How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

  Today’s choose-your-own-fucked-up-adventure was supposed to go down one of two ways. If my parents told me they accepted me as gay, I’d come right back home. If they didn’t, I would start a new life. But what was I supposed to do now?

  I stumbled out of the bathroom and nearly smacked headlong into one of those glowing departures boards. I stared up at the endless list of cities.

  Why was I so afraid of going home? Why couldn’t I be brave, march right up to my parents and tell them what had happened, the reason I wasn’t at my own graduation? Why couldn’t I come out to them? Why couldn’t I just say the words?

  My eyes flickered around the list of cities. Chicago. San Francisco. Atlanta. Each one was an invitation, an escape hatch, a safe haven.

  My phone was buzzing. It had been buzzing the entire time, I realized, like I had a vibrator strapped onto my thigh. But I couldn’t pick up. I just couldn’t. But I also couldn’t stay in New York; my parents knew that I was here. They could find me here.

  I had to go somewhere else. Chicago. San Francisco. Atlanta.

  I ran my hands over my jean pockets and felt the outline of my passport. Why had I brought my passport? I don’t know. Maybe some part of me, when I imagined the possibility that I might not go back home, saw this as some kind of national emergency, one where I might even need to flee the country? Crazy, I know.

  On the other hand, looking at the list of possible destinations, it didn’t seem so crazy now. I had my Wiki money. I could go anywhere. And why not somewhere outside America? London. Paris. Barcelona.

  That was when I looked to the right of the departures sign and saw a gelato shop. Bright, heavenly lighting, and an array of the most colorful ice cream flavors I’d ever seen in my life. I stepped toward the light to better inspect the rainbow colors, the strawberry reds, the chocolates and vanillas.

  Now that I think of it, it’s wild how a gelato shop can change the literal course of your life.

  Interrogation Room 38

  Roya Azadi

  BEFORE WE GO further, ma’am, please allow me to apologize for my son’s startling behavior on that airplane today. I assure you it was completely out of the ordinary for him, and nothing to worry about—just a private family matter. And please allow me to apologize for my daughter. I understand why you want to speak with her, and I appreciate that you’ve allowed me to be in the room during your questioning. But she has been very emotional this past month, with her brother gone. Haven’t you, Soraya? Look, she’s rolling her eyes now because she doesn’t like it when I put words in her mouth. What teenage girl does?

  My purse? Yes, of course you may have a look. Here.

  Those are all hand sanitizer bottles. I assure you, they are less than—oh, no, that one is, yes, that one is more than three ounces. I am so sorry. It was on sale at CVS, and I wasn’t thinking …

  That is my phone. You need my password? Of course. Soraya, please, calm down. It’s fine.

  That is a picture of me with my students. I posted it on Instagram at the end of the school year. I teach at a Farsi school, and when I teach, I wear the hijab. You see, I am not wearing it now, but the class takes place at a mosque, so I wear it then.

  That—that is my friend Maryam’s Instagram page. Those are Quran verses. She is quite devout. I do not see how this is relevant to—um, yes. I, I understand the verse. It is about finding your path when you are lost. It is quite peaceful, I assure you. Though it is in Arabic, not Farsi. Officer, Islam, like any religion, is very complex, and people practice it in many different ways, and I hope you don’t—

  I understand you have to do your job and ask questions. Absolutely. I completely understand. And I appreciate your patience with us, with my husband—I understand your colleagues needed to question him separately, because of a past issue. We are more than happy to answer whatever questions you have. But please know that what happened on the plane, it is a sensitive matter, a delicate issue that we are still working through as a family. Soraya was correct earlier, when she assumed what I would have wanted to say. In our culture, these matters are usually dealt with privately.

  That? It is a picture I took at Amir’s graduation ceremony, when we first discovered that he was missing. We got to the auditorium early, to get good seats—we had very good seats, in the third row on the right side of the stage.

  I first noticed Amir was missing when I saw he wasn’t seated in the front row. He should have been in the front row—according to the program, seating was alphabetical. Amir Azadi. Soraya and my husband both said it had to be some kind of mistake, that he must have gotten seated somewhere in the sea of other kids, but I knew something was wrong. Blame it on my maternal instinct. I’d lost my son one time before, at Disney World, and I felt the same stomach-churning I had felt then. He had wandered off back then, Amir, on some kind of necessary adventure. When we found him, he was in a minor brawl with Goofy. He had really angered the man in the Goofy costume; apparently, Amir had punched him in the nose. He was only five. It was a misunderstanding.

  I looked for Amir in the crowd of students. I looked for his face in the ocean of red caps and gowns. Nothing.

  I texted Amir. Many times. Outside the auditorium, we were surrounded by caps and gowns, all the families snapping photos like paparazzi. It hadn’t hit me yet that we wouldn’t get to take photos like that with our son.

  During the ceremony, a tall, wiry boy kept looking our way. He would approach us and then back away, almost like he wanted to talk to us. He had very messy hair. I remember thinking, This boy’s mother needs to get him to a barber. He had looked quite nervous.

  Maybe you should talk to him, Officer?

  Interrogation Room 38

  Soraya

  FU—FREAKING JAKE. I’m sorry. I don’t usually cuss. But if I’d known who he was that day, I would have kicked him right in the balls. Yes, Mom, that was Jake. And I hate him even more now, knowing that he almost talked to us on graduation day.

  Amir didn’t have any friends at his new school, as far as we knew, so we called Lexa and Arun, his best friends from Maryland, to see if they’d heard from him. They told us Amir hadn’t contacted them. In fact, they said he’d gone kind of radio silent on them after Thanksgiving, right when Amir started—well, I’ll get to that. Apparently, they had tried reaching out to Amir a few weeks before graduation. They hadn’t heard anything from him about college, and they remembered how much he always wanted to go to college in New York. They said it was an awkward FaceTime call. Amir was moody. They said he didn’t really want to talk about his future at all.

  That really worried my parents. We checked his room and there was nothing. No note. But then Mom went and checked his drawers, and she noticed a bunch of underwear and shirts were missing. He’d gone somewhere. We called his cell phone, but it kept going straight to voicemail. That really worried my parents. Where had he gone?

  When he finally called us back, my parents were so freaking relieved. It was like someone told them they had won a million dollars. I’m not kidding: my mom actually jumped and clapped her hands when she heard the caller ID. But then they found out Amir was at the airport, and he just weirdly hung up on us. My dad got really quiet. I could tell he was thinking about the last time Amir had run away from home—two years ago. “Damn it,” he said abruptly. “What did I say this time?” Then he looked at me and smiled. “Don’t worry, joonam. Your brother will come home.”

  The house was so quiet that first night without Amir. It was dark, empty, dead. When I was little, I always imagined death like walking in the dark. I know, I was so dramatic back then. I was such a baby. You remember, Mom? When I would run into your bedroom and sleep between you and Dad because I was scared? For the record, I don’t do that anymore, Officer.

  The next morning, I asked my parents if they were going to call the police so they could look for Amir. We had all gotten up early, when it was barely light outside. My mom and dad were standing against the stovetop with their crystal tea gla
sses. They looked at me with these fake smiles and told me not to worry.

  No, Mom, that’s exactly what you said. In your fantasy world, Amir was going to come home on his own, just like the last time. And then, in your fantasy world, you would bury whatever issue he had under the Persian rug. Again.

  But I know my brother. He hadn’t been happy for a while. And this time was different.

  The house felt dead at night and broken during the day. I would eat my Cheerios at the breakfast table, and Amir wasn’t there to tell me to hurry up before they got soggy. My friend Madison would come over, and I couldn’t laugh at her jokes. One time, I had to run into the bathroom just to breathe. It was the third or fourth day after Amir left. I just leaned my head against the medicine cabinet and—please don’t be mad, Mom, but I thought maybe I would run away myself. Home just didn’t feel like home without Amir.

  I thought about my favorite book, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. You’ve read it with your daughter, ma’am? That’s so cool. It made me wonder: if Amir really did run away, why didn’t he take me with him—like Claudia and Jamie? We had always been pretty close. I couldn’t imagine the Amir I knew leaving his little sister without saying goodbye. Unless he had a really good reason to leave.

  I needed to figure out that reason. That’s when I put on my detective hat. Step one: I started talking to the people in his life.

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  ALL RIGHT: I’VE given you all the details you asked for—flight number, time, the address where I stayed in Rome. I’ve shown you the Expedia flight confirmation, the Airbnb receipt, the receipt for the euros I took out at currency exchange, even the picture of the New York City skyline I took from my plane seat. But I’m serious: this trip happened because of gelato. It came together at the last minute, at JFK, and the sole reason I decided on Rome is because I happened upon the sweetest form of ice cream. There were no terrorists. No friends. Just ice cream.

  Thirty Days Ago

  THE NEXT THING I knew, I was sitting in the middle of a tiny attic apartment I had booked at the last minute. A literal closet. (The irony was not lost on me.) That was when the sum total of my last twenty-four hours of traveling finally started thudding against my head.

  It started lightly and then knocked harder and harder as I stared outside my tiny window at the slant of the rooftop. I let my eyes follow the red tile, down the white building walls, the clay windowsills, all the way to the courtyard, where there was a sexy red Vespa sitting on a bed of cracked brick.

  And then, a full-on thwack: Holy shit. I was in Rome. They say stress makes you do crazy things. And I mean, I basically blacked out and booked an international trip. That’s like the time I fell asleep on the NYC subway and ended up in Harlem, but on a plane. I don’t remember going to the international departures gate; I don’t remember the flight; I don’t remember the bus ride into Rome or fitting the key in the hole or taking off my shoes.

  I rushed outside, onto the street. There I was: Via della Gensola. Moss-covered walls. Cobble. A couple whizzed by on a Vespa, and my gaze turned with them as they stopped at the end of the street and made out for a few seconds before disappearing into the restaurant. It was the most Italian thing ever.

  I ran back to my apartment. I burst into the tiny bathroom, nearly bulldozing the ancient water heating system, and stared at my face in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Dark bags underneath them.

  Looking at myself, there, I knew: You’ve gone too far this time, Amir.

  Through my tiny window, I watched it get dark outside. I listened to the clanging of pots and pans from somewhere down below. I heard bells chiming. I smelled fried onion and garlic rising up. There was something freeing about being thousands of miles away from my problems. It didn’t erase them completely, but the distance helped. It always does.

  I decided I owed my parents at least the bare minimum of an explanation. So I emailed them: Mom and Dad, please don’t hate me. I’m dealing with a lot right now, but I want you to know that I’m safe. I promise I’m safe, and I’m fine. I just needed to get away for a couple of days. I closed out of my inbox as soon as I hit SEND.

  I woke up the next morning to the smell of fresh bread and frying eggs drifting in my open window. There were still pots and pans banging, but also birds chirping. And sunlight. Glorious, glorious sunlight. I smiled for the first time in days. And I had my first clear thought: What’s a kid like me supposed to do after making the craziest decision of his life, when his life is hanging by a thread? How do you go back to normal after that?

  Gelato. I stepped outside and found a little street-side gelato stand, where I splurged and ordered two heaping scoops: one chocolate, one strawberry. The cool sweetness calmed my nerves. The ground below me felt stable again.

  The gelato melted quickly as I strolled the colorful streets of Trastevere. There was something magical about this neighborhood, its old doorways and passageways, the young people sitting in plastic chairs outside bars and restaurants, smoking and having coffee without a worry in the world. I took the last bite of my cone, wiped my fingers on my pant legs, and smiled. I liked it here.

  I found a bookstore and stepped inside. It was completely empty and air-conditioned. A man yelled “ciao” from the back room; I yelled “ciao” back. I found the English section, and I was flipping through the latest John Green novel when another customer entered the store. She seemed to know the bookseller. I eavesdropped on their conversation. I was surprised that they were not only speaking in English, but the bookseller had a perfect American accent. He asked the woman how her writing was going—she was an Italian author of sexy romance novels. She asked him how his partner was doing.

  My ears perked up at the word “partner.”

  Was the bookseller gay? It could have been his business partner. It could have been his long-term girlfriend. But for some reason, the possibility that this man might be just like me made me happier than I had felt in a long time.

  It struck me right there, as I pretended to flip through a copy of Turtles All the Way Down, that at any other point in my thus-far-short life, I would have clammed up in this situation. I would have died just being near another gay person, or hearing the word “partner.” Whenever my family passed two men holding hands, I felt that if I glanced for just a second too long, I would be exposed. That my mom or dad would figure it out. For once, I didn’t have to worry. Not only that, but I had the luxury of feeling like I was a part of something. That word, “partner”: that world of men holding hands. It wasn’t a threat anymore. It wasn’t going to give me away.

  Look, I hadn’t gotten to steer my own destiny in a very long time. I had been closeted by circumstance. I had been driven to Rome by circumstance. But now that I was here, my circumstances belonged to me. So I decided to do something; I would talk to this man. I would strike up a conversation with him—gay or no—and ask him what to do during my brief time in Rome.

  I pretended to flip through a few more books before I heard the door jingle, signaling that the author had left. I finally grabbed a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower (it was a euro cheaper than the other YA paperbacks) and took it to the checkout desk. The bookstore clerk looked up and dog-eared his page in the book he was reading.

  That’s when I lost any semblance of cool.

  No one should be allowed to look that good and work in a bookstore.

  Seriously, this guy looked like he had jumped straight off of a romance novel cover. His eyes were absurdly piercing. I wanted to roll a marble down his slicked-back hair. And the way he wore his tank top, light and loose, with tattoos and muscles peeking out from underneath it—they stopped me so hard in my tracks I said a little prayer for all the men and women who had fallen before me.

  He was immediately friendly. All, “Perks! Wow. Great pick. I haven’t read that one in forever.”

  And I was immediately a fool. Awkward. Clumsy.

  The man rang me up and handed me
my receipt, and he was prepared to send me off like any other customer, when I blurted, “I’m only in town for a couple days, and I was kind of wondering what there is to do … in town?”

  He smiled, like any friendly person would, and I think my shoulders actually melted into my chest. He ripped a piece of paper off a notebook to the left of his desk (sadly, that was the only thing he ripped off) and started writing.

  “I assume you don’t want the tourist traps, like the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel … not that they’re not historically important! But you can find those recommended in any guidebook … Oh! There’s this gorgeous park, Giardino degli Aranci, which is lovely in and of itself, but if you go, you have to find the keyhole. It has the most jaw-dropping view of Rome. Like, you get the most incredible view of Saint Peter’s Basilica through it.”

  He also wrote down a couple of bar and restaurant recommendations.

  “Are you old enough to drink?” he asked.

  “I don’t … know,” I said. What I started to say was I don’t drink, but that wasn’t true. Not after senior year.

  “The drinking age here is eighteen,” the book clerk said, twirling his pen on his finger, and in that moment, he was a magician. He was straight-up Cedric Diggory. “I can’t believe it’s still twenty-one in the States.”

  I used to genuinely think I’d never drink alcohol. Neither of my parents drink, and I have relatives who call alcohol poison, so it seemed straightforward to me. But Jackson had changed my mind on drinking, among other things.

  “In that case, I’m old enough,” I told the bookseller.

  He started to write something else but scribbled it out. “If only you were staying a bit longer,” he said. “My partner just opened a bar—well, not a bar, a cultural association—and the official opening is in a couple of days …”