The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

  My dad nods and says, “She just wants things to be perfect, and right now she thinks . . .”

  “I’m broken.”

  He stares at me. I wait for him to say something, to tell me I’m not broken, that she’s broken, she’s the one. But instead he leans back a little and reaches into the right front pocket of his jeans and pulls something out. He places it on the counter. “It’s still on the lot, but it’s been paid for. I got him down to seven hundred fifty dollars. Can you believe it?” He takes another sip of coffee.

  I stare down at the keys. The key ring is a bright-yellow plastic band with Dick’s Used Cars & Trucks stamped in the middle of it in black lettering on one side. The address and phone number for Dick’s is on the other.

  “He’s obviously closed today, but he’ll be open tomorrow. It’s a big day for him, the day after Thanksgiving.”

  “Dad . . .” I don’t really know what I’m about to say, but I feel I need to say something.

  He’s looking straight ahead. “You’re going to need it.”

  “What does Mom—”

  “She doesn’t know yet. I’ll take care of it. Pick it up when you want.”

  As we walk into the apartment my dad announces, “We brought doughnuts!” My dad places the box on the kitchen table.

  From the bathroom, my mother’s voice: “Be right out. Just drying my hair.” She comes out still wrapped in a towel, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Both of you come here.” She’s walking toward the living room. She has three skirts and three blouses each on a separate hanger and they are all draped over the back of our burgundy velvet wingback chair.

  “Which outfit?” She pulls out the first option—a black-and-white-checked wool skirt with a modest slit on one side and a black V-neck blouse with long sleeves. She holds it up to her. “This one?”

  The contradictions sometimes are crazy making. She constantly berates me for not being the “right kind of man” and yet she has wanted me to style her hair and pick outfits for her since I was five.

  My dad examines it and sits down on the sofa before adding, “It’s good. I like it. Classic.”

  “Or this one?”

  The next outfit is a camel skirt, very boxy, almost sacklike with a white cable-knit sweater on top and a paisley scarf.

  I make a face and say, “It’s washed out.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge.” She holds it back up again.

  “Evan’s right. That does not look good. Too blah.”

  She tosses that outfit aside and gathers her last choice. She holds it up. “This is your last option!” It’s a navy asymmetrical skirt with white stitching on the pockets and around the waist. The blouse is a white, turquoise, and green geometric print with a high neck and a solid black horizontal three-inch band all around the bottom. This one is the most interesting and works best with her coloring.

  “This is the one,” I say, and head to the kitchen for a doughnut. I grab a chocolate glazed and walk back into the living room. “I’m going to bed. I’m tired. Have a good time.”

  My mother smiles at me. “Get rest. Don’t forget to eat when you get up. There’s a pastitsio in the freezer.” And she turns to iron her blouse.

  thirty-five

  In the dream, I’m standing in the center of the statue room in the monastery except that only the statue leading the way is in there with me. He’s closer to the window than he has ever been. His hands are outstretched and his fingertips are touching the glass. I look around and wonder how the rest of the statues were moved and where to. I walk closer to where the remaining statue is and look out in the direction he’s facing. And there are the rest. They’re outside, assembled across the lawn.

  The Army is scattered all about. The others are just past the wall that surrounds the property. I move right beside the one inside. He’s still looking out the window, but now he seems even closer to it. His hands look like they can break the glass. It feels warm and stuffy in the room. I smell smoke.

  I turn around and the place is on fire. I can feel my body heating up, yet my legs are frozen.

  The sound of glass breaking shakes me out of it. I turn to look at the statue next to me. Both of his hands are outside the window. The Army is lined up against the outer wall and I can barely make out the others.

  Boom!

  Boom!

  I’m startled awake by loud thumping. For a minute, I don’t know where I am. I look toward my bedroom door. It’s open. My parents must have opened it before they left. The thumping is getting louder. It’s coming from the front door. It seems like I’ve been asleep for a week. I actually have to place one of my arms against the hallway wall to steady myself. What the hell?

  I stand up as straight as I can and feel the soreness on the left side of my body. I must have received more blows on that side.

  “I’m coming!”

  I press myself up to the door and look through the peephole. I open it slowly. He’s standing there holding two large, brown grocery bags and sporting half of his usual full dimply smile. His eyes are sad and sparkly at the same time. Inside I’m bursting with joy at the sight of him, but I awkwardly try to contain it.

  “You have to let me in. It’s a holiday tradition that if someone shows up to your house with turkey on Thanksgiving, you show them in or . . .”

  Henry holds up the bags.

  “Or what?” I say, half smiling back at him.

  “Or they just come in anyway.” He walks in past me, making his way into the kitchen.

  I look outside, in all directions, just in case my parents are out there somewhere, before closing and locking the door.

  “You can’t be here.” I’m trying to convince myself that I want him to leave, even though I don’t. I want him here. With me.

  He’s unpacking all these containers. “And you cannot not have a traditional holiday meal. Plus my mom would destroy me if I didn’t drop this off. She spent the past twenty-four hours making and packaging all this.” He removes the last container, which looks like it’s some sort of sauce. No, it’s gravy. Mrs. Kimball packed gravy.

  “Is that why you’re here? Because she’d be . . .”

  He turns around and puts his right hand firmly behind my neck. He’s inches from my face. His eyes are wet and I can tell he’s holding his breath.

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  He kisses me, pulls me even closer, and I can feel him right up against me.

  I wrap both my arms around him. We’re in the kitchen and the thought that this is happening in my parents’ house right now should make me nervous.

  But it doesn’t.

  “I love you, too.” He whispers the words.

  I put my head down and onto his chest. He kisses the back of it.

  I lift my head and look at him. I take short, quick gulps of air, trying to stop the tears from coming.

  “It’s okay.” He is looking right at me, both his hands on the back of my head. “You can cry. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

  As he finishes those words, the seal rips apart. Tears come streaming down my cheeks, and his hands move from the back of my head to either side of my face now. It’s as if he’s trying to catch them.

  Is this what it feels like to be safe, to have someone care no matter what or who you are?

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  I take Henry’s hand and lead him to my room.

  thirty-six

  We’re both naked and under the covers. Henry is on his side, looking at me and smiling.

  “That smile is a problem,” I say.

  He smiles bigger.

  “Seriously. I’m going to need some sort of shield or barrier from it.”

  “You seemed immune to it for years. How is just now a problem?”

  “That’s just what I made you think.”

  He starts to tickle me, which he quickly realizes is not a good idea.

  “Ow!”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

&nbs
p; “Some moves I can’t do.”

  “Lucky for me the ones you can are very enjoyable.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So, you went into avoiding mode the last couple of days.”

  “I was embarrassed.”

  “I’ve never had anyone fight for me like that or yell out that they love me. It was . . .”

  “Embarrassing. Mortifying. Humiliating. I came out in a video and told the whole school I’m in love with you. My big moment and I have no memory of it.”

  “At least we have it on video.”

  “For the entire world to see.”

  “I have to say, you pummeling those guys was kind of a turn-on. Is that wrong?”

  “Just don’t expect it as a general rule. As you can see, I didn’t exactly walk away unharmed.”

  He says, “Come here.” I lean into his chest. “I don’t want you doing anything like that again. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make light of it.”

  “It’s all crazy. All of it.”

  This. Henry. Me. Henry and me. Here. In my bedroom.

  “Any word from your parents?”

  “I think my dad knows. He bought me a car.”

  “What?”

  “That ’94 Tercel. He said I’m going to need it.”

  “Does your mom . . .”

  “She doesn’t know about the car or school. Yet. Believe me, I’d know it if she did.”

  Henry takes a deep breath and widens his eyes.

  I say, “We should probably eat and then you have to go. What time is it?” I reach over to my bedside table for my phone. “Just after six.”

  “They’ll be out till at least ten, don’t you think?”

  “I think, but I’d rather be safe.”

  I get up and start to put my clothes back on.

  “Do you have to do that?” Henry asks.

  “What?”

  “I just like the way you look.”

  For as long as I can remember, my mother has told me the opposite. She actually looks for specific negative physical details to point out. When I was little she’d run her right index finger down the bridge of my nose to the tip. She wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting my father’s hook, as she called it. I didn’t need another disadvantage on my already ugly face.

  I lift up my boxers. Henry gets up and walks over to me. He puts his hands on my waist and stands as close as possible.

  “Your legs are gorgeous. I don’t want to stop looking at you.”

  “Just my legs?” I tease.

  “Everything, Evan Panos. Everything about you is gorgeous. I’m going to the bathroom. Meet you in the kitchen.” He kisses me, slips on his boxers, and exits.

  I open the doors to my closet and look at myself in the full-length mirror. I’ve never really looked at my body, I mean really looked at it. So much of my identity has been based on other people’s views of my physicality that I’ve never really wanted to look.

  Whenever I step out of the shower, I always put a towel around all of me as quickly as possible and avoid catching my image in the mirror. When I happen upon my reflection in a store window I’m always startled by the person I see. I skillfully avoid being in photographs and I never take any selfies.

  But right now, standing here in front of my mirror, I force myself to take a long look. To see what Henry sees. I notice my chest, my arms, my waist, and then I lift my boxers to expose more of my legs. It’s like discovering something for the first time.

  Maybe I’m not so ugly after all. Maybe no one is really ugly, and maybe no one has the right to call someone that or tell them that they are. Maybe the only real ugliness is what lives inside some people.

  I close the doors and head out to the kitchen.

  Henry goes, “We even have a whole pumpkin pie.”

  “We’re not going to eat a whole pie. You have to take the rest home.”

  “Mom wanted to send it over for you and your family. It’s Thanksgiving and she thought—”

  “My family wouldn’t understand.” I start setting the dining room table. Henry enters the dining room carrying plates of food and puts them in the center of the table. I go into the kitchen and take silverware out of the drawer.

  As I set the table, I channel my mother. “Sit down—we should start. This looks incredible. I can smell the stuffing.”

  Henry loads his plate with turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and gravy. I watch as his fork weaves past the cranberry jam that’s in the middle of the table.

  “Your mom is not going to be thrilled knowing you’re not taking any of that.”

  He shoots me a look. “You and my dad are the only two people I have ever met who like that shit.”

  We eat in silence for a minute, and the food is good, like really good.

  Finally I say, “They’re okay with you not being with the family?”

  “They wanted you at the house with us, but they knew you had to rest.” He says this between mouthfuls of turkey and mashed potatoes. “Plus I was there all morning for the Kimball Thanksgiving breakfast and I’ll be there tonight for another round of pie or something.”

  I pour gravy over my potatoes and take a bite. “This is the best meal I’ve ever had. Maybe the best anything I’ve ever had.”

  Henry raises his eyebrows. “Better than . . .”

  “Almost.”

  “It’s hard to tell—you’re kinda making the same sound.”

  “Shut up, Kimball.”

  “Ugh, don’t last-name me like that. That’s a Jeremy thing.”

  “Sorry. Let’s not talk about him right now. Actually, let’s just focus on what’s happening here. This feels like . . . I don’t know, it’s . . . this meal is perfect. Please thank your mom for all this.” I wave my fork over the whole table and then point it at Henry and make a circle around him. “Thank her for all of this!”

  We both laugh.

  “Tess would die right now,” I say.

  “What?”

  “She has a major crush on you. You know that, right? She told me. She’d fucking die.”

  Henry shakes his head in disbelief and says, “So, am I not going to see you this weekend?”

  “Not avoiding. Just don’t know.”

  “Keep me posted?”

  I nod. “I have to work. Weekend after Thanksgiving—going to be crazy at the deli. On Sunday, well, you know. Sunday.” I help myself to another scoop of mashed potatoes. “How were the albino squirrels?”

  “Claire said she saw one. I never saw them. They avoided me as well. Maybe it’s me?”

  “It’s not you. No one—not even squirrels—would want to avoid you.”

  Henry half smiles.

  I get to see half the dimples.

  “I never wanted to avoid you.”

  He full smiles and says, “When are you going to pick up your car? And what did you say to your dad?”

  “I don’t know, and not much.”

  Henry puts his fork down. “What are we going to do about Monday? About going back to school?”

  I was hoping to avoid the subject, because I don’t know what to do.

  “Ev, everything has changed. The whole school knows we’re gay. You’re in this situation because of me and now we . . .”

  I set my fork down. For some reason, right this moment, it’s all clear. I hear myself say, “We just tell the truth.”

  Henry looks at me.

  “We can’t go back and all of a sudden pretend—”

  “I don’t feel comfortable dragging you into this,” he says.

  “I’m not going to pretend that this isn’t happening. You saw the video. I don’t want to go back to the way things were before.”

  I pick up my fork and stab some turkey. I focus on bouncing it in and out of my mashed potato mound until it’s covered with them. I look up at Henry. “Everything has changed and I’m glad.” Maybe I’ve changed too.

  I put the giant mashed potato–wrapped turkey into my mouth and start chewing.


  Henry is laughing. “You look ridiculous.”

  I chew with my mouth open so that Henry can see the mashed potato literally oozing out. I try to speak. “Ith thaa a pobum?”

  “You’re my problem. You’re a real problem.” Henry is looking at my ludicrous mashed potato–filled face as if he’s simultaneously seeing the most amazing and gross thing ever.

  He gets up and walks over to where I’m sitting and proceeds to kiss me, fake passionately, while mashed potatoes are flying out of my mouth.

  “Stop it.” I can’t keep from laughing. The more I try to stop, the more potatoes and bits of turkey go flying. “I think I just snorted some potato. C’mon!”

  He stops trying to make me laugh and takes a napkin and proceeds to wipe the rest of my face. We both catch our breath. Henry gets down on his knees in front of my chair and rests his head on my lap.

  “Ev, I’ve wanted this for so long. I can wait a little longer if you need more time.”

  I run my fingers through his hair. “You think you’re the only one who wanted this?”

  And it hits me. It’s always been Henry.

  Always.

  thirty-seven

  It’s a little after ten p.m. and they’re not home yet.

  I’m lying flat on my bed with one of my pillows half on my head and half off. I can still smell Henry’s hair on it. After he left I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror for a really long time. The bathroom has the brightest, harshest light, and I wanted to make sure I saw everything. Had anything changed? Did I look any different? I couldn’t tell.

  I hear the sound of a key turning in the front door, of the front door being unlocked. I get up and stand in the middle of my room. I’m so nervous. Why am I so nervous? Oh yeah, because I just had sex with a boy. Not just any boy—but with Henry Luther Kimball.

  The boy I love.

  And the sky isn’t cracking in half, and God isn’t striking me down. And I am still standing here when I hear my mom’s voice calling me.

  I head out to the hallway and see them in the living room. They look like they’re in an okay mood. This is a positive sign. My dad’s on the sofa. He’s kicked his shoes off and my mom isn’t yelling at him to put them in the closet. Another good sign. Already we’re off to an A-plus start. She’s standing in front of the velvet wingback chair and removing her earrings. She spots me.