It’s Thanksgiving week, and walking to school the Monday before the holiday feels like a waste of time. It’s really a do-nothing week. Everyone’s so focused on being off for the holiday and the food. But maybe it’s the crisp air, or the thought of the other day with Henry—whatever it is, today I’m feeling energized.
As I approach the entrance to the building, I notice everyone clumped together.
“Hey, Panos!” Jeremy breaks from one of the clusters and heads my way. “Where is Kimball? Dude, did you know about Henry? He really is a big gay boy, apparently.” Jeremy says it loud enough for everyone to hear. I’m suddenly feeling queasy—nervous and scared for Henry. And for me.
Tommy Goliski chimes in from near the door, “He’s not just a big dickhead, he wants one!” A bunch of laughter, because they’re a bunch of easily amused idiots.
I look at Jeremy and he’s snort-laughing. I’m disgusted. “Jeremy? What are you—”
“Panos, he’s your friend. You guys spend soooo much time together. What’s up? Huh? You know what’s going on. You have to.” He gives me a knowing look and then winks. He’s reached a whole new level of douchery right now. One I may never forgive him for.
“They’re probably butt buddies.” Tommy smiles at me, and it’s not a nice smile. “Is that why Henry’s not in school today? His ass hurt too much?”
More laughter.
I say, “You guys are pathetic. You don’t know anything about Henry.” I sound calm, but my palms are sweating. And maybe the back of my neck. And my armpits. I start to walk toward the entrance—concentrating on one foot in front of the other—when Tommy grabs me by the backpack and spins me around.
“You know, I thought I could help you, but I can’t fix a faggot.” He continues spinning me as hard as he can.
Someone in the crowd yells, “Gay boys like it rough. Throw him to the ground!” I can’t tell who says it because I’m whirling like a thrill ride at the Kalakee Harvest Carnival.
Suddenly I’m on the ground and Tommy and Scott Sullivan are kicking me, and Lonny Cho is trying to pull my pants off. I can see Jeremy just standing there. Why the fuck isn’t he trying to help?
“They were probably doing it all this time,” someone else yells, and then they’re imitating Henry and me talking to each other.
“Do you want to play tennis this weekend?”
“Only if you bring the balls.”
“Don’t I always, big boy?”
Roars of laughter, and from what I can tell, more people are gathering around. Humiliating. My pants are around my knees—luckily my underwear is still on—and Tommy and Scott are now trying to flip me over on my stomach. I’ve worked so hard to protect myself, to not be exposed, to keep from making any waves at all. And now it feels like my whole world is crashing down around me.
“He’s probably used to that position!”
Is that Jeremy? I can’t tell anymore. My face is pressed to the concrete, and like that, I go flashing back. I hear the chanting of my mother and her church friends as they try to cast out the demons.
I am not evil.
I am not bad.
They are the bad ones.
The more Tommy and Scott try to push me into the ground, the angrier I get.
In a flash I see my mother holding me underwater, in the ocean. I can’t breathe. Her hands are firm on my face as I jerk around. Suddenly, like images in a flip book, I see:
FLASH: My mother’s firm grasp on my hair as she drags me from the living room into her bedroom.
FLASH: Her foot on my back, pushing me closer to the kitchen floor.
I grab hold of Tommy and Scott, and with strength and anger I didn’t know I had, I push them off of me and onto the ground. I yank my pants up, leap to my feet, and then I unleash it all—all the anger, all the hurt, all the rage that has been building up inside me every time my mother has raised her hands against me. I let it all out.
And then I black out.
I open my eyes and I’m looking at ceiling tiles. White ceiling tiles with little pinholes in them. I scan the room and realize I’m in the principal’s office on his sofa. I try to move but my chest hurts.
Why does my chest hurt?
Right, I was kicked there a lot.
Suddenly I can feel the throbbing in my jaw, nose, head, hands, and legs. I close my eyes and try to will myself to black out again and wake up somewhere else with different surroundings and circumstances. Maybe a different life. The door swings open into the room and I slowly open my eyes again.
“Mr. Panos, you’re awake.” Principal Balderini pulls up a chair and sits next to me. “How are you feeling?”
“Um.” I try to sit up and immediately feel dizzy.
“Evan, please just lie down. The nurse cleaned you up and everything has been bandaged. She doesn’t think you broke anything.”
“Okay.” I just lie there looking at the ceiling and wondering, How the hell do I explain this?
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I was attacked.”
“The others said you attacked them as well.”
The more I open my mouth to speak, the more I realize how much it hurts to move it.
“How many stories are there?”
“Well, Scott and Tommy have their version and then there are a few opposing ones from the crowd.”
“I was trying to protect myself.”
“Protect yourself from what? Why did they attack you?”
I lie, “I don’t know.”
“We’re going to investigate this. Apparently there’s some cell phone video as well.”
I mutter under my breath. “Great.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t feel great. It hurts to move my lips.”
“Luckily, as I said earlier, you haven’t broken anything as far as we can tell. Your parents are outside and ready to take you to the doctor for X-rays and home. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We do not tolerate any kind of violence in this school. But for the moment, I just want you to be well. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just so you know, there could be some long-term suspension that you and your friends may be facing.”
“Suspension?” I slowly get up and am now sitting on the sofa.
“We’ll talk about that later.”
I look away from the principal. I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that after every beating I should become as silent and as small as possible.
“Evan?”
I’m still looking away as I say, “I didn’t start this. I was attacked.”
I look at him now. He’s studying me.
“Who? Who started it? Tell me.”
I don’t say anything.
“We’re going to investigate and find out what happened here. At the very least there will be a suspension. Across the board. It’s a holiday week and right now you and the rest of those involved will be suspended from school until the Monday after Thanksgiving. I’m going to review everything that happened and we will all reconvene next week.” His voice is firm yet calm.
I shake my head slightly and softly say, “Not fair.”
“Now would be a good time for you to open up.”
“It’s difficult.”
“Evan, you’re a good kid. You never get into trouble. You maintain a very level presence. Don’t let this one-time mistake define you. Just tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know. I blacked out.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then: “Maybe the video holds some answers. Okay? You may still have to speak to the police about this. Fighting on school grounds is a serious offense. I’ll keep you and your family informed.”
“Okay.”
Mr. Balderini gets up and puts the chair back, then extends a hand in my direction. “Here, let me help you up.”
I grab his hand and lift myself up. I notice for the first time that my knuckles are raw and my hands are all scratched up. I’m standing next to the sofa. “Thank you.”
“Evan, if there’s anything else, anything you remember, please call me.”
My parents are right outside the office. They both take one look at me and their eyes widen. I haven’t seen what I look like yet, but I’m figuring this would have worked better about a month ago for Halloween. I know my mom is going to be very upset that I won’t look my best for Thanksgiving.
“Evan, let’s get you home. You have an appointment with a doctor tomorrow.” My father extends his hand.
“I can walk. Not too fast, but I can walk.” I try to smile a bit to show that I’m okay. My mother looks horrified.
We get to the car, and once the doors close she bursts into tears. “What happened, my beautiful boy?”
I’m stunned.
“Evan, are you okay? What happened?” My father is looking at me from the rearview mirror.
“Where’s my backpack?”
My dad says, “It’s in the trunk.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The principal. We have it.”
I feel around in my pockets and my phone is still in there.
“I bet String Bean is involved in this somehow. You cannot hang out with that boy again, do you hear me?”
“Vee, how could he? He’s his best—”
“Don’t be stupid.”
I stay silent.
“They’ve ruined Thanksgiving. These boys. Ruined it. How are we going to take you anywhere looking like this? How are you going to be able to go back to work? You can’t work looking like you do!”
Here’s the deal about never being authentically loved by your parents: The most fucked-up gesture or morsel of compassion is like a warm blanket.
The rest of the ride is in silence.
In my room, I unzip my backpack. I let out as big a sigh as I can and quickly realize that it hurts to exhale or inhale, unless I do small, short breaths.
The journal is still there.
I can hear my parents arguing in the living room. Usually when they fight, I get as close to my door as possible and listen to see if she’s mad at him. It’s oddly comforting to hear them fighting about something other than me. This time, I know it’s about me. I don’t listen. I walk over to my closet, open one of the doors, and look at myself in the full-length mirror. Not as bad as I thought. I’ve looked worse. I have a bandage on my nose with a little dried blood coming out of my nostrils. My eyes are black. My jaw looks a little bruised and swollen, my lips are a bit beaten up, and I must have a cut over my left eye, because there’s a bandage there.
My phone is vibrating. I take it out and look at the screen. It’s Henry. I don’t pick up. I take out my journal from my backpack and begin to draw. I draw my face. Not as it is right now, but without any cuts, bruises, or scars. It’s clean, strong, and calm.
I can’t hear my parents anymore. I wait. I listen. It sounds like they’ve stopped fighting. Shit, that means I’m going to have company. I quickly shove the phone back into my pocket. My door swings opens and they both come in.
“We’ve been invited to Helen and Dean Boutouris’s house.” My mother says this as if they have received a White House invitation and like we all don’t already know it. Repeating good news is a thing.
The thing about Thanksgiving in our family is that as much as everyone loves food, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when they wing it at the last minute. No planning, no traditional Thanksgiving feast, just a wait-and-see-what-happens attitude. And if we don’t get invited somewhere, we’ve been known to drive the streets of Illinois on Thanksgiving Day looking for an open restaurant.
This is the same family that literally cannot let a Wednesday go by without an all-day menu planning and cook fest, no matter how much they have to work. They will shop, cook, and feast—as long as it isn’t Thanksgiving!
I’ve wanted a traditional sit-down Thanksgiving meal for as long as I can remember, just not with my family.
“I’m so tired and I feel really . . .”
“Would you rather stay home?” Mom strokes my hair and rests the palm of her hand on my left cheek. She turns to look at my dad. “It may be best for him to rest.” He looks at me, nods his head, and sighs. She turns her attention back to me. “I’ll make you your favorite, pastitsio, okay?”
My pocket is vibrating again.
I try to casually place my hand over it and speak louder in order to muffle the sound. “Mom, you don’t have to. I know how busy—”
“Don’t be silly. I want to. Look at you. You should rest and eat.” She goes over to my bed and turns down the covers. She pats the pillow. “Here. Get in bed. You need your rest. I will get all the food ready for you for the big meal. All you’ll have to do is heat it up.”
My dad clears his throat. “You should probably get some rest. Your mother and I are going to go to the grocery store to shop for the week. Rest. Please.”
My mother says, “You have an appointment at Dean’s medical office tomorrow at twelve fifteen.”
“What?”
“Dean’s a doctor and our friend now. We called Helen when this happened—”
My dad interrupts her. “You called Helen, not we.”
“I made an appointment for you at his office. He’ll see you tomorrow to make sure that everything is okay. I’ll be cooking and your father will be at work. You’ll have to take the bus. I’m sorry.” She points to the bed again. I remove my shoes and get in. Fully clothed. “Oh, and we didn’t tell them what happened. We said you were in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Tell him you were in someone else’s car and it was a hit and run. We don’t want them thinking that this horrible thing happened to you.” She bends over and tucks me in. “We want to protect you.”
She smiles and kisses my right cheek.
They both exit my room.
This kind of behavior always messes with my head. It makes me believe this can be real. That care, concern, and love are real. I long for this. I can see it right before my eyes. It’s the normal that I want, but it’s not real. The question is: Can it ever be? It makes me wish my mother would always be cruel and horrible and unforgiving, because at least that’s something I can count on.
I wait to hear their car drive off.
Once they’re safely gone, I look at my phone.
No messages, but there are a bunch of texts from Henry:
Call me!
R u ok?
Plz call me.
Claire & I r driving bck. Plz call.
Driving as fast as we can. B in twn soon!
And a text from Jeremy:
Hey Panos. U ok?
Fuck Jeremy. I ignore his text.
Instead I text Henry:
I’m home--all good--don’t wrry--plz drive safe!
Henry instantly replies:
Bout 1 hr away--coming over.
Oh no.
No.
This is not a good idea.
No! U can’t--plz. 2much crzy here right now.
Hopefully that will stop him.
But no.
Cming over. Have2!
You’re just going to have to tell him.
I’m not allowed 2cu--it’ll b 2much trbl frm parents.
Please, please let this be the thing that stops him. I can’t deal right now and I need to deal. I need life to just be calm again, to go back to having everything in neat little compartments.
But what if I don’t want to? What if that’s not who I am anymore?
I feel this weird panic.
A few minutes go by, and no response from Henry. That’s a good sign, but I probably upset him. Maybe if I call him, I can tell him exactly what I mean.
Just as I’m about to, another text comes in:
I’ll park away frm apt. They won’t c my car--u sneak me in--will let u know when there.