“Couldn’t be as wonderful as the person I’m taking.”
I feel a blush. And a rumbling in my gut, for I know I have to bring that up, and it will not be a good thing.
“Better. He’s taking none other than DD herself—Darlene Durham.”
Kerem’s mouth flies open. His head jerks slightly in disbelief. “The Darlene Durham?”
“That’s what I said, and he quickly pointed out there’s only one in our school.”
Kerem laughs, that beautiful tinkle of a laugh of his, like a delicate wind chime. “I guess he’s right, isn’t he?”
“Righto, babe. The one and only DD will be on the arm of my cousin on our night of nights.”
“And I know Shaun’s bustin’ a gut over that, isn’t he?”
“You better believe it.”
“Well, good for him. He deserves it, after all he’s been through. Yes, he brought it on himself, but he paid for his mistakes. Allah forgives.”
“And so do you, I might point out.”
“And why shouldn’t I? If Allah can forgive, then of course I can and should. I’m glad something good came of all this. Shaun’s a changed man, he’s almost healed physically, and he scored the best date in school, next to mine.”
I love that Kerem can forgive so readily. He’s a good, good person. And he’s mine.
Then the word he used makes me remember. “As Shaun so wickedly pointed out, he hasn’t scored anything with DD. That’s for prom night.”
Kerem laughs, a hearty one. “I like his way of thinking. For his sake, I hope she’s willing.” He laughs more. “But God forbid, can you picture a cherub with DD’s eyes and Shaun’s mug? Use a condom, Shaun!” That last he calls out as if he’s shouting across town to my cousin. And he expels an even bigger laugh than before.
He’s enjoying himself so much that I hate to bring up what I have to bring up.
“Ker—” I pause, formulating my words carefully.
But he must hear the caution in that one syllable I’ve spoken, because his laughter ends, and I see apprehension in his face.
“What? I don’t like what I’m hearing. Say it. You’ve got something on your mind. And it doesn’t sound like something I’m going to like.”
“You heard all that in one little syllable?”
“I know you. I know every little nuance in your voice, every crease in your face, every tell. You’ve got something to say, and I’m not going to like it.”
I take a deep breath.
“Spill it, Gabe.”
Another deep breath. “Are you still okay with our going to prom together?” I spit the words like they’re venom I have to get rid of or die instantly.
His face darkens. “Of course I am. What brought this on? Was it Shaun? Did he revert to his old ways?”
“No,” I say. I pause just long enough to think a second and realize that was a lie. “Well, yes, Shaun did plant the seed. But it wasn’t because he’s back to his old way of thinking. Far from it. He’s concerned that other kids won’t be as accepting.”
“Maybe. But I think he’s wrong. I know them. I’m their president. They know me. It will be okay.” He’s trying to reassure me, but he’s not succeeding.
“But if we casually stroll into the thing with no warning, won’t that rile up the ones who might—might—be homophobic?”
“Do we care? It’s our prom as much as theirs.” I can’t believe he’s so calm, so rational. I’m supposed to be the one who’s been out and loud for years here, not him.
“What if something happens?”
“What could they do? The place’ll be crawling with chaperones. There’ll be metal detectors at the entrance, so it’s not like someone can blow us away with a smuggled gun. There won’t be any drunken rages because old lady Simpkins will be posted at the refreshment table guarding the punch bowl, and all the other teachers there will have their eagle eyes on the known offenders who might be likely to bring in flasks. I just can’t see anything happening. The most I can imagine’s a few dirty looks.”
“I think you’re fooling yourself, babe.”
“I thought you’d conquered your irrational fear of prejudice. Four months you’ve had to process. And it seemed to me, that long-ago January afternoon, that you had processed it instantly. You haven’t said a word about being afraid since that moment we sealed our love. And Gabe, even though your fear then was about us being a Methodist/Muslim couple, prejudice is prejudice, and we’re gonna encounter it as a gay couple, as well. We just have to ignore it.”
“I know, I know.”
“Yes, you know. But do you believe? Prejudice can only hurt us if we let it. And I’m here by your side, and I’ll be there at that prom.”
I think he’s finished, and then he winds up again.
“Besides, I can’t believe you’re trying to back out. You’re the one who talked me into doing this.” He’s supportive and hurt, all at once. “If you don’t want to go with me, say so.”
“No, no, no—I don’t want to back out. It was something we needed to discuss, though.” My answer is lame because I know what this is all about: Shaun stirred up those old fears.
“Tell you what.” Ker’s face lights up. “Why don’t we can the surprise and come out at school tomorrow? Big announcement. Very public. Make sure everyone knows well before prom. Any problems, we deal with them ahead of time.”
This amazes me. Just a few months before, Kerem was stuck. He couldn’t admit to his parents he was gay; he couldn’t even admit to himself he was gay. Now he wants to tell the world—or at least his world. I knew he loved me, and this proves it. And instantly my fear is gone, and I’m excited.
“So how will we do this? Do I stand on a cafeteria table waving my hands until calm descends, and then proclaim ‘I have an announcement from your president’?” I feel a weight lift from me, and that idea actually sounds like a good one to me, even though I know I’m kidding.
He laughs. I see it. I hear it. I feel it. The love. “A bit drastic, don’t you think? Not to mention dangerous. Those are collapsible tables. On rollers. I can see us skating into the wall, felled in a crashing mess of cafeteria goo. Besides, why do I have to be the potential bearer of bad news? We’re in this together, bucko. No, let’s get to school early, and together, we can start telling people. We’ll seek out those who we think are the most accepting, just to bolster our confidence, and then we’ll move on to the biggest gossips, so they can spread the word. By the time first period starts, believe me, everyone will know.”
“And shit can begin raining down, if shit it be.” I smile, hoping to mask the tiny worry that has bloomed. Worry—not fear.
“There won’t be any. Trust me. And I’ll have my Handi Wipes with me, just in case.”
I laugh, picturing us both covered in steaming doo-doo. “Okay, I’ll trust you. From your mouth to Allah’s ears. There will be no diarrhea shower. But keep those Handi Wipes near,” I say. “I love you, babe. Now, I need to sleep to give me courage, and you have evening prayers.”
“Salaam Alaykum.”
“Wa-Alaykum.”
Despite what I said, I am ready for a sleepless night.
Surprisingly I go right to sleep.
I WAKE up refreshed. I shower and dress and head down to the kitchen. A text from Kerem says he’ll meet me in front of the house as soon as we both have a nice fortifying breakfast.
Mom says, “You look happy this morning,” as I get the milk from the fridge.
“I am,” I say. That and nothing more.
A huge bowl of Wheaties, the Breakfast of Champions, and I’m ready to face the task at hand. For courage, I picture me and Kerem, linked together, pictured on the cereal box, like all those triumphant athletes they feature. Onward I go into the fray.
As soon as we get to school, Kerem takes my hand, proudly and conspicuously walking with it clasped in his, even though no one seems to notice. He immediately spots his vice-president, and we stroll toward her.
&n
bsp; “Morning,” he says. “Excited about prom?”
“Isn’t everyone?” she answers. “My dress—incredible, and Tony’s cummerbund and tie match perfectly. Dreamy shade of periwinkle.” She smiles. “Who are you taking, Kerem?”
“You’re lookin’ at him.” He tosses that off with a finger pointed at me.
Her eyes widen, and for a minute I’m thinking, here it comes. Then she smiles.
“Good for you. You guys spend so much time together, I was beginning to wonder. Now I know. You wearing matching tuxes? What color are your ties?” And like a lot of girls, fashion seems to be the only thing on her mind. That sounds sexist, but at prom time, girls’ thoughts turn to dresses, and tuxes, and corsages, and stuff like that.
As we continue on our rounds, Kerem leans in and says, “Told ya. Piece of cake.” We stop to shoot the breeze to a couple of unsuspecting people. One looks in shock but quickly recovers, smiles, wishes us well, and heads off to class. The other, a jock, actually says, “I knew you two were. My gaydar’s never wrong.” He saunters away, leaving me to wonder. I have always thought only gays have gaydar. Which means…. Now that’s a thought to ponder, but it vanishes when I spot Lou Kramer. Something tells me that if we want to tell a gossip, Kramer’s our guy.
“Kramer,” I call out. He smiles and walks over. “How’s it hangin’? Haven’t talked to you in ages. Pumped about prom?” I ask.
“As pumped as I can be,” he says. “Taking my cousin. She needed a date, and I was available.” He eyes me like I should know what he means, being two friends of Dorothy, two travelers under the rainbow, two souls in search of Oz.
“I’m sure you’ll have a great time. I know I will.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t understand how I could possibly have a great time under the circumstances, as he perceives them.
“Meet my date.” I drop the bomb as I gesture at Kerem.
“Wait a minute.” Kramer sputters, his voice full of incredulity. “You? Kerem? A couple? Prom? Together?” It’s comical how he can’t seem to speak in complete sentences he’s so knocked for a loop. I love it.
“True, true, true, true, and true.”
I can’t describe the look on his face. Part totally disbelieving, part admiration, part wishing he’d had our courage. “And you think it’s okay?” For someone who wants you to think he’s full of confidence, this announcement’s done him in.
“We’ve already cleared it with the higher-ups. We’re good to go,” I declare.
“And the earth stops spinning,” Kramer says.
I’ve rocked his tiny world.
Chapter 20
Kerem
I’M IN shock. There is a Sufi saying that Baba repeats. It goes like this: “Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps the singing bird will come.” Baba tells us this every time we begin to lose hope. Well, I remembered that saying as Gabe and I started our rounds, and I knew everything was going to turn out well. Our coming out was easy as pie. There was absolutely no blowback. Of course, we didn’t speak to each and every senior, and I have no illusions. There’s bound to be some out there who are, at this very moment, gathering in their covens, preparing their cauldrons of blood. But let’s hope not. We didn’t pick up on any negative buzz. May there not be, inshallah. As Baba always says, “There are far more good people in this world than bad ones.”
This whole thing’s been almost a dream since I first met Gabriel. Who woulda thought that in a few short months I would be out and proud, open to the school, my mama, and my baba?
Oh, Baba. That giver of wisdom. I’m blessed to have him. I screwed all my courage up, and after evening prayers the night of Aysel’s wedding—Baba did them at home, and not at Hasan’s mosque as Tim wanted—I plunged right in.
With Tim at the mosque and Mama in her bedroom, it was just me and Baba in the family room. We were rolling up our prayer rugs when I said, trying to be as nonchalant as I could, “Baba, we need to talk.”
“That sounds ominous. Have you at last done that murder I’ve been waiting all your life for you to commit?” He chuckled as he put his prayer rug away.
I put mine in the same cabinet and answered, “Baba, stop. This is serious.”
He sat in his recliner. I continued standing.
“Sit down, love.” He pointed to Mama’s chair. “Nothing is so serious that you must stand over me to tell it.”
I sat as commanded. I didn’t say anything. There was a long, long silence.
“So, son, spill. You know you can tell me anything.”
The love that’s always been in his eyes was there, shining on me. Would it be there after I said what I needed to say?
I opened my lips to speak. But still, nothing came out.
Baba’s eyes narrowed. He leaned over and took my hand in his. “Nothing is so bad that it can’t be spoken, love.”
I tried again, and this time words formed and spilled from my mouth. “I’m gay.”
A huge smile broke out on his face. “Is that all?”
I looked at him like he was crazy. Is that all? Isn’t that enough?
“I was afraid you were going to say, ‘I’m not going to medical school after all; I’m running away to join an ashram,’ or ‘I’ve joined a terrorist cell, and I’ll be leaving for Syria tomorrow,’ or ‘I’ve decided to get a pet alligator.’”
“But aren’t you upset about what I told you?”
“Who you love is between you and Allah. It is not for me to judge. I only know I love you, and that will never end.” He squeezed my hand. I’d forgotten he was still holding it. It suddenly occurred to me that Gabe had called it: Baba did indeed say it was between me and Allah.
“But most fathers would not be happy.” I can’t let it go.
“Your baba is not most fathers. Who you love is not important. What’s important is that you love. But I have a sneaking suspicion I know the ‘who.’ It’s Gabriel, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Months of holding a secret, a secret that apparently was an open one. Mama knew; Baba knew. Who else knows just by looking at us?
“Yeah? Is that all you can say? I saw you on the dance floor with him tonight. Those people didn’t have a clue—none of them—but your baba sees things. I saw how you smiled at him. How happy he made you, as you made your tiny little public statement. My heart swelled, knowing my son had someone in his life, someone besides his old baba who has spent his life totally devoted to him.”
I was in complete shock. I believed him when he said no one knew a thing. It was ridiculous to think you could always tell by looking at someone. My classmates didn’t know I was Muslim until I told them. Gabe is as much a jock as the quarterback on the football team. No one would know he was gay. He was very open at his old school. He’d only kept it a secret here because of me. And I was pretty sure my friends would never suspect that I, a Muslim, could even be gay. It’s a weird world we live in. But Baba and Mama knew. Parents always know. They may need to be told specifics sometimes, but they can always sense when something’s up.
But this… this total acceptance… I never expected this. Why I doubted, I didn’t know. My baba is not your typical Muslim, but he’s Muslim nonetheless. How many Muslim fathers would accept this news so well? How many would embrace the idea with as much love and gusto?
“Love, I’ll be beside you all the way, in everything you do. Whether I’m physically beside you or not, I’ll be there. Now—do we need to call your mama downstairs? She should know as well.”
And guilt set in. A tiny twinge.
“She already knows,” I said, quietly. “She asked me not to tell you until after Aysel’s wedding.” I waited for the hurt to set in, that I had told one parent and had chosen Mama instead of him. “Actually she told me I was gay.”
“Surely you already knew.” He laughed. Laughed?
“Yeah, I did.” I grinned, grateful the tension had broken. “But I had no intention of making the big reveal at that point.”
“Oh, love
, how can you get to your age and not know that mothers know everything? I’ll let you in on another secret: they frequently choose what and when to tell things to their husbands. They know us men can’t always handle things like they can.” So he was not upset that she knew before he did.
I have the two best parents in the entire universe. Gabe says that about his, but I won’t tell him he’s wrong.
Baba lifted a weight from me that night. And telling people at school was another step. I feel as if I’m no longer shackled. Oh, I know that there will be situations when being in the closet is preferable for survival. In those times I’ll step back in for the brief moment it takes to figure out how to burst out again. For life is nothing if you don’t live it honestly. And I will live honestly, from now on, inshallah.
And now, this morning is a wonder. I awakened with newfound happiness, the happiness that comes from knowing that I need hide nothing, from my family, from my friends.
Aysel sits in the kitchen when I go down for breakfast. Baba is frying eggs, and Mama is squeezing orange juice.
Timur sits, sullen. He’s been more and more out of sorts since Aysel’s wedding. You’d think three months would be plenty of time for him to come to grips with reality: Aysel is different but the same. A new husband, a new family, a newfound orthodoxy has not changed her into the burqa-clad good little wife Tim was hoping for. Mama and Baba have not suddenly switched their allegiance to Hasan’s mosque. And I, well, I am living more openly, and since so many Muslims frown on homosexuality—and I’m sure that includes Timur—then enough said about that. I couldn’t live as unhappy as Tim seems to be.
“So, love,” Mama says, setting glasses of fresh juice in front of us all. “What brings you over this morning?” She directs her question to Aysel.
“Yes, my benim küçük kızım, we’ve missed you at breakfast,” Baba asks. “One egg or two?”
“Actually,” Aysel says, “I don’t care for any. My stomach’s been bothering me a bit lately.”
“What, love? Have you been sick? Why haven’t you told me before this?” Mama is totally concerned, focused on her little girl.
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