One Man Guy

by Michael Barakiva

  * * *

  Alek stayed in his room for the next few hours. His mother had chosen a moss green for the walls and a complementary light oak bedroom set for the furniture. Alek wished the walls were painted in a bolder color, like orange, but he figured that if his mom wasn’t letting him buy his own clothes yet, there was no point in even asking if he could repaint his room. He was lying on his bed, flipping through next week’s assignment in the algebra textbook, when he heard his father knock on the door.

  “What is it, Dad?” he called back.

  His dad opened the door and leaned in the doorway. “I wish you would call me hairik.”

  “And I wish you would call me Your Excellency.” Alek had stopped using the Armenian words for father and mother years ago, and he had no intention of going back.

  “Your brother and mother have left, and I’m going to make some sarma. You wanna watch?”

  “Why don’t you teach me how to make it myself?”

  “Soon, Alek. Soon, but not yet.”

  Like every Khederian since the beginning of time, Nik had waited until he was sixteen to be entrusted with the ancient Armenian art of rolling grapevine leaves. So even though it was Alek’s favorite dish, until he turned sixteen and his parents decided he was ready, he’d have to settle for watching his father prepare it.

  “Sure,” Alek responded.

  His father turned, and Alek followed him out of his room and down the stairs into the kitchen.

  “How’d the job interview go?” Alek asked carefully.

  “Well, I thought it went well, but since I haven’t heard by now…” his father trailed off.

  Since his dad had gotten fired from the architectural firm last year, Alek had probably spent more time with him than he had during the rest of his life. It’s not that his father was entirely absent from those earlier memories. Just that his presence had been peripheral, more like a half-cropped figure in the background of a photograph.

  Alek followed his father into the kitchen, the pride of every Armenian household. The shiny stainless steel refrigerator and matching dishwasher had been installed just weeks before Alek’s father had been fired, and Alek knew that as soon as they could afford it, his mother was planning on upgrading the cabinets to cherrywood and the counter to granite.

  Alek’s father began assembling the sarma ingredients while Alek sat at the kitchen table.

  “Alek, do you want to talk to me about anything?”

  Alek’s stomach sank, like he’d been lured into a trap that had just sprung open around him. “What do you mean?”

  “I just want you to feel like you can tell me anything.”

  “I do.”

  “And if there’s anything wrong, like with girls or even drugs or sex—”

  “Oh my God, Dad, there’s nothing wrong, okay?” Alek felt his face turn beet red. “I thought you were going to show me how you make sarma, not have a heart-to-heart, because even my algebra homework would be more enjoyable than that.”

  “Fine, fine, fine,” his father said, equally relieved to change the subject. He joined Alek at the table and began making the Armenian delicacy. “Let me show you how to take these out without ripping them.” He carefully finessed a wad of leaves from the glass jar, unfolded it, then removed one leaf at a time. Each one was dark and thin, with veins running down its length, like a human hand. “You want to make sure you use the California leaves, because they’re sturdier than the Greek ones. Even still, the trick is to handle them very carefully. Like if you say the wrong thing, they might go running back to their room,” his father joked.

  Alek smiled in spite of himself. Other fathers might throw a softball around with their sons, or take them to hit at the tennis courts. But his quality time with his father involved being gently mocked while learning how to make Armenian dishes.

  “Now, I use the scissors to cut off the little stub of stem at the bottom.”

  Alek’s dad showed him how to make the stuffing for the leaves, a mixture of rice, lamb, spices, tomatoes, red peppers, chopped parsley, and olive oil. Then he spooned the stuffing onto the flat leaf and demonstrated how to fold and roll the leaf, creating a perfect little bundle of yumminess.

  “Now I lay it gently in the pot.”

  “How come you always use the same pot whenever you make sarma?”

  “This was the pot my mother always used to make sarma, and when I got married, she gave it to us. See how wide it is? Because of how the sarma cooks, you need a pot that’s wide, not deep.”

  After a few minutes of working in silence, Alek’s dad tried a new tactic. “I know your mother hasn’t been around a lot lately, but try to be understanding with her.”

  “I am, Dad. She’s the one who … As far as I’m concerned, she’s the one who’s messing everything up.”

  “Now, Alek, the way you’re talking now—is that the kind of man you want to be?”

  Alek knew there was only one right answer to this question. “No, Dad.”

  “Just remember—this is the first time she’s worked full-time since before Nik was born. And most of the people at the UN have left since she was there, so she’s working with new colleagues, and she’s worried that no one is going to take her seriously. So whenever someone at the office has to stay late or pick up weekend hours, she volunteers so that they can see she’s committed.”

  Alek didn’t say anything. He just continued watching his father unwrap, snip, stuff, and roll.

  “But more than her work, family is the most important thing for her. Like it is for me. And now it’s time for us to support her the way she’s supported us, okay?”

  Alek didn’t know why his dad’s talking to him this way made him want to die. “Okay, Dad,” he mumbled.

  “And maybe we can all go to the city sometime soon. There’s a Rodin exhibit at the Met. Does that sound good to you?”

  Alek mumbled again, “Yes, Dad.”

  His father continued rolling in grateful silence. Finally, when all of the grapevine leaves were stuffed, rolled, and packed into the big pot, they filled it up halfway with hot water and brought it to a boil.

  “Now we let it cook until it’s done. Sometimes we add some tomato paste for extra flavor halfway through.”

  “That’s how I like it.”

  “I know. So fifteen minutes before it’s done cooking, you can add it today.” Alek nodded his head, gratefully acknowledging even this small step in the journey of learning how to make sarma by himself.

  “Dad, how long do you let it cook?”

  “Just enough time.”

  “And how much tomato paste should I put in?”

  “Not too much.”

  Alek rolled his eyes. He wondered if there were any Armenian cookbooks in the world, or if all of the recipes had to be learned this way.

  6

  Four days later, Alek peeled his gaze away from the chalkboard and back into his algebra textbook. His lips were inexplicably dry, and he wished he had some lip balm so he wouldn’t have to lick them every few seconds like a thirsty baby.

  Mr. Weedin decided to end class by having a few Algebra II students work out a series of problems at the chalkboard. The Algebra I students were supposed to be working on their homework, but all Alek could do was try not to stare at Ethan.

  The other students had finished solving their problems, but Ethan was still struggling with his. Alek copied Ethan’s equation into his notebook and began working it through. But each time he tried, something didn’t add up. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Alek raised his hand.

  “Mr. Khederian, is this a question regarding your Algebra I assignment?” Mr. Weedin asked him. “As you know, this is the Algebra II segment of the class, and I’d like to focus my attention on those students.”

  “Actually, Mr. Weedin, I couldn’t help noticing the problem that Eth—all the way on the left side of the board. As it’s written, it’s impossible to solve.”

  “Is that so, Alek?”

  “
Yes, Mr. Weedin. But if you switch the second variable from a negative to a positive, which is what I think it’s supposed to be, then the problem makes sense.”

  The Algebra I students looked up from their homework, and the upperclassmen in Algebra II redirected their attention from the chalkboard to Alek. This was the first time that Alek had spoken in class. Also, Mr. Weedin had a reputation for being meticulous, denying every extension request, and never making mistakes. Challenging him was momentous.

  Mr. Weedin looked at Alek for a moment, then at the problem on the chalkboard, and then at his notes. The silence slowed time. As if in a trance, the class sat while Mr. Weedin checked his notes, making an arrhythmic clucking sound.

  A few interminable moments later, Mr. Weedin cleared his throat. “You seem to be correct, Mr. Khederian.”

  The class gave a collective exhale.

  “Don’t worry, teach, I’m sure you’ll get it right next time.” Ethan smiled.

  Mr. Weedin sheepishly walked to the board, made the necessary change, and Ethan solved the problem with a flourish.

  Alek intentionally averted his eyes while Ethan walked back to his seat. Alek thought he saw Ethan lean toward him after sitting down as if he were going to say something, but the bell rang and Alek grabbed his bag and ran out of the classroom.

  After his algebra triumph, Alek walked home with a swagger he hadn’t felt that entire year. He wanted to share his victory with someone. But he couldn’t tell his parents because they would’ve accused him of disrespecting his teacher. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell Nik, who’d just find a way to use the story to belittle him.

  Alek saw Orchard Street in the distance. He hadn’t spoken to Becky since that awkward night last Friday when he tried to ask her advice about Ethan. He reached the intersection and paused, deliberating what to do. Sometimes, he decided, the easiest way to get over something was just to move forward. He made the turn and walked down the two blocks to Becky’s house.

  After ringing the doorbell twice, Alek heard Becky’s footsteps scampering inside the house. A moment later, she opened the door.

  “Um, Alek? You, uh, didn’t call—I didn’t know that you were, well, that you were coming.” She avoided eye contact with Alek, nervously shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. “Did we have plans?”

  “Since when do I call before I come over?” Alek asked. “I want to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” Becky stood in the doorway, examining the doorknob as if it were an ancient artifact.

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “What’re you, a vampire?” Becky shot back.

  Alek took her joke as a good sign. He walked in and dropped his book bag. Becky’s parents had met working at the same pharmaceutical laboratory outside of Princeton. Now their work took them all over the world, and they decorated their home with objects they collected from the international conventions they attended. A handwoven tablecloth from Ivory Coast depicting animals grazing at an oasis hung on the wall, over a modern Dutch sofa with no back. A Russian samovar, which Becky explained was an old-fashioned teapot, sat inside a Japanese tansu, next to a classic silver cup-and-saucer set that her parents had told Alek was from the Arts and Crafts period.

  Alek started running down the steps to the basement.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in a sec, okay?” Becky called out. Alek grabbed and popped open two Diet Dr Peppers from the little basement refrigerator. Becky loved Diet Dr Pepper so much, Alek sometimes saw her drinking it on the way to school in the morning. Her parents had tried to limit her intake, so Becky had taken to hiding cans in her room to make sure she could get her fix when she needed to. To Alek, Diet Dr Pepper tasted like Becky’s basement.

  Alek took his usual position on the sofa: on the right, with his feet up on the table. A few minutes later, Becky came down and sat next to him in her usual position: feet crossed on the sofa, snuggled into the corner between the back cushion and the armrest. Alek noticed she’d swept her hair back and taken her socks off.

  “So, tell me what’s going on,” Becky said cautiously, as if Alek were the one who’d acted crazy the last time they hung out.

  Alek recounted the entire Algebra class story, from the moment he noticed the mistake on the chalkboard to the way the bell rang the moment the incident was over. He took his time in the telling, hoping that by pretending that things were normal between them, things would become normal between them. He even impersonated Mr. Weedin’s British accent, knowing that Becky would get a kick out of it.

  “He sounds just like Henry Higgins from My Fair Lady!” Becky said.

  “That’s exactly what I thought!”

  “And this just happened today?” Becky asked.

  “Yeah. I was walking home, and I passed your street, and I thought that there was no one in the world that I wanted to tell this to more than you.”

  Becky’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Of course, Becky. I don’t think something counts until I’ve told you. These last few days made me realize how much I miss you, and how much you mean to me.”

  And she leaned over and kissed him.

  Not a friendly, peck-on-the-cheek-because-we-got-into-a-fight-and-now-we’re-making-up kiss. A full mouth-on-mouth kiss. The kiss lasted for a few seconds before Becky disengaged. Her face was still alarmingly close to Alek’s, and he had to go cross-eyed to see her. Her eyes were wide. Alek had never seen them so wild.

  Alek didn’t know what to do, so he just sat there. He didn’t mean to be encouraging, but that’s how Becky must’ve taken it, because she leaned in again. Before her mouth could land on his, Alek put up his hands. He knew he couldn’t kiss her again. “Don’t.”

  Becky pulled back immediately, as if he’d shoved her. The excitement drained from her eyes, and her body went rigid. “I thought you wanted…”

  Alek tried to choose his words carefully. “I don’t know. If this. Is a good idea.”

  Becky’s expression hardened. “Look, Alek, I think you really have to figure out what’s going on here. Last week, you asked me if I’ve ever done something that scared the shit out of me. Then you blow me off for a week, and now you show up and tell me how much I mean to you, and how important I am…” Becky’s eyes welled with tears. “Why are you messing with me like this?” she asked him.

  “I’m not! I swear!” Alek couldn’t understand what was going on. “I thought we were going to make up, not make out!” He could taste Becky’s peppermint lip gloss on his lips. He couldn’t believe that a few seconds ago her mouth had been on his. “You are my best friend, and you are that important to me—”

  “I think you should go,” Becky said, looking away from him. He could see she was exerting all of her willpower to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

  “But—”

  “Alek. Go.”

  He had never heard such finality in her voice. Even last winter, when her grandfather died, she hadn’t seemed this upset. Becky stood and ran up and out of the basement. He could hear her on the floor above him, then climbing the steps to the second floor of the house. Alek sat for a moment, unsure of what to do. He poured the rest of his Diet Dr Pepper down the basement sink, then tossed the can in the Boyces’ recycling bin. He climbed up to the main floor of the house intending to continue up to Becky’s room to bang on her door until she let him in. But then he saw she’d hung his book bag on the front doorknob. He got the message.

  Alek made sure the door locked behind him.

  * * *

  The next day at lunch, Alek decided the cafeteria was the room he hated most in the world. The relentless fluorescent lighting gave everything a flat greenish hue, and even without the terrible school food being served, the place still smelled like wet socks. At least during the school year he had Becky to sit with and discuss the minutiae of their lives. But that kiss had changed everything.

  Alek didn’t know why it had unnerved him so much. He had kissed
girls before. Maybe not recently, but that’s because all of the freshman girls wanted to date upperclassmen boys, and the upperclassmen girls wouldn’t even look at a freshman. In middle school, he’d had two girlfriends—Gail in seventh grade and Linsay in eighth. He had kissed Gail a few times and had made out with Linsay pretty seriously after Spring Fling. He still remembered the way she smelled that night, like flowers and sweat.

  When his parents decided he couldn’t try out for the tennis team, Alek promised to practice every day anyway. He hadn’t kept his promise as religiously as he had wanted to, but more often than not, he’d made the time to hit against the wall in the basketball courts, run through his drills, or even get Jason or Matthew to volley with him. He missed tennis so much that he created the opportunity to have it in his life.

  But that’s not how he felt about kissing girls. It just wasn’t something that he’d spent any time thinking about in high school. And when he asked himself why, he couldn’t come up with a good reason. Probably, like everything else, it was another side effect of the misery that the last year had been. When high school stopped being a living hell, Alek figured, he’d get back to dating.

  “What’re you eating, dude? That shit smells funky.”

  Alek looked up and saw Ethan leaning on the other side of the cafeteria table, his blue eyes staring at him intensely. Alek’s heart started racing.

  “What?” He choked.

  “I said, what’re you eating? That’s no hoagie.”

  Alek wanted to die. Finally, Ethan was talking to him, and the first thing they were going to discuss was the weird food his parents packed him.

  “This is Armenian string cheese,” Alek said, holding up a long braid of white cheese flecked with black spots.

  “Like Polly-O?”

  “Um, sorta. You unwrap it like this.” Alek demonstrated by unpeeling a strip of the cheese down the length of its spiral braid. He was grateful to have something to do.