There’s a car I don’t recognize in our driveway. I enter our house with a slight feeling of dread.
“Evan, you’re home just in time. Come up, honey, and say hello to Tina.” She’s always so charming when we’re pretending to be the picture-perfect Greek family.
I walk up the stairs as slowly as possible, one. Step. At. A. Time. She meets me at the top of the stairs half mouthing, half whispering, “I tried calling you. The Realtor is here. Behave.” She gives me a look. My dad is seated on the sofa in the living room, trays of food spread out on the coffee table. Tina, the woman who must be the Realtor, is sitting, facing my parents, in the wingback chair. I drop my backpack and smile because I can be picture-perfect too.
“Come here, hon.” My mother takes a seat next to my father and pats the space next to her on the sofa.
Tina turns to look at me. She smiles. She’s very blond. The kind of blond a lot of the dark-haired women in my family wind up becoming. It’s almost white in some parts and then reddish yellow in others. Her eye makeup is heavy with lots of eyelashes and frosted lips. I know this is not a look my mother approves of, but she’s shaking her tambourine and making it all seem so “lovely.” I smile at my dad and take a seat next to my mom. Too late, I notice my backpack. Across the room. The backpack I should have put away in my room.
“Evan, honey. Don’t forget to put away your things.” When Tina turns to stare at my backpack lying on the floor, my mother takes her right hand and digs her nails into my left arm. Squeezing harder and harder. I sit there. Quietly. I know the drill. Don’t flinch. Don’t move. Don’t say a word. Tina turns around and my mother’s hand relaxes on my arm. It looks like she’s patting it.
“Voula, you should see my house. I’d be embarrassed. I can never keep up with my boys.” She laughs. “I’ve just given up. What can you do, am I right?” She shakes her head. The way she does it, you can tell she loves her boys in spite of how messy they are.
“Tina, you’re so right. It’s just a house.” The fakeness in her voice is so obvious to me, even if no one else can hear it.
Tina says to me, “Your family has a lovely home. Your room is beautiful. Your mom says you did all that yourself.”
“He’s artistic, our son.” My mother laughs and looks at me lovingly.
“Well, we were just wrapping up here. Voula, Eli, any other questions?”
“We’ll talk about it and get back to you in about a week or so. Voula? Evan?” My dad looks over at my mother and then at me. I have questions that I don’t ask because my questions don’t belong here.
“I thank the Lord that you are here to help us, Tina.” My mother stands up and goes to hug her. “Please, you must take the rest of the spanakopita and pastries.” She leaves to go into the kitchen.
“Oh, Voula, I can’t! They’re delicious, but Evan just got home from school. He’s probably starving.”
“Don’t be silly. I made these for your family. You must take these to your husband and beautiful boys. Evan has food.” She enters the living room holding a few plastic to-go containers and a shopping bag. “Here, I will pack up for you. Your nails are too pretty for you to mess with kitchen chores.”
“Your mother is an amazing cook and baker. How are you not fat?” Tina waves her hand at me. Her hand smells of roses. Not real ones, but the drugstore-perfume kind. It’s nice. She waves her hand at the top of my head, near the Band-Aid on my forehead. She reaches out, as if she’s going to touch it, and I pull away. “What happened?”
“Tennis. He plays tennis. And rides his bike.” My mother hands Tina the bag of neatly packaged foods. “He’s a clumsy boy. But he’s fine.” She comes over to where I’m standing and pulls the right sleeve of my shirt down over my arm, to match the left one. Long sleeves. Always long sleeves. “Eli, help Tina to her car.” My dad dutifully obliges.
“Thank you again, Voula. Nice to finally meet you, Evan.”
“You too.” I pick up my backpack and head to my room.
“Evan!” My mother loud whispers once they are out the door.
“Coming.”
I find her in the kitchen cleaning up. “You know not to leave your stuff all over. What did you think of her? Help me tidy up before you do my hair.”
“She seems nice.”
“She’s a whore. Did you see how much makeup she wears? Her cheap hair? Hand me that tall glass. It has her lipstick all over it. I have to scrub it to get it off.”
“She goes to our church? I’ve never—”
“Pastor told your father and me about her. Her family attends the later service on Sunday. Too lazy to be up for the Lord in the morning. At least she’s Greek. Half Greek, but she understands the language.”
My dad enters and starts up the stairs.
“We’re in here, Eli. What did she say to you?”
“She thinks it won’t be a problem.” He reaches into the oven for a leftover piece of spanakopita and my mom swipes his hand away. “But I’m hungry. You gave all the food away.”
“This is for dinner. I’ll make a salad with it.”
“Okay.” He turns to me. “What time do you want me to take you to Henry’s?”
“We can leave here around five thirty.”
“You still going? You’re going to leave again?”
“Mom, it’s just dinner with the family,” I lie. “Nothing big. I can do your—”
“They’re not Christian people.”
“They go to church.”
“Not the right kind. You know that. I’ve tried for years to witness to them. The mother and daughter wear pants and they let that boy have long hair. Like a pousti! You like being around poustis?”
“Voula!”
“The Gaige boy sounds like he comes from a more proper family. Why don’t you spend time with him? In the right way.” She shoots me a look. “You avoid the good and always seek the evil.” She spits in my direction three times. “I wish you were never born.”
This one is a classic. I’ve heard it so often that it’s like saying good morning. It doesn’t have the impact it used to. I wish I wasn’t born either. At least not to this.
“Voula! Enough. What did I say?”
“What? I have no right to be upset? We’re selling the house and . . .” She begins to cry. “I’m going to take a very quick shower. I’ll call you when I’m ready for you to help me with my hair.” She leaves the room, wiping her eyes.
“You know what, she’s just—upset. Selling the house is a big deal.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“The thing is . . . it’s not.”
My eyes get wide. “What?”
“She has to stop. I told her. It’s got to stop.”
“You told her?” I can feel myself holding my breath.
“No more. Right? No more. You have to tell me if she . . .”
“What did she say?”
“Do you like Gaige?” His eyes are getting smaller.
“Dad?”
“You need to be careful. What you say and write.”
“Oh.” What does he know?
“She wants me to read your journals. I’m not going to do that. I want you to know.”
I’m shocked that he’s talking like this. Or that he’s talking at all.
He continues, “I promised a long time ago to protect her. To make sure she doesn’t suffer anymore. I should have made the same promise to you.”
“Dad.”
“Evan.” He gets closer to me and whispers, “I’m having some trouble managing. It shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t have to . . .” He moves back. “I’ll be in the backyard when you’re ready to go.”
Breathe.
From the bathroom: “You ready?”
“Be there in a few.”
I grab the curlers from the hall closet and head to the bathroom. She’s seated in the tub with her back to me. She’s facing the tile. I stare at the back of her head as she removes her shower cap. Her hair is so thick and shiny. I want to love her. I want her to love me. But she hates who I am—what I am.
“Hurry. I’m getting cold. Don’t do everything like a lazy girl.”
“Do you want a towel for your shoulders?”
“Don’t you think I would have put one on there if I wanted one? Plug in the curlers.”
“Plugged in.” I sit on the edge of the tub and start to comb out the back of her hair. I used to fantasize about strangling her. It’s so barbaric. Even now, thinking about it makes me shiver a little. How does a thought like that live inside me? Instead, I just sit here, combing her hair.
“How was school today?”
I proceed with caution. “Good.” Wait. When she doesn’t say anything, I keep going. “Mr. Quinones, our art teacher, wants to see more of my drawings.”
My art is a trigger for her. I know it’s a trigger, yet here I am talking about it. Maybe I want her to react.
I wait.
All she says is, “Why?”
“He thinks a gallery in Chicago may be interested in taking me in as an intern.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He thinks I have talent. It could lead to a job.” I continue to run the comb through her hair.
Her voice is soft and precise. “You do. God-given talent.”
My hands shake a little. “Yes.”
“We are proud of the talent God has blessed you with. We are, your father and I. We look out for you. I look out for you. You may not think I do. But I only want what’s best for you.”
You only want what’s best for you.
She moves her head back and forth, reminding me to comb through more than one area.
For a minute, neither of us speaks. Then I say, “He thinks that I can do something with my art. Have a career with it.”
“Are you sure God wants you to use what He gave you in this way? In a way that disgraces your family?”
I push. “How would this disgrace my family? This is a good thing. A really good thing.”
I can see her shoulders tense and raise up slightly. My heart is racing.
“At least talk about it with Dad?”
She jerks away, turns around, and frowns at me. “You will not tell your father anything. You tricked him into letting you go to that house tonight and that pool party tomorrow.”
“I didn’t trick anyone into—” In a flash, she is up and now her hands are on my head. She grabs me by the hair and slams my head into the tiled wall with all her might. Pulls it back and slams it into the wall again. “God, are you testing me?” She releases her grip and I fall to the ground.
I’m holding the side of my head.
I’m lying on the bathroom floor.
She stands over me, clutching her towel. She bends over my body until her face is almost touching mine. She places her right hand on my left cheek and caresses it gently. She lowers herself down to the floor and kisses my forehead. While still pressed onto my forehead she says, almost prayer-like, in a whisper, “God has blessed you with so much. I am here as your guardian of all those blessings. I love you. So much. I will pray about your art and see what God tells me to do.” In the same low, hushed voice, she continues, “You will not say anything to your father or anyone. Use the bathroom downstairs and wash yourself.” She releases her lips from my skin and looks directly into my eyes. “You fell off your bike.”
I am in the guest bath looking at myself in the mirror. This is when it’s helpful to have this head of hair. This ridiculous hair, even with a short haircut, can camouflage the worst of clues. I feel under the hair where my head met with the tile. Bumps. I look at my fingers. A little blood, but nothing that I can’t deal with. I’ve dealt with more. I know how to be numb. I open the medicine cabinet and grab the aspirin. Pop two into my mouth, run the sink, and stick my head under it. I take a big gulp of water. I move my whole face and head under the cold running water. It feels good. Like what just happened is being rinsed away.
“Evan? Are you downstairs?”
“Just washing up, Dad.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
He wants me to tell him. He wants something different. Right now, I’m scared of what something different will mean. I towel dry my face and hair. I mess up my hair, pushing it around, trying to do something presentable with it. I stand back and look at myself in the mirror.
I try to look casual.
I smile.
Too much teeth.
I smile with less teeth.
I practice being normal.
I run up to my room as fast as possible and close the door behind me. I take off my shirt and open my closet. What do you wear that says everything is okay? As I stand there sifting through my closet, it hits me for the first time that I have a uniform. Mostly dark, long-sleeved shirts and dark jeans. No real color. Everything is black and navy. I grab a navy button-down shirt and put it on. I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside one of the closet doors. I should probably change the Band-Aid on my head. I peel it off. It’s looking much better. Maybe no Band-Aid at all. I grab my backpack, then stop. I open the drawer that has all my books in it. I move some out of the way and grab the biggest one. Hidden inside are sheets of paper. At least a dozen drawings, all kinds, that were once part of different notebooks. I’ve torn these out and saved them. I look over them quickly. Can I give any of these to Mr. Q?
I like the way my dad’s car smells when the windows are down. A mix of motor oil and leather. You don’t smell the cigarettes as much with the wind blowing in.
“Thanks for helping with Mom’s hair. It means a lot to her.”
I nod but say nothing.
“What did you two talk about?”
I look straight ahead. “Just the house, mostly.”
“Do you need any money for anything?”
“No. It’s just dinner at the house—we’re not planning on going anywhere.”
“We should bring something. You should bring something. Right? Mom usually bakes something to take, but she was busy.” Busy being horrible. “We’ll stop at Geffy’s and pick up dessert.” He pulls into the grocery-store parking lot and parks the car. “I’ll come in with you. I need to pick up butter. You can pick out whatever you think is right.”
He knows.
He knows something happened in the bathroom. He’s trying to make up for it. He’d probably give me his car if I asked him.
I say, “You can get something. I’ll wait here. Cheesecake is always a safe bet.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. If not cheesecake, then a cake. Everyone likes cake. Thanks, Dad.” My heart is breaking but I know he’s trying in his own fucked-up Dad way. I watch him walk away, across the parking lot. This tall, solid, handsome man who has had no backbone for so long.
I don’t want to be like him. He’s numb most of the time. I want to feel.
I pull my visor down and check my reflection in the mirror. I’m practicing normal. I smile into the mirror. What will I say to Henry? My eyes are the problem. They’re usually a giveaway. I’m losing my ability to separate all the different parts of my life. I take out my phone from my backpack and text Gaige:
Just checking—u still want 2go 2party tomorrow?
I’m hoping something came up. The last thing I need right now is all these parts of my life intersecting. Why not invite my family to the pool party? Hell, let’s get the pastor and church involved too. I look at myself in the mirror again. I smile. Bigger. I try to smile with my eyes, but my eyebrows keep doing some weird thing when I try it. Is my mother right? Am I that ugly? My phone starts to buzz. It’s Gaige. For some reason I answer it. “Hey.”
“I’m all in for tomorrow. Any chance we could do anything tonight?”
“Cool, but tonight I’m . . . I’ve got something.”
“Damn! How late is it going? I can pick you up after. You know, maybe?”
“I can’t. My parents, church stuff.” What I’ve learned over the years is that if I ever want to get out of something all I have do is work the words church stuff into a sentence. It’s a guarantee to instantly becoming the most undesirable person—even to other church kids.
“Uuuuuugh. You are such a cock tease. I didn’t want to have to get online for . . .”
What? A kiss has turned into . . . what’s this? I look out my window. “My dad’s coming. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?” I hang up and smile in my dad’s direction.
The door opens and he climbs in. “Here. Take this.” He hands me a bag. “I got a cheesecake and a cake. Something for everyone. There’s butter in there too. Take it out and put in the backseat. I don’t want to forget it.”
“Thanks.” Two desserts? He knows.
“Flip it up.”
“Huh?”
“Your visor. It’s down. Were you checking the hair?”
“It’s short and I just . . .”
“Looks good. Was that Henry on the phone?”
I stall slightly. “Gaige.” How is he so observant all of a sudden?
He pulls out of Geffy’s parking lot and onto the road. “The hair’s good. He did a good job. Nothing to worry about.”