“I heard the car and figured it was you. How was your date?”
“It was fabulous,” Aysel says as she and Mama come into the family room.
“Sit, sit. Tell us all about it,” Baba commands. And we all sit, Timur, Baba, Mama, Aysel, and me, eager to hear an account of my sister’s first date.
“Well,” she says, “Hasan is just the most beautiful man ever.” I think that can’t be true, because Gabe takes that prize. “He is a gentleman in every sense of the word. His grandmother’s nice too. We went to a Middle Eastern buffet downtown. I guess they are used to chaperoned dates there because they seated me and Hasan at one table and his grandmother at another. I kinda felt sorry for her, being alone, but she didn’t seem to mind, and I wanted to be alone with Hasan.”
I bet you did. I look to Timur to try to read his thoughts on this, but he is silently appraising Aysel’s story, not revealing himself in any way.
“So—the food was amazing. And I learned a lot about Hasan’s family. Yes, their ways are stricter than ours, but one of the first things he told me was that I didn’t have to wear the hijab on his account. He hadn’t said that when we’d had coffee the other day, so I figured he was glad I was wearing it. I must have looked disappointed because he quickly added that he was pleased I was wearing the hijab. He said his mother and father were no doubt very happy that he had found an obedient Muslim girl.”
“Obedient?” I laughed.
“Hush, Kerem,” Mama said. “Aysel, darling, what did he mean by that?”
“I guess I frowned when he said that, because he quickly rephrased his comment, careful to make sure I understood. ‘That was a poor choice of words. Even in our family, we don’t demand that a wife be subservient. That’s not in the Quran.’ Then he went on to say he used the word obedient because in the old country that’s what the culture would demand. His mother seems to me to be very independent. She has her doctorate and teaches at the university—in the pharmacy school.”
“I wonder if I know her,” Baba says. “I’ve been to the pharmacy school to speak on the latest advances in meds for my heart patients. What’s her name?”
Aysel rolls her eyes. “I guess I’m just the ditz you always say I am, because I don’t remember if Hasan ever said her name.”
“Love, you may be a ditz, but you are my ditz, and I love you,” Baba says.
“I know, I know, Baba.”
“And besides,” Baba adds, “I’ve never seen a Muslim woman there. I assume she’d be wearing a hijab, at least.”
Aysel nods. “I think so. I haven’t met her personally yet. But a hijab would probably be right. His grandmother certainly was covered from head to toe.”
Mama nods at that.
“What else happened? Did Hasan take you in his arms and plant a big smackeroo on your lips while performing a to-the-floor dip?” I rib her.
I hear a slight hmmph from Timur. Is it an amused reaction or disgust?
“Kerem! Nothing like that. I’m not sure Hasan has that in him, and certainly not on the first date, not with Grandmother training her eagle eyes on us.” She looks at Baba and Mama, who have smiles pasted on their faces. “Besides,” she reassures them, “I was brought up right. There will be nothing heavy going on until after I’m married.”
“Which will be a long time off, inshallah,” Mama says prayerfully. Inshallah means God willing, and I know Mama is hoping God’s will is that Aysel’s marriage is several years from now.
“Of course,” Aysel mumbles, not very convincingly. I think she has fallen for this guy. “Well, I am exhausted, so I think I’ll go up to bed.” She stands, inquisition over.
As she kisses Baba’s cheek, he intones, “Sweet dreams, benim küçük kızım.”
Somehow I think those sweet dreams will be filled with Hasan.
Aysel says good night to me and Tim. He nods, not showing any emotion.
She kisses Mama, who offers a similar benediction, and then my sister waltzes out, caught up, like Cinderella, in the memories of her night at the ball.
“I’m turning in too,” I declare. “Night, Baba; night, Mama.”
“Good night, my love,” Mama replies and Baba nods to me.
As I begin to nod off, I’m aware that a dream is just beginning. And playing the starring role in this night movie is Gabe. I guess Aysel won’t be the only one with sweet dreams tonight.
Chapter 6
Timur
MY AUNT and uncle are good to me. They are not as devout as my parents were, though. They have tried to make me a part of their family, but life here is not like home. They are good Muslims, I tell myself—try to convince myself. Not as strict as my family was, but good nonetheless. This is something I repeat over and over in my mind.
But they are not my parents. Kerem is not my brother. Aysel is not my Delal. And they could never be.
I miss my family all so much. Their lives here in America were so hard. My father was not a doctor like Uncle. In the old country, my father was a master stonemason. He was sought out. He worked for the rich, the powerful.
But my brother got sick. Zeheb contracted a rare blood disorder. The doctors in Turkey did what they could for him, but Mother felt that care in the United States would far surpass the care Zeheb was getting at home. She and Father pled their case to Uncle Aram.
After years as a citizen, Uncle was able to bring my parents to America. At first Zeheb responded to treatment. Life was good, I’ve heard, for I was not born yet. It was not as good as the life Uncle and Aunt had, but Father did start a business. He was not lauded for his stonework here, but he was able to put a crew together and secure contracts for bricklaying. Mother stayed home, caring for Zeheb, and later Delal and me.
But things took a turn. Zeheb got weaker and weaker. His kidneys began to fail. Because of his blood disease, dialysis was not an option. At first he spent a few days in the hospital, then a few weeks, and as his condition worsened, the months before his death, Mother never left his side.
Father would take us to visit, and Mother would come home to shower and change clothes, but that was while Delal and I were in school. I missed her so much.
As Father spent more and more time on the job, trying to make money to pay for Zeheb’s treatment, my sister and I were left alone. Delal was getting older, and she was out of the apartment more and more when Father and Mother weren’t there. She was supposed to be watching over me, but she knew I would not tell, so she left for hours at a time.
On our visits to the hospital, even I noticed that Mama was not well. She winced in pain sometimes when she thought I wasn’t looking. But she never said a word to any of us.
At last, at the age of seventeen, my brother Zeheb—which means “gold” in Turkish—died. My parents had lost their golden boy.
As is Islamic custom, Uncle and Father prepared my brother’s body for burial, and he was buried within forty-eight hours of his death. Father was heartbroken. His eldest was gone.
Mother returned to the apartment in mourning. She tried to take care of us. She tried to correct the failings she saw had developed in her daughter during her absence. She tried to pour her love on me, her youngest. But in the end, she was not up to the task.
She was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, a cancer that could have been stopped had it been caught early enough. But she was too devoted to my brother’s care to tend to her own. She passed away, and a part of me went with her.
Delal acted out more than ever after Mother’s death. And Father had no idea what to do with his rebellious fifteen-year-old daughter.
That was when he arranged the marriage.
Chapter 7
Gabriel
THE LOUD pounding on my bedroom door startles me from a white-hot dream.
“Gabe, get your lazy butt up! You plan to sleep the whole day? Did you forget about the lawn?”
Dad insists I be the official groundskeeper of his vast estate. I groan, trying to wake up, wishing I could turn over and go ba
ck to Kerem’s arms—even if they are only dream arms.
“Do I have to come in there?”
I yawn.
“I’m talking to you, son. Answer me.”
Dad’s great, but he can be an overlord sometimes. I smile, realizing he had to do his own grass cutting all summer long. No wonder he’s rousting me out of bed now. He wants to reestablish his authority in all things lawn care.
“I’m awake,” I shout. “Why do you have to raise such a ruckus at dawn on a Saturday?”
“Check your watch, son,” he yells through the door. “It’s ten already. You could have had the job done by now. Get up and open this door. I want to make sure you are among the living.”
Cursing him for interrupting the only kind of sex I will ever have with Ker, no doubt, I haul myself out of bed, go to the door, and open it, rubbing my eyes, standing in nothing but my briefs.
“I may have changed many a diaper on you in my day, boy, but I don’t need to see your naked butt now,” Dad says. “Put some clothes on.”
I turn, grab a pair of gym shorts, and slip them on.
“That’s better. Your mother could have been lurking out here. She doesn’t need to see that.”
I yawn again, wanting him to go away so I can slip back into paradise.
“You do realize I let you sleep in?” Dad smiles.
I want to say, and do you realize you ripped me away from the man I love? TMI. Instead, I simply answer, “Yeah.”
“But the lawn needs cutting, and it’s your job. Just because we live in a fancier neighborhood now, I’m not about to hire a lawn service when my son can do the job much cheaper.”
“Like for nothing?”
“Like for a roof over your head and food in your belly. Besides, pushing the lawn mower was my job growing up, and now it’s yours. Just be glad mowers are gasoline powered now.”
I laugh at him. “Dad, they haven’t made a push mower since 1874, the year of your birth.”
He smiles slyly. “Now you got me. And for your information, wiseass, I was born in 1974, not 1874. You got your centuries wrong.” He suddenly pulls me into a hug.
“What’s up?” I say, trying to break away.
“I just realized I haven’t hugged you since the other day when you pulled into the drive from Mom and Pop’s. This new job’s eatin’ my lunch. I don’t have a moment to think, much less spend time with my only son.”
I love my dad. And I let him hug me for as long as he wants after that explanation.
Hug over, he asks, “So how’s school? You gonna like your new swim coach?”
“School’s great, and yeah.”
“A man of few words.” He smiles. “Your mother says you’ve already made a new friend, the neighbor boy? He gay too?”
Gotta love ’em, my parents. They get right to the point.
I think about that question. With regret. “Nah—at least I don’t think so. He’s Muslim.”
“Your mother said that. Really strict, is he?”
“Only sorta. Not as strict as some, but stricter than I’ve read they can be. At least American Muslims, that is.”
“Doing your research, huh?” My dad loves that I’m not content to just sit around and wait for knowledge to come to me.
“Reading up a little. Plus, Ker’s been teaching me.” I must have smiled a little too much when I said Kerem’s name. God, I hope my dick isn’t smiling too.
Dodged that bullet. Dad continues his interrogation. “Sweet on him?”
Sweet on him? What am I, a thirteen-year-old girl? Dad’s lingo definitely needs some work.
“Let’s just say that if something develops—and I doubt it will—I wouldn’t be unhappy.”
“Go for it, son.” Dad and Mom’s support is incredible.
“Now, get out of here so I can get downstairs to the lawn. No more questions. Especially questions you probably already knew the answer to because you and Mom talk all the time.”
Again, that sly smile. “I just like to catch up with my boy, not always hear everything secondhand.” And he leaves.
I pull on a T-shirt that’s slung over the chair, and I search for jeans in the pile of dirty clothes on the closet floor. Mom long ago stopped doing my laundry for me. Or at least that’s her edict: do your own washing. I wait until I have nothing left to wear before I cart it all down to the laundry room. When I hear the washer going. If I put it on the laundry room floor while she’s doing her and Dad’s stuff, she will usually do mine. That’s my mom.
As I finish dressing, I think of my dad’s question. Yes, I’ve been doing research. That’s the way I am. I haven’t found out a lot yet—certainly not anything about Islamic attitudes about homosexuality—but I do now know that PBUH means “peace be upon him.” So I don’t have to keep wondering about that—or ask Ker what it means.
My cell chimes, and I run to the bed table to get it, hoping it’s Kerem. So sure that it’s him, I answer, “I was hoping you’d call.”
“Well, isn’t that nice?” I don’t recognize the voice and quickly glance at the Caller ID: Lou Kramer.
“Lou, I thought you were someone else.”
“Apparently. But I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have known I have your number. Shaun gave it to me. Last night. At the party. He was drunk out of his skull, but he managed to pull up your digits so I could put ’em in my phone.”
I roll my eyes. Shaun’s on a path he shouldn’t be on. I’ve got to find a way to turn him around. Muslim-bashing, being on the verge of having your cousin punch your lights out, and getting plastered are not good things.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Lou says, breaking my immediate concern for my coz.
“Nah. It’s okay. Whuzzup?”
“Thought we could hang together for a bit. Today. About one? We could get a burger. Or something else. Whatever you want.”
Since Kerem’s the only friend I’ve made so far, I guess I really should meet him, even though I don’t know if I care.
“I saw a Fuddrucker’s outside Dornabrook Mall. Meet you there?”
“Great,” he says, “see you at one o’clock, sharp. I’ll be wearing a white carnation in my lapel so you’ll know it’s me.”
I laugh even though I roll my eyes at his lame attempt at humor. “Right,” I say and end the call.
The lawn hasn’t grown a whole lot since Dad cut it last, so that task, thankfully, doesn’t take long.
I shower and find some reasonably clean clothes for my “date,” a term I use loosely, because if Lou Kramer is gay, like Shaun seems to think, I’m not sure I want to lead him on. Then again, my abstinence is making me horny. That dream was not just a tribute to Kerem; I know it was fueled, too, by my need for release. Kramer might be willing for a one-off. Who knows? If he’s willing and his parents aren’t home?
He’s waiting outside when I get there, and—wonder of wonders—he does have a carnation pinned to his shirt. He points to it as I approach.
I shake his hand, do the shoulder-bump thing, and we go in. “Nice touch, that flower.”
“Didn’t want you confused as to who you were meeting.” He laughs.
We each order, and then we get our drinks. We maneuver to a table. There aren’t many people there, but I guess it’s a little late for lunch.
As we sit, I say, “So tell me about yourself, Lou.”
“First of all, I hate being called Lou. Sounds like a girl. My friends call me Kramer.”
So Shaun is a friend of this guy. Or at least enough of a friend to call him by his preferred name.
“Kramer it is.”
“Thanks. Okay, about me. I’m in the band. Tuba. I like Stephen King, cheeseburgers, and hip-hop. And I’m gay.”
He looks at me like he is begging for a reaction. I give him none. I don’t know what to answer. As far out of the closet as I am, I’m not ready for the rest of this meal to be about gayosity.
“What? You homophobic?”
“No, no, no,” I say. “Not at al
l.”
“Then why are you sitting there with a shocked look on your face?”
I thought I was deadpan, but I guess he sees otherwise. So I take the plunge. “I’m gay too.”
“I knew it! My gaydar never fails me.”
“I’m glad yours is working, because mine’s on the blink. I had no idea about you,” I say, ignoring what Shaun had said about Kramer.
“There’re four or five of us at Compton. I could introduce you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Closet?”
“Not at all. I simply prefer to let things come naturally. It’s that ‘you tell people when you want to’ thing.”
“I respect that.” Suddenly both our buzzers start buzzing, lights flashing. We pick up our food and head to the condiments bar. I’m seated before he returns with his tray.
He grabs his enormous burger, squishes it down, and takes a gigantic bite. He is still chewing when he says, “So have you read any King?”
I’m confused. I expected him to go on and on about gay this and gay that. That’s been my experience when I meet a new guy, but Kramer is more into his cheeseburger and reading.
“I have,” I answer. “I loved The Stand, and the two books he wrote with Peter Straub are way cool. In fact, I like Straub more than King.”
“No way. Straub’s good, but not as great as King.”
“Each to his own,” I say, taking another bite of my burger.
“Meet the coach yet?” Kramer asks.
“Yeah. Like you said, he’s a nice guy. I can’t wait to get full-on into working out. I’ve missed it.”
“There’s a gay guy on the team.”
“I know—me,” I counter.
“No, I mean there’s another gay guy on the team.”
“Well, don’t tell me. I want to see if my gaydar gets any better. And maybe he doesn’t want you outing him.” I finish my last bite.
“He wouldn’t mind, but I’ll let you discover for yourself. And I’ll keep your secret.” He slathers the last fry on his tray with ketchup, then stuffs it in his mouth.
You Can't Tell by Looking Page 6
