag blue, and white. “This is more appropriate.”
She comes over to me, raises my shirt collar, and starts to knot the press-conference tie around my neck. “Your father and I are happy to hear you worked yesterday.” Working is the only thing that can get me out of church and other activities deemed worthy of my time. Being lazy is just as evil as being ungodly.
“But you didn’t get enough time with Gaige, did you?”
My mind is reeling. What’s going on?
She stands back and admires her handiwork. “Looks nice.” And then: “Good clothes hide a lot of ugly.” She pats my head and then runs a single finger down the bridge of my nose and stops right at the tip. “Did you see your friend Gaige?” She then puts her hands in mine, starts to hum, and leads me in a slow dance. She’s smiling. I follow her lead but am completely confused. We’re dancing around my room, she’s still humming, and my head is throbbing. “You can pass for handsome if you try.”
“Well, look at you two. Smiling, dancing, and looking good.” My father enters. My mother releases my hands and twirls to show off her outfit and newly fluffed hair. “Very nice, Vee.”
I can barely hear what he’s saying because I’m so focused on trying to figure out what she knows.
My dad says, “You look very handsome, young man.”
“That suit helps. Give us a minute, Eli.” She smiles at him and he walks out.
She takes my hands again and this time slows down until we’re cheek to cheek. “Did you miss your boyfriend? The one you seduced?” My hands instantly go cold. The tone in her voice doesn’t change. “I showed your diary to the pastor and he told me what was in it.” She pulls back and looks at me with cold, hard eyes.
“When did you? How?” My throat tightens.
“You’re not the only one who can be sneaky. You forget that thing at home sometimes. I need to know what you’re doing behind my back.”
“It’s not what you— Nothing happened.”
“It’s my fault. I assumed that Bible camp would be a place to be with people are are right. Good. But evil can be anywhere. It’s always in you, so it doesn’t matter where I put you.” She sits on the edge of my bed and gently adjusts her hair with her left hand.
“Mom, it was nothing.”
She’s not looking at me. Her voice is steady. “I’m not sure what to do. I mean, clearly Gaige is not a boy who is of God, and you will never see him again, but I don’t know.”
“About?”
She lifts her head. “You.” She exhales slightly, gets up, and stands in front of me. With her high heels we’re almost closer to being eye to eye. She places a palm on each of my shoulders. “Pastor Kiriaditis said that it’s probably a phase. He wants to talk to you after service.” She flicks imaginary dust off my shoulder. “Like it will just—poof—go away.”
“It was a mistake. I’ll talk with him. We can pray,” I offer desperately.
What else did the pastor tell her? Did he read everything? It had to have been the last journal. The others were buried. Damn it, Evan. Remember what else was in there.
She cradles my face with her hands. “Let’s go to church. You look very handsome.” With that she turns around and exits. I stand there waiting, terrified.
My dad walks in. “Sleep okay?”
Still stunned. “Sure.”
“What’s wrong? You’re white as a wall. Sick?”
“Just my stomach.”
“Probably something you ate at the pool party. We’ll be down in the car.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. Nothing. Not a single text. No Gaige. Most of all, no Henry.
Sitting in church I think of all the other kids my age who come here. I only see them when we’re at service. I wonder, are any of them gay? At least one.
Phase. Pastor Kiriaditis called it a phase. Gay. Will I ever be able to hear the word without the stigma?
Without shame?
My mother’s nails dig into my left leg. She leans in to me, smiling and scanning the room to make sure no one is watching. “Stop daydreaming.” She catches someone’s eye and smiles bigger and waves. “Don’t embarrass me.” She grabs a hymnal, motions for me to do so as well, and then we all stand. We start to sing. I roll my eyes covertly. She sings louder.
Objectively, my mother is tone deaf. So am I, but I know it. She thinks she has a beautiful singing voice. Listening to her sing is one thing, but watching her sing is a thing to behold. Like her favorite singer, Céline Dion, she sings with abandon, with closed eyes and lots of head swaying. I glance over and catch my dad’s eye. He sees me, smiles, and puts his right index finger to his lips.
Once service is over, everyone starts buzzing about, and my mother turns into the most social person here.
I tell her, “I’m going to see Pastor Kiriaditis.”
She nods. “Good.”
“I’ll meet you back up here once I’m done.”
I knock on the door to the pastor’s office.
“Come in. Sit down,” he says from his plain wooden desk. For a church that can be big on dramatics, the décor is surprisingly sparse. It’s one of the things I miss about the Greek Orthodox Church—the pomp, the circumstance, the over-the-top interiors and all the showmanship.
We look at each other, and even though I’m pissed and all I want to do is silently brood, of course I have to fill the silence. “Everything okay, Pastor?”
“I’m not sure where to begin, Evan.”
“I heard you read my journal.” All of a sudden, in this room, I don’t care what he thinks anymore. Let him know the truth—all of it.
“She told you?”
“This morning.” My voice is firm.
“Your mother asked me to look. I didn’t think it was right, but then she said she was worried about you. Worried that you are troubled and that you may try to hurt yourself, so . . .”
“I wasn’t going to hurt myself, Pastor. It was her way of getting you to read it.”
“I realize that now.” He seems uncomfortable.
“You told her about what happened with Gaige?”
He nods. “I told her you needed prayer, like most boys your age, and that you are probably conflicted about your sexuality.”
“What else?”
He goes silent.
“Pastor?”
“That’s all. I said everything else in there was about school. Your future. Things like that.”
“Did she ask about anything else?”
“She saw the drawings of her. The one where she’s standing over you.”
He looks conflicted, but not because he doesn’t know what to say but more like he doesn’t know what to do. “She wanted to know if there was anything in there about her. About your relationship. I told her that there wasn’t anything specific.” He looks right at me when he says, “It was more general. Things most kids feel about their parents.”
He lied to her. There’s nothing general in the journals. Maybe he’s more astute th
an I’m giving him credit for.
“Did she confess to anything?”
“There’s a trust between a pastor and his—”
“You read my journal. She took it from my room. Where’s that trust with me?”
He exhales. “She said that she may be hard on you sometimes but that it’s only because she wants you to be a good son. A godly man.” He stops for a few seconds, then adds softly, “Not a homosexual.”
I can feel myself getting angry.
“Evan, I told your mother—and, I believe, the Bible tells us—that homosexuality is a sin.”
“The prayers didn’t change anything.”
“You have to continue to pray and look to God for answers and strength.”
I rub my palms on each pant leg in an attempt to dry them. Between feeling nervous, then mad, then confused, my body has decided to respond with lots of sweat. “She didn’t tell you anything else? Did she tell you what our relationship is like? Between me and her?”
“When sin is involved sometimes harsh measures are needed, and dedicated action is proper.” His words come out flat.
I can feel myself getting angrier with every sentence. “Pastor. With all due respect, I don’t think you understand.” My phone is vibrating in my jacket pocket.
“Maybe a family conversation. All of us in the same room with the word of God.” He drops his head a bit. I stare at him. My phone keeps vibrating. Fuck.
He looks down at his hands and says earnestly, “Evan, God can help you.”
“Where’s he been, then?”
He raises his head and looks at me. “He’s always here. We’re the ones who turn our backs.”
“I’ve done almost everything right. Almost always.” My voice is cracking. My phone vibrates again. I start to cry but quickly pull myself together. “Where is God when she beats me?” And then I start crying again. “You read that, right? I know you read that.”
His eyes well up slightly as he says, “She wants you to be your best self in God. She believes you tried to lure another boy at camp.”
“I didn’t lure, seduce, or do anything to anyone. It was a kiss. Just a kiss.” I’m sobbing now, my voice cracking. “And you told her about it. You didn’t have to. You didn’t . . .” I stop because the tears take over and my voice gives out.
The Dangerous Art of Blending In Page 11
