How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

  “One thousand dollars of your Wiki fortune, and we won’t show this shit to your parents,” Jake said. He nudged Ben, who nodded. Looking at them, it hit me that they were dead serious: they really did believe I was a “Wiki millionaire.”

  The thing is, I’m actually very legit in the Wikipedia world, to the point where I actually do receive offers to make and edit pages for money. It started in tenth grade, when a friend’s mom wanted to hire a Wikipedia editor to make a page for her lingerie start-up. My friend commented on the Facebook post, “Amir!!” and the rest was history. I didn’t take the offer, or any of the offers that followed. Paid articles are strictly forbidden in the Wikipedia terms of use. But when Ben and Jake once caught me editing the Real Housewives of New Jersey page in homeroom, I didn’t think it would hurt to pretend I got paid. It’s a lot cooler to say “I do this for money” than “I do this because I find the power of crowdsourcing and the democratization of information really sexy.”

  I didn’t have the kind of money they wanted. I begged Ben and Jake to believe me, but they refused. Especially Jake. He was weirdly insistent about the whole thing. It was like he was desperately clinging to this fantasy notion that I was actually a Wikipedia millionaire.

  It was less of an explosion, and more of a steady crumbling inside of me, when I realized what had just happened.

  All the meticulous planning I had put into how I would come out to my parents, the years I spent closeted but knowing I had to come out the right way: poof. It was dust in the wind. Ben and Jake were very clear: if I didn’t get them the money in one month, I was fucked.

  There was one more condition: “Don’t go telling your gay lover about our deal,” Ben added. “If anyone finds out about this, this shit’s going straight to your parents.”

  Ben and Jake bulldozed right through the fortress I’d spent years building around my secret.

  When you’re gay, you grow up doing a lot of mental math. Your brain is basically a big rainbow scoreboard, logging every little thing your parents say—their off hand remarks, the way they react to two men holding hands at the mall or the latest Nike commercial with a queer couple in it. You assign each event a point value. Plus or minus. When the time comes, you tally up all the points—and believe me, you don’t forget a single one—and based on the final score, you decide what your coming out is going to look like.

  +1: Mom watches Ellen DeGeneres and doesn’t bat an eyelash whenever Ellen talks about her wife, Portia.

  -1: Mom teaches at the local Islamic school.

  -5: When one of her students asks about gay marriage, Mom explains that marriage is between a man and a woman.

  -20: The trailer for a gay rom-com comes on while we’re at the movie theater, and Dad calls it propaganda.

  -2: Mom scrunches up her face at that same trailer.

  -1,000,000: We’re Muslim.

  To be honest: I didn’t see a world where my coming out wasn’t going to be messy. Pluses and minuses aside, I had bought into the same idea as everyone else, that Muslims and gay people are about as incompatible as Amish people and Apple products. I wish I could say I was better than that, that I ignored the stereotype. But when your safety hinges on a stereotype being true or not, you don’t get to be brave. I wasn’t going to bet my happiness on the fact that my mom watched a talk show hosted by a lesbian.

  But none of that mattered anymore. My happiness hinged on a pair of greedy bastards and their blackmail scheme. I had four weeks and two options: either give in and pay them off, or come out to my parents.

  Week one: I was freaking out inside my head. I holed myself up in my room. I stopped texting Jackson. He confronted me in the parking lot one afternoon: “Amir. What’s wrong?” I remember staring at the outline of his wide shoulders, the edges of his blond hair, which he refused to cut. I couldn’t look at his eyes—it was our un-staring contest all over again—because all I could see in those eyes was that stupid picture of us kissing, flashing before me like a neon sign.

  “If something happened, you can tell me,” Jackson said, shifting his eyes. It was clear he was nervous to be seen talking to me. Even with all the time we spent together in his car, we still barely talked at school.

  “It’s nothing, Jackson.”

  “Is it your parents?” He turned his face away toward the football field, puffing his chest. “If there’s something going on, I want to—”

  “No, you don’t,” I snapped. “You don’t want to help. I just need space.”

  Week two: things only got worse. I started hearing back from the colleges I applied to. The rejection letters trickled into my inbox, one after another: NYU, Columbia, Northwestern, Georgetown, Boston College, George Washington. It was like one long, drawn-out funeral, especially around my parents. They got really silent and mostly reacted with sighs and tight-lipped nods. Pretty soon I realized I hadn’t just ruined my future; I had ruined their American Dream.

  I was angry, too. College was supposed to be my light at the end of the tunnel—when I would be able to come out to my parents safely, with some distance between us. I was counting on one of those schools to be my escape. With the exception of my two safety schools, they all turned me away.

  I retreated into my shell. Turned quiet at home. Quiet at school.

  By week three, the blackmail was back to being constantly on my mind. I had less than seven days left, and I still had the same two options: come up with the money, or come out. Since I was in no position to disappoint my parents even more, I decided to give in to Ben and Jake’s demands. But after I did the dirty deed on Wikipedia and sent them the money, I got a separate text from Jake: he wanted another three thousand dollars, this time by graduation day. That fucker.

  I thought about coming out to my parents. I kept pulling up that mental scoreboard, but I just couldn’t find a way to make the numbers work. Every time I opened my mouth and tried, I failed. Every time I thought about pushing it just an inch—testing the waters with a what if I liked boys?–type comment—I chickened out. It’s hard enough tiptoeing around your entire life with a secret like that. It’s draining, constantly feeling that you might not be safe around your own family. My parents were already looking at me differently after I got rejected from all those colleges; if I told them I was gay, I would cease to be their son. I’d become a stranger they had wasted their time raising.

  A week before graduation, my family was sitting down for dinner when the phone rang. My mom answered, then handed it to me. “Amir, it’s for you.”

  “Ameeeer.” It was Jake. My heart started racing when I heard his wormy voice through the speaker. “I like your mom’s accent,” he sneered. “So exotic.”

  I ran up the stairs to my room. Shut the door. My mouth was so dry, I could barely speak. “Why are you calling me?”

  “Somehow I don’t think your mom would approve of your other life, Ameer.” The way Jake said my name, mimicking my mother’s accent, it was like he had discovered a new weapon that he could torture me with.

  Jake then got to the point, demanding to know when I was going to get him the money. I wanted to be brave and tell him to leave me the hell alone … but then I thought about my family downstairs, the peaceful dinner we were having. I collapsed onto my bed, shoving my face into my pillow. All I could think, over and over, was: I can’t do this.

  After that night, I accepted that there was no universe in which I was capable of coming out. I tried to get the money. I really did. I busted my nerdy ass, reaching back out to every single start-up or D-list celebrity who’d ever slid into my inbox thirsty for a Wikipedia page, but at the end of it all, I was still a thousand bucks short. A couple nights before graduation, I came this close to texting Jake to ask if two thousand—two thousand dollars!—would work. But just before I pressed SEND, it came to me. A new idea, a third option I had never considered before.

  Disappear. Just for a little while.

  I knew the idea was ridiculous. So ridiculous, in fact, that the fant
asy of skipping graduation and going somewhere else was actually comforting for about five seconds. It was the calmest I had felt in months.

  Then I kept thinking. And the more I thought about it, just completely removing myself from this entire mess until things calmed down, the less ridiculous it seemed. You don’t just stand aside when a bomb is about to detonate. You run.

  The morning of graduation, I was hyperventilating in my car in the driveway, a packed duffel bag on the passenger seat next to me. This is it, I kept thinking. I couldn’t believe I was following through on this insane idea. But in a few hours, Jake was going to spill my secret to my parents in the middle of graduation. He’d already told me as much the day before at school.

  I, however, would be on a plane thousands of feet in the air. I would be safe. I would have space. And when I landed, I would have the most important answer of my life: I would know if my family still loved me or not. If they did, then I would come home. And if they didn’t—well, I would be far away, just as I’d always planned.

  When I finally started driving, I felt the clash of my two identities stronger than ever. Iranian. Gay. There had always been a wall separating those two sides of me, so they would never touch. On one side, there was Jackson. On the other, my family. Soon, that wall would come crashing down.

  I let out a deep sigh. And then I watched through the rearview mirror as my house shrank smaller and smaller, until it disappeared.

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  THAT WAS THE original plan. I just wanted to go to New York. NYU and Columbia were two of my dream schools, and I thought I would get away while Jake hijacked my coming out. You have to understand that I was imagining the worst, and if my parents didn’t want me back home, then I would create a new life for myself in New York.

  Rome was never part of the original plan.

  Have I been in touch with Jackson since I left America? Yes and no. It’s complicated. I can’t believe I’m about to say this to you in here, but I keep wondering if I loved Jackson. I don’t know. We tiptoed around that word a lot. We tiptoed around a lot of things. All I know is that neither of us ever believed we would end up together. We didn’t believe in a future for “us” as much as we believed in a future where, someday, I could be Amir … and he could be himself, too.

  You’re looking at me like none of this is relevant to the outburst on the plane, but it is. It’s the baggage. I thought you people were all about inspecting baggage.

  Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I was just trying to emphasize, with my long-winded story, that it really all comes back to Jackson. If I’d never met Jackson, I wouldn’t be in here. I can draw a clear line connecting that first moment we kissed to right now, sitting in this chair, absolutely terrified to see the people on the other side of this wall. More terrified to talk to them than to you, if I’m being honest.

  Interrogation Room 38

  Soraya

  MY NAME IS Soraya Azadi. I’m thirteen years old.

  My brother, Amir, has been missing for a month. He disappeared the morning of his high school graduation.

  Did I notice anything different or off about Amir before he disappeared? Was he talking to anyone suspicious? Well—

  Mom, don’t give me that look. Amir is in the room next door, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth. He has nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sorry, Officer. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just a little annoyed, that’s all. I don’t think it’s fair how my family got pulled into these rooms. I really don’t think it’s fair. I tried to record the whole thing back in the waiting room, but my mom made me put my phone away.

  It has been a big misunderstanding. I’m so glad you can see that.

  Sure. I can tell you everything. How long do you think this is going to take? I’ve already missed two rehearsals for the summer musical, and if I miss tonight’s, I … My mom is giving me that look again. She thinks I’m saying too much. It’s funny, I knew she would be like this when you asked to talk to me first. You see her face, right? I’ll read it for you: Soraya, be careful what you say. Soraya, we are Iranian. We deal with these matters privately, Soraya. If she were answering your question, she’d say no, we didn’t notice any signs that Amir was going to run away. And she’d be telling the truth. From her perspective, nothing was wrong. Nothing is ever wrong in her mind.

  No, Mom, let me talk! What her face should be saying is, Soraya, thank you. Soraya, you saved the day. Soraya, it’s because of you we found your brother and brought him back.

  Let me explain.

  Interrogation Room 39

  Afshin Azadi

  BEFORE WE GO any further, let me get this straight. You are questioning my son in one room, correct? And my daughter and wife are together in another room. And you have me alone here in this room—and I think I know why you have put me in this separate room. I know it in my bones. The way you are looking at me, I think you know, too. That this is not my first time alone in a small room, just like this one.

  Very well.

  No, I don’t have anything more to say.

  Thirty-One Days Ago

  WHEN I LANDED at JFK Airport, the morning of my graduation, I felt safe. I was a world away from the nightmare of my senior spring. Most of all, I was away from Jake and the trouble he was about to cause for my family.

  I made myself check my phone. Graduation would be over by now. I imagined this whole scenario like I had thrown a grenade, sprinted away, and now I was looking back to see if it had actually exploded, or if it was a dud.

  I sat there in my cramped airplane seat. I wasn’t even connected to the cell network yet. I shook my phone. Held it up in the air.

  Finally, the bars popped up in the corner of my phone screen. I had service. And there they were: fifteen texts, all from my mother, father, and sister. I checked my call log. Five new voicemails. I went back to the texts and started reading. Amir, where are you? Amir, is everything all right? Amir, why aren’t you answering your phone? Amir why aren’t you home? Where have you gone? Please answer and tell us you’re all right.

  I texted back immediately. I’m fine. I can explain. And then I held my breath. Because at this point, my family knew. They had to know. Last week, Jake had made it very clear that if I didn’t get him the money, he would out me during the ceremony. He had even suggested texting the picture to my parents before they started reading out names. The thought of walking across that stage, hearing silence from where my mom, dad, and sister were sitting—it had made me want to throw up.

  My phone buzzed. It was Mom: Good. We love you.

  I must have stared at the text for a solid minute before looking back up and around the plane. All the other passengers had deplaned.

  My heart rate slowed down as I took in the words.

  My family still loved me.

  I took my duffel bag from the overhead compartment and held it close to my chest. All spring, I had wondered how they would react to Jake’s news. Would they think he was lying? Would they tell themselves that it was photoshopped?

  Whatever they believed—they loved me.

  I felt giddy as I shuffled off the plane. I thought about the rainbow scoreboard, all the positives that I had clearly discounted. I thought about how my parents had in fact raised me to treat people equally, how they didn’t subscribe to every single little piece of our religion and culture. They were complicated. They could surprise me. I should have expected better of them.

  When I was finally off the plane, I called them back.

  “Amir?” my mom said frantically. “Oh, Amir. We were worried sick!”

  “What were you thinking?” my dad chimed in. “Where were you?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can explain.” I was walking down the long hall of the airport, past Cinnabon and Hudson News. “I was just scared …”

  “Scared of what?” my dad asked.

  My heart skipped a beat. I stood outside the smelly airport bathroom, between the men’s and women’s b
athrooms. I was confused. “Are you still at graduation?” I asked.

  “No. We looked for you after the ceremony, but you weren’t there.”

  I considered my next words carefully. “Did you talk to any of my classmates …”

  “We asked some of them if they knew where you were,” my dad said. “Joonam, azizam, what’s wrong?”

  My life, my dear. Whenever I got upset, my dad went overkill with Persian terms of endearment.

  “What happened?” I heard my sister pipe up in the background.

  “Where are you, Amir?” my mom asked.

  I was freaking out. My mom and dad sounded so genuinely concerned over the phone. They sounded like they loved me. It made me feel like even more of a fraud.

  An announcement blared overhead: “Welcome to New York-Kennedy International Airport …”

  My mom and dad started talking all at once, interrupting each other. “Amir, are you at an airport?” “Amir, are you in New York?” “Amir, what’s wrong?” Amir, Amir, Amir …

  I hung up the phone.

  I stood there, motionless, in the middle of the bustling airport. Jake hadn’t told them. He’d backed out.

  Someone’s suitcase bumped into my leg then, so I moved. I wandered aimlessly around the airport. I had no idea what to do. I felt lost, with my duffel and all the sounds. The people around me. I realized I still had my earbuds in.

  My plan had backfired.

  I couldn’t go back home. If I did, I’d have to explain to my parents why I had run away and deal with the ensuing explosion in person. And even if I did manage to come up with an excuse for why I’d skipped my own graduation, Jake would still be holding my secret over me. Maybe he hadn’t backed out, after all. Maybe he had instead figured out a way to level up his blackmail.

  I found a bathroom and went into a stall. (I’ve watched enough teen movies to know that this is the best place to deal with life crises.) I checked my phone again and saw that Jackson had texted me. So had my friends from Maryland. My mom must have gotten in touch with them.