“That’s a sin. She has a right to be worried and to—”
“You read what she thinks is best for me. It’s just one notebook. There are others. Filled. Filled with what she’s done.”
He looks at me for a second with the face of a man who actually might understand. A man who can talk about this beyond what he has been taught by his church to say. Then that second is gone and he says, “We can all pray about this together. There’s healing in that.”
“She’s been getting away with this since I was five.”
His voice gets a little shaky. “Evan, we can figure out how to handle this. I believe we all want the same thing. The best for you. The best that God can offer. We can all talk about this.”
“Okay.” I attempt to pull myself together even though the level of anger I’m feeling accelerates my breathing. “I know how to do this. I do this all the time. Actually, this is what I do. I make everything okay. I make it all normal when it’s not at all.” I take longer, slower breaths.
“Prayer can be very powerful.”
“I’m going to be eighteen in less than two months. I can handle it.”
The pastor sighs. “That isn’t the right approach.”
Now I’m back to mad. “No. This”—I gesture with my hand around the room—“isn’t the right approach. You and this church are not the right approach. Even when you’re faced with the truth—when it’s right there in front of you in black and white—you pretend it’s something else. And I’m not doing that anymore.”
And I walk out.
twenty-two
Once we’re back home, I run to the downstairs bathroom and close and lock the door. I haven’t had a moment alone since church. On our way home in the car she kept checking on me in the backseat. Finally I take my phone out of my pocket. A bunch of texts from Henry:
When can I cu?
Tonight?
I tried calling. Know ur at church. Call when u can.
At least text me back.
I want to hurt her like she hurts u. I’m sorry. Plz call me.
There’s a text from Gaige:
Heading home. If I come here 4school maybe we can hang.
There’s also a text from Jeremy and a video:
Panos, ur boy is back in da game! U lft when it started gettin goooooood! Tlk 2morrow.
What the fuck is Jeremy talking about? I click on the video. It won’t load. Reception down here is stupid. I leave the guest bathroom and quietly open the door right next to it that leads into the garage. I try again. It starts to play. It’s a video of Henry. There’s a close-up on his face. What is he doing? The image pulls back and my heart stops and I go ice cold everywhere. It’s a video of Henry making out with Ali. Like, going at it. I can hear Jeremy laughing and then a hand covers the camera, and Henry’s voice says, “Shut that thing off, asshole!”
I drop and sit on the garage floor, feeling sick to my stomach. I trusted Henry with so much. I felt safe confiding in him. Maybe that’s the problem. I gave him too much all at once. More than he could handle. I feel nauseous and stupid. I stand up, lean over, and throw up.
“Evan!” I can hear her from upstairs.
I get back inside and yell upstairs, “Just a minute. Bathroom.” I run into the bathroom and grab a towel to clean up the mess in the garage. Then I run cold water from the bathroom faucet over the dirty towel and toss it into the washing machine on the other side of the guest bath. I turn it on.
“Evan! Hurry up.”
“Coming.” From the bathroom sink I splash some water on my face, take a gulp from the running tap, rinse, spit it out, and then head upstairs.
My mother is flustered. She’s moving everywhere, hands waving, barking orders at me. I move like a robot, trying to push the image of Henry and Ali out of my mind.
There’s a knock at the door. My mother says, “That’s probably your father, and his hands are full. Get that.”
I walk to the door and open it.
At first, I think I’ve conjured him up. Henry. He says, “I know you don’t like people to come over, but I’m—”
My eyes go the size of Frisbees. “You can’t fucking be here.”
My mother’s voice: “Is that your father?”
“It’s just Henry. He needs to give me something before school tomorrow. I forgot some homework at his house.” I shoot an Are you fucking kidding me? look at him and pull the door almost closed behind me. I whisper to him, “This is the worst timing ever.”
“I know.” His voice sounds small.
“Asshole! We have church company coming over in less than twenty minutes. Sundays. Every Sunday. You know that.”
And of course suddenly my dad is there, lifting a couple of bags of ice out of the trunk of his car and calling to us. As he comes up the walk, I say, “Henry’s here to drop something off I need for school tomorrow. Mom can use your help. I’ll be in soon.”
“Okay. How are you, Henry?”
Henry smiles at him.
“Dad. Mom really needs help. People will be here soon.”
“I get it. Calm down. Going in now.” He heads into the house through the garage.
“Ev, you didn’t return my texts and I tried calling. So many times.”
“No. Not now.”
He stops and looks at me, as if he’s just seeing me. “You look so handsome in a suit.” He smiles. That smile. That fucking smile.
“What? Fuck you.”
“I can’t say something nice? What’s going on?”
“Did you say something nice before you started making out with Ali? Right after I left?”
He closes his eyes. “Ev, that’s not what—”
“Jeremy sent a video. It was awesome. Thrilling, actually. I’m an idiot.”
“Ev, no.” He tries to get closer to me.
I step back. “What are you doing? Who are you?”
“I just freaked out. Okay?” He attempts to reach for me and I flinch. He retreats.
“There’s a reason why I don’t tell people things. I can’t trust anyone.”
“No. You can!”
“You have to leave for so many reasons. And if you read all of the stuff . . . I entrusted you with the truth . . . the guy I thought you were . . .” My voice breaks. “It doesn’t matter. Please have my notebooks for me at school tomorrow, and you owe it to me to not say anything to anyone about what you know now. You owe me at least that.”
“Please, I get it. Ev, let me explain!”
“No. It’s my fault. I know better.” I hold myself steady. “Do. Not. Text or call me!” I close the door in his face and run up to my room as quickly as possible. I take off my suit and tie and put on a pair of jeans and my Converse Chucks.
“Evan?”
“Be right out, Dad. Changing.”
“I set the table, but check to see if it needs anything else.”
I fling open my door. “I’ll check it right now.” I head toward the dining room, my dad following behind.
“Nice to see Henry.”
“Yep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Where’s Mom?” I scan the table.
“She’s changing.”
“I think we may need dessert plates. I’ll get ’em.”
“You should have asked Henry to stay. His family had you over for dinner the other night. We should have returned the favor with—”
“Are you kidding, Eli?” My mother enters, holding her left wrist out. He proceeds to clasp her bracelet as I’m carrying in dessert plates.
“No, it would have been nice.”
“This is a good Christian crowd. The right kind. We don’t need that element in our home. It’s enough he sees him at school and when they do tennis.” She looks over the table and then at me. “Those jeans are too tight.”
“They’re the only ones that aren’t in the washer.” I start to place the dessert plates on the table.
There’s a knock at the door. She frowns at my father. “Ugh. Eli, g
et that.” She stares at me. “Then pull your shirt out. No one needs to see all that.” She moves to pull the shirt from inside my pants and I instinctively jolt away, dropping the remaining plates on the floor. The crash happens quickly, but I see it as if it’s happening in slow motion. I turn to look at her. Her face is calm and she smiles at me. I can hear my father down by the front door. “Welcome. Welcome.” She turns away from me and heads for the door. “Thank you so much for coming. Don’t you all look wonderful.”
The evening is our version of dinner theater, except there are no mistakes. Everyone remembers their lines and hits their marks. Once dinner is done and every guest is escorted graciously to the front door, I help my mother clean up. She looks at me as I’m gathering dishes from the table and says, “Honey. You look so nice tonight.” She strokes the left side of my face. “Thank you for being so good this evening.”
I’m not sure what was different, but I say, “You’re welcome,” as I continue clearing the table. My dad’s outside having a cigarette.
“You’re so much like me. We love beauty and understand its power. It’s why you draw and make your room nice.” She’s wrapping the leftovers individually and making a precise cluster out of all of them. All grouped together, they look like a little town. “I want you to know that I appreciate that. I see that. You’re special.” She puts down the dish she’s working on and comes over to where I’m standing and hugs me. She must still be processing my kiss with Gaige. Maybe this is a new technique, and it’s completely freaking me out.
“Mom, I don’t feel very good. Is it okay if I go lie down?”
“Go. Do you want me to make you some chamomile tea?”
“No. I just need to sleep.”
“Okay. Night, honey, and thank you again for tonight.”
This behavior scares the shit out of me. I close the door behind me and grab some paper and a pencil and get into bed.
Three months later
twenty-three
Sometimes everything moves so slowly that it can feel like getting through one day lasts a year. The past couple of months have been the opposite of that.
Our house sold in an instant, once it was put on the market. We’re now in an apartment across the lake. The Lakebridge Terrace Apartments in the Lakebridge Estates. There is nothing estate- or terrace-like about any of it. It’s tract homes where every third house looks exactly the same and there are five different floor plans and exteriors to choose from. All with names like Woodbury, Castle Glen, Montague, Burling Crest, and Fawn Meadow. A made-up English-sounding community that has a 7-Eleven and a Pizza Box as its anchors in the community strip mall.
Halloween has come and gone, and we’re gearing up for Thanksgiving. My birthday was the usual awkward family celebration. According to my parents, now that I’m a “man,” and due to our dwindling finances, I work at the deli on the weekends and on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday after school. I can occasionally pick up extra hours on Monday and Wednesday. I don’t mind. I like working. I managed to save $1,000 and was planning on using it to purchase a 1994 Toyota Tercel two-door coupe manual four-speed in light blue. The body’s in good shape with just a few scratches. The driver’s seat has a very long, clean cut on it that was “fixed” with duct tape. It’s still on display at Dick’s Used Cars and Trucks on Wolf Road, the main street that runs right outside our subdivision.
But my mother found the money. She made me give it to her. For bills, she said. I thought about telling my dad, but there was a part of me that felt good about it. Not about keeping it from him, but for contributing in some way.
According to my mother: I don’t need a car. Where would I go?
I have my journals back and now they’re all (but one) reburied near the monastery.
I avoid Henry, even though I haven’t been able to erase the memory, the feeling of that first kiss—no matter how much I’ve tried.
I’ve been drawing more than ever.
I go to church on Sunday.
But after that day with the pastor, it’s like the truth scared him. He and my mother don’t speak as often. Maybe he feels guilty. He should. I’m not sure he knows how to talk to either of us anymore. So he avoids us instead.
Gaige only texted me three more times and I didn’t respond. He stopped.
Everything is back to how it was.
And I’m finally eighteen.
twenty-four
One of my favorite things about working at a deli is making sandwiches. I have my own personal way I love to create a sandwich, but customers usually have very specific ideas about what they want. I have no problem with that because the best part of all is watching people bite into something they enjoy. Like eyes-roll-in-the-back-of-their-head enjoy. To know that I did that—made something that someone really loves—is a pretty awesome feeling. And it makes me think I may not be such a bad person after all.
Today is Sunday and I get to be here all day, which I like. Usually it’s a church marathon day for us, but there’s one thing my parents understand better than church, and that’s work. The deli closes early on Sundays, and after I’ve cleaned up I can go home and be alone.
Mr. Lowell owns the deli. He was a customer at the 7-Eleven in our subdivision when I used to work there. He came in almost every day and one day he asked me if I liked working there. I told him it was okay, but that I wanted something with more hours, more money, and more to do. He offered me a job.
“Evan, check the inventory to see that we have enough ham and all the cheeses for next week. It’s entertaining season. We’re going to be getting orders for party platters.”
“Going right now.”
I start toward the walk-in locker. Before I enter, I hear, “Excuse me, is Evan Panos here?”
I don’t turn around. I recognize the voice and instantly start to feel warm and queasy. I quickly dive into the locker. It’s cold, but I don’t mind. I like it in here. I make a game out of taking inventory. I pretend that I’ve been captured by a rival spy agency, because I’m a spy now, and I have a plan to escape from this locker they have placed me in. I have just a few minutes (usually three) to find my way out and steal their agency secrets . . . which are hidden in the meats and cheeses.
The door to the locker opens.
It’s Mr. Lowell.
“Henry is here for you. How’s the inventory?”
“It looks like we can use three more hams and probably at least two more blocks of cheddar. The rest we’ll be good with. But I want to take a second look. Tell him I’m busy and he can go. He doesn’t have to wait.” I lie, “I’ll call him later.”
I go back to taking visual inventory of the roasted turkey, the provolone, the salami. I hear the door close behind me. I stay in there for as long as I can stand it.
I come out and announce, “Yep, looks like we’re all good except for the ham and cheddar.” I scan the place and it’s Henry-free. We close in five minutes, so I should be safe.
Once outside, I’m reminded how much I love fall. I try to walk when I can in order to take in the light, sky, and leaves. Plus it’s just the right amount of chill and sun. I don’t have to deal with a heavy coat and all the other stuff you need to keep track of. I can smell wood burning. Maybe I’ll stop at the 7-Eleven and get a drumstick.
As I make my turn onto Wolf Road toward the subdivision, I hear a car slow down and pull up behind me. It stops.
I glance over. Glance away.
“Evan.”
I stop, trying to tamp down the thrill I feel. I’m disappointed that he still has this effect on me. I slowly turn around. “Henry.”
“Didn’t mean to freak you out.” He gets out and walks toward me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m stalking you.”
“Fuck you.”
Henry’s eyes are not meeting mine as he says, “I’m an asshole.”
“Go on.” He can be difficult to resist, so I keep my distance.
“I miss you.”
“No. Really.” He starts to move closer.
“No. Stop right there. You can’t get any closer.”
He nods. “Claire is really pissed at me. She thinks I messed up big-time and I did. Mom and Dad too.”
“You told them about us?”
“Ev, this feels like I’m losing something, someone.”
“Well, you are. Maybe you already have.”
“Paaaaaaaaannnooooooooos!”
Fucking Jeremy. He either has the world’s best timing or the worst. In this moment I can’t tell which. I hear the sound of bike tires rushing on the rocky pavement.
“Kimbaaaaaall!”
Jeremy swooshes past me so fast I almost get knocked to the ground by the sheer force of his speed. He punches his brakes and skids, for what seems like forever, until stopping and then whipping around to look at me, then Henry. He’s about fifty yards ahead of where we’re standing. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m completely annoyed with Jeremy right now for interrupting, or maybe relieved.
I yell, “What the hell are you doing? You almost ran right into us!”
He starts pedaling back toward me at a normal speed and waves at us. Even from this distance, I can see his big, dumb grin. I’m shaking my head and giving him one of those ridiculous looks that instantly make me seem like his disapproving father, not his friend. At times, I do feel like I’m an old man trapped in this teenager’s body.
Jeremy’s next to us. “Panos!” He looks over my shoulder. “Mr. Kimball.” He feigns some sort of bow. “You coming from work, Panos, or are you two on a romantic afternoon stroll?” If only he understood the irony of his words.
I say, “What are you up to, besides trying to run over people?”
He gets off his bike. “Just out for a ride. I was bored. You’ve been working a lot lately.” He looks over at Henry again. Henry attempts a smile, but it does very little to hide his unhappy eyes. “Seriously, what are you doing here, Kimball? Slumming with the working class?”
“Nothing. Just ran into Evan on my way—”
The Dangerous Art of Blending In Page 12
