The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

  Almost everyone who meets my mother thinks of her as pleasant. “Nice,” even. She works hard to make you think she’s easygoing, unless she really doesn’t approve of you. Then it’s difficult for her to disguise her disgust.

  She works at Duane’s Depot, not too far from our house. She can walk there. Her bright-blue smock that she has to wear is always perfectly pressed. The blue plastic Duane’s nametag is on straight, and when she’s arranging cans of vegetables on a shelf at the Depot, they’re lined up with extreme precision.

  My phone is showing one new message.

  I walk over to my locker, open it, lean in, and listen. She’s whispering in Greek, “Evan, don’t forget to get your hair cut after school. We have church company this Sunday and you can’t be looking like a lesbian. Do not spend that money I gave you on anything else but a haircut. Come by the store after so I can see it to make sure it looks good.”

  I press Delete.

  six

  At the end of every school day, I start to feel sick to my stomach. Just at the thought of going back home.

  Henry walks up. “Hey!”

  He falls into step with me. “Hi,” I say.

  “Finally. It’s been a minute.” His smile is big and his green eyes are staring into mine. When the sun hits them they seem impossibly light.

  I haven’t seen him since before camp. He looks different. Like he’s still Henry but he’s . . . oh shit . . . he’s handsome. It’s like all the pieces have clicked into place—he’s grown into himself. His upper body looks fuller. And I’m trying to avoid looking at his full lips.

  Shit. Stop it.

  “What’s with the face? I haven’t seen you in forever and this is the face?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I’m concentrating on making my face as bland as possible.

  He has deep dimples that come out when he’s smiling. The one on the right side seems like it’s higher and deeper than the one on the left. Why have I never noticed this before? He’s always been so goofy, especially since he’s tall—six foot two. His T-shirt looks like it’s straining against his muscles.

  He brushes up on my shoulder and we are now heading away from campus. I have never been uncomfortable around him, but now my mouth is dry and my hands are sweating.

  Luckily Henry doesn’t seem to notice. “I texted you like four times yesterday. What were you up to? After school?”

  Oh, the usual . . . trying not to set my mother off and avoiding you (which is the last thing I want) because I don’t know what to say to you since Bible camp and . . . Gaige.

  “Just homework and family stuff. You know. You? How was your summer?”

  “All I did was tennis. Tennis in the morning. Afternoon. Night. Fuck. I practiced, worked out, swam. This fucking scholarship is turning into a full-time job.”

  “It’s good, though, right?”

  “I guess. It’ll pay for most of college, but I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “Ev, It’s boring. I want to hear about you.”

  “It’s the same over here too. See what happens when we don’t hang out?”

  “You’re the dick who left. I had all kinds of plans for us.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter now. You left and I turned into a tennis zombie who roams the streets at night with a racket hungry for . . .” He stops himself, then starts laughing.

  “What’s going on?”

  He tries to recover. “OMG, I was trying to make a zombie-tennis reference. Hungry for—balls.” He bursts out laughing again. “It’s so dumb, I know. And yet . . .”

  “So this is what happens when I leave you alone. You turn into Jeremy.”

  “Shut up!”

  “C’mon. Pull yourself together and tell me about those awesome Kimball plans. You never plan.”

  “Oh, I plan shit. I plan the shit out of shit.”

  I start to laugh. “Such a lie.”

  “That stupid laugh. Ev, It’s embarrassing. For you, I mean.”

  “Fuck you. You love it like a lover.”

  “Ugh! You know how much I hate that word.”

  “Speaking of your lover, how’s Amanda?” I ask casually.

  “She doesn’t like to sweat.” Then he gets more serious. “Also, we broke up.”

  Breathe, Evan.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m really not, though.

  “Don’t be. I’m good.” He changes his tone. “C’mon. How was camp? Did you get more holy?”

  “It was fine.” I’m straining to act casual.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ev, you’re all . . .”

  “No. It was good. Just long. It was a long summer.”

  “We need to catch up. I have to practice this afternoon—you up for a set? Might as well play together before the weather turns.”

  “Can’t. I have to get my hair cut, and then homework—”

  “Get your hair cut another day. It looks good longer. Like old-school Taylor Swift. If Taylor Swift had brown hair and was a Greek boy.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “Ev. C’mon. It’s been a whole summer.”

  “I have to get it cut for work,” I lie. My boss has no opinion on the length of my hair. “They don’t like for you to have long hair in a deli.”

  “You got that job?”

  “Yeah. It helped that I applied right before camp.”

  “Cool. Better that than a hair net. What about this weekend? Can we hang? Why am I begging? Not cool.” He starts to head toward the bus. He doesn’t live within walking distance. He’s closer to the old monastery I found on one of my bike rides. I’ve never told him about it.

  As he approaches the bus, he turns around and yells, “Ev, don’t get it cut too short!”

  I feel my face go tomato red. I find myself running a hand through my hair, imagining it through his eyes. When I realize what I’m doing, I immediately pull my hand away and start walking the other direction into town.

  Getting a haircut is something I prefer to get over with as quickly as possible. Very little small talk and even less mirror gazing. I always dread when they turn you around in the chair to see the finished product. You have to look. Like really look. What are they hoping you’ll see? It’s not like I’m instantly turning into some awesome version of myself. It’s me with shorter hair. But still me.

  I walk past all the stores in town that I’ve walked by hundreds of times. Looking in the windows and creating stories about the people I see. I always imagine that everyone’s life is better than mine. It has to be. I want it to be.

  I cross the street when I come to Sandee’s Hallmark store. I stole a jewelry box from there when I was eight. My mom wanted it for so long . . . went on and on about what it would mean to own such a beautiful thing. When she opened it on Christmas morning, she squealed and gushed and hugged and kissed me.

  She was so happy.

  It felt like all the broken pieces inside me gathered together and stayed put for that moment.

  She never questioned how an eight-year-old could afford such a thing.

  But for a few hours I felt like she loved me.

  I still worry every time I pass Sandee’s that I’ll be found out.

  The haircut isn’t bad. Actually, it looks kind of good. I walk over to Duane’s Depot with a confident stride. I think my mother might actually approve of this one.

  Duane’s Depot does not have the class of a Target or the cheapness of a Dollar Store. It’s got a lot of the same type of merchandise, but not the style or the low price. I’ve never understood how it’s still in business. Especially when there is an actual Target less than fifteen miles away.

  I walk into the Depot and I’m instantly greeted by Patty. She’s Duane’s “Aunt Dilly,” which is Duane-speak for store greeter. I don’t see Patty often, but when I do it’s always as if she’s seeing me for the first time.

  “Howdy, Evan! Here
to see your mama? I love that woman. Never has a bad word for anyone. The other day, she made baklava for all of us here, and we could not even stand it, it was so moist, flaky, and scrumptious. You and your papa are lucky little men.”

  Patty is from the Midwest, born and bred, yet somehow she always speaks as if she grew up in a part of the South that no one has ever heard of. Like an actress doing the most over-the-top Southern accent ever.

  My mother is a genius at making everyone who isn’t in her immediate family fall in love with her. Unless she deems you “so evil” that she won’t even pretend. No one would ever suspect her of anything awful. She could literally gut and slaughter a street full of people in this town, and no jury would believe this tiny, doe-eyed lady would ever be capable of such a thing.

  “I’m here to see her. How are you, Patty?”

  “I am plumb sweet right now. We’ve put those drinking glasses that have the painted oranges on them on deep discount. Now that summer is over we’re featuring ones with acorns painted on them. Acorns! How cute, right? The orange ones are fifty cents! Did you hear that? Fifty cents!”

  I am standing less than a foot away from her. There is no way for me to not hear her.

  “That’s awesome. Do you know where my mom is?”

  “She’s in the back by the boys’ department. It’s always nice to see you, sugarhon. Love your haircut!”

  As I start walking toward the back of the store, I say, “Hope you get those glasses.”

  I can’t help myself. Why can’t I stop talking? It’s like I have some disorder—Always Be Nice and Fill All the Silences.

  “Already bought, sweets.”

  And then I see my mom. I hold my breath as I approach. “Hi, Mom.”

  She turns around to look at me. She smiles. So far, so good. She inspects my head.

  “Turn around.” She runs her fingers through the back of my hair.

  “Mom. Not here,” I whisper.

  I’m mortified that someone will see. It’s bad enough that I have to bring myself in here to show her my haircut for approval. Once or twice, she’s taken shears to my head after a professional haircut because it didn’t meet with her standards. This is the first year she’s allowed me to start getting it cut outside the house. She claimed the reason she cut my hair was to save money, which is probably semitrue, but she also said she didn’t want me to have any of that girl style which would please the devil.

  “It’s good. He did a good job. Short. Just in time for Greek school. Don’t want you going there with long hair. Shameful,” she says as she squints and inspects my face. Then she frowns.

  “What?”

  Shit.

  There’s never a clean finish. She can never end with kindness.

  “You should sleep with a clothespin on your nose. Especially when you have short hair. It highlights the bulbousness and the large nostrils. You can really notice it now that you’re getting older. Everything is growing, including your already too large nose.” She turns around and continues to fold sweater vests.

  This.

  The “turn.” Even a hint of a compliment, a crumb of kindness, or a smidge of love has to be balanced with some “truth.”

  She still has her back to me. “I used to sleep with one when I was your age. Your nose never stops growing. You need to tame it. It’s not a good look. If I could afford it, I would get a nose job. Only your family will tell you the truth. The honey-soaked lies you want to hear only come from strangers who can’t love you.”

  Gaige told me he loved my nose. That it gave me character. That it suited my face.

  She now turns around to look at me.

  “You may have an opportunity to make money one day. If you do, we can both get nose jobs. Now go home and eat. Don’t forget about Sunday. Your aunt Lena and uncle Tasos are also coming over. I have been witnessing to both of them, and your aunt is almost there. Tasos, well . . . he’s of the world. The Lord is moving through her. It would be a miracle to have one of my sisters find the Lord.” Her smile goes away. “Did you let the gay touch you?”

  At first I think she’s actually read my mind. I freeze.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. She turns around. She has graduated to sweater folding now. “Did he touch you while he cut your hair?”

  And then I breathe out. Of course. The gay. Any man who works at a job that my mother deems to be woman’s work must be gay.

  “Mom, he didn’t—”

  “You have to be careful. Those men are predators.” She continues to fold sweaters.

  How does she do that? Go from talking about my hair to something so much more . . . alarming.

  “He just did his job.”

  “You know I worry about you. What’s best for you.”

  I start to feel dizzy. Maybe it’s the way she whipped so quickly from subject to subject. I can see her, hear her, but it’s like I’m underwater. My right hand starts to feel numb. The numbness moves up my arm.

  “Go straight home. No adventures or daydreaming.”

  I walk home in a daze, avoiding any reflection of myself, and go right into my room.

  seven

  The three of us are sitting in the dining room. My father is eating as if he hasn’t seen food in days. For a man who works around food all day long, he always comes home hungry. My mom is slowly cutting her chicken.

  “Tomorrow after work, I need you to help me with my hair.” She’s looking right at me.

  “Mom, I have homework.”

  “You can do both. I need this curl relaxed. I want it settled by Sunday, when everyone comes over. I can’t reach the back myself.”

  “This kind of stuff takes time.” I’m stabbing my potatoes in the sauce. This is one of the many times I wish I had a sibling, someone else who could take some of the focus off me.

  “Don’t tell me how it works. You are helping me with my hair and that’s it. Your father works two jobs. Kills himself for you, and you can’t do one simple thing.”

  I’m looking down at my food and say, barely above a whisper, “Mom, this isn’t a two-person job. I have stuff and you can go to the salon for—”

  I can feel her eyes on me. She speaks in a clenched-mouth sort of way that makes me believe she’s talking about more than her hair. “You’re an awful person, even a worse son. You know money is tight. Did your father tell you they cut his hours at the restaurant?”

  My dad is still eating. Head down. Way to get in there, Dad, and try to defuse the crazy.

  With my fork I adjust the food on my plate and say under my breath, “Like that’s a new one.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  My father finally speaks. “Voula. Let’s just eat.” He turns to me. “Nice haircut.”

  She grabs my left ear. I freeze. Her hand, still grasping my earlobe, moves down the side of the ear and lands on the bottom of the lobe. She squeezes her fingers and yanks down.

  I keep my head down.

  Don’t cry.

  Breathe.

  She speaks in short, calm, calculated breaths. “Why is he so disrespectful?” She’s looking at my dad.

  “Voula. Please. Stop.”

  “You should be outraged. He’s not a good person, your son.” With that last word she yanks on my ear and releases her grip. That energy slams my head face first into the edge of the table. Somehow I’m able to quickly move my head toward my chest just enough that my nose misses the table surface and my forehead takes all the force. I lift my head back up. Oh, too quick. Literally seeing stars. I blink several times and look over to see her calmly cutting her chicken. I try to focus my eyes toward my dad. He’s looking right at me. He’s paralyzed. I can tell he’s upset, but he doesn’t do anything. Why? Why don’t you say something, Dad? Maybe we’re all so used to this that we just fall into place—into our roles.

  “Evan? You okay?”

  My head is swimming. I can feel something warm dripping down my face.

  “I’ll get some ice.” My dad starts
to move his chair back.

  “Sit down, Eli.” She’s still working on her dinner.

  “Voula, this is too much.”

  I pick up my napkin and put it on my forehead. Blood. I leave the table and go into the kitchen for ice and a paper towel. I bend over and look at my reflection in the toaster. I look closer. It’s not a lot of blood. It looks like a single cut but definitely the beginning of a bruise. Now pain sneaks in.

  “We’re not done. Come back in here and sit back down.” Her mouth is full and I can hear her put her fork and knife down onto the plate. After any kind of violence my senses are hyperalert. Every little thing is magnified. I can practically hear her breathing from the other room.

  As I enter the dining room I hear my dad. “Vee. No more.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “No!”

  “You don’t see what I see. Just look at him. Really look.”

  “I only see our son.”

  I sit back down at the table. She turns her face toward mine. “I thought this year, this year at Bible camp, would be the time God got through to you. Even He’s given up.”

  Looking down, I muster, “Mom, I don’t—”

  Her face gets closer to mine. “You came back even more like a gay. The way you walk. Talk. Your clothes. The obsession with your hair.”

  I close my eyes. Her voice starts to rise as she continues, “It’s Satan’s world. The gays marry, have children, men are women, women are men. You want this evil for your son? You should be helping me. We need to protect him.”

  “Voula, it’s a different time.”

  “I asked the pastor to help me. But I have to do everything myself. I work. I clean, cook, and I’m trying to save this. This”—she spits three times in my direction—“this deviant from himself and that lifestyle.”

  “Vee. Honey.” He’s almost pleading now. “Please, let’s just have a peaceful dinner.”

  “What? Are you a pousti too?” Her voice is harsh and accusatory. The word pousti is Greek slang for gay—and not in a kind, understanding sort of way.