You Can't Tell by Looking

by Russell J. Sanders

  “What are your symptoms?” Baba asks, ever the doctor.

  “We-e-e-ell,” Aysel says, drawing out the word. “Let’s see. I wake up in the mornings and immediately I have a queasy feeling in my gut. It’s like the worst hangover I could ever imagine. And since I’ve never touched a drop of alcohol, imagining is all I can do. But this has to be worse than that. The sight of a fried egg makes me want to puke. And I frequently do.”

  Baba’s face is full of concern, like the physician he is, wanting to delve deeper. Mama, however, knows. I can see it in her eyes. I don’t know what she knows, but she knows. Like I said, mothers always do, don’t they?

  “Oh, love, when are you due?”

  Baba smacks his forehead like he should have figured that out as fast as Mama.

  “January. I’m barely five weeks, now,” Aysel says, proud that her little secret has come out. I know my sister well. She came over this morning to break the news. But she does love her little games.

  “How does Hasan feel about this?” Tim asks. How would he feel? Surely Hasan is over the moon about this. “You will raise this child strictly Muslim? All the old ways?” Tim continues.

  “Of course, Timur. I didn’t pledge my love to Hasan, join his family, to suddenly break with his traditions as soon as I brought his child into the world.” Aysel sounds offended.

  “Then, good.” That’s all the reply Timur gives.

  “Oh, darling, there is so much we must do. We’ll ask Mary to plan a baby shower for you, and we’ll go shopping to outfit a nursery. Who’s your doctor? Do I know her?”

  “Dr. Saddiqi.”

  “Theda Saddiqi. She’s the best. I’m glad you chose her,” Mama says. “She’ll take good care of you.”

  “Hasan’s mother wanted me to use the midwife at their mosque, but I knew you wouldn’t rest unless I went to a doctor, so I chose the best. Hasan is backing me on this.”

  Timur glares at her, like she’s committed treason.

  “I’m glad,” Baba says. “There is nothing wrong with a good midwife. A midwife brought me into this world, but we live in a different world, and proper medical care can work wonders if complications arise.” He smiles at Aysel. “Not that there will be any, my benim küçük kızım.”

  “Don’t you worry, love,” Mama adds quickly. “Fathers are worriers by nature. You’ll do fine.”

  “You haven’t said anything, Kerem.” Aysel looks at me. “Are you happy for me?”

  “Will you name him after me?” I ask with a grin.

  “How do you know it will be a him? It might be a girl, you know,” Aysel says.

  “Either one, I’ll teach them everything I know about school politics.”

  “Ugh. That’s all I need. A class president for a daughter or son. No, I want to raise a painter, a musician, an actor. Someone creative.”

  “And what,” I say, “if he or she turns out to be a mathematician, a scientist?”

  “Then she will love the child as much as your baba and I love you three,” Mama declares.

  I look at Tim to see his reaction to Mama including him in our family.

  He beams.

  I gobble down my eggs and gulp my juice. “Well, sister, congratulations. Your politician brother has to go to school now.”

  GABE AND I meet up outside. We’ve gotten to where we’re in tune with each other. It’s strange, but most mornings, we are coming out our front doors at the exact same time.

  “Salaam Alaykum,” he greets.

  “Wa-Alaykum,” I respond. Then I kiss his cheek, not caring if the neighbors notice or not.

  “What’s up? Your smile is wider than the Grand Canyon.”

  “I’m going to be an uncle.”

  “An uncle? You mean Aysel’s knocked up?”

  I know he means nothing mean or nasty, but I sock him on the arm anyway, not hard.

  He rubs his arm like I’ve just given him the worst bruise of his life. “Ow! Play nice.”

  “No, you play nice. Stop talkin’ ’bout my sister.” I say that all gangster.

  “So Aysel’s really having a kid? When?”

  “Next January.”

  I can see his lips move as he counts the months. “So she’s only a month or so gone, then.”

  “Yeah. I guess she waited to make sure it took before she told the family.”

  “Well, when you see her again, tell her I’m happy for her. Also tell her Gabriel’s a nice name for a baby boy. For a girl, Gabriela.”

  “In your dreams, guy. I’ve already put my bid in for Kerem. It’s a good name—means noble and kind.”

  “And they gave it to you?” he mocks.

  “Yes, they did, and I would be proud to pass it on to my new nephew, wiseass.”

  His smirk turns to a loving smile. “And your new nephew would be proud to have it.”

  We get to school and get settled into our respective first-period classes. I’m about to open my notebook to copy the day’s objective from the board when a student aide knocks on the door.

  My teacher goes to the door and retrieves a call slip from the aide’s hand. She walks over to me and hands me the slip. “They want you in the principal’s office, Kerem.”

  I don’t get called down often, but I think nothing of it. Probably some class business.

  When I near the office, I see Gabe coming from the other direction, a call slip in his hand as well.

  I immediately feel a pit in my stomach. This has to be about the prom thing. They’ve reversed their decision. Some parent must have called. The school board has rescinded its nondiscrimination policy. The ax is going to fall. We aren’t going to be allowed to go to the prom, at least not as each other’s dates. I want to rant, rave. How could this happen?

  “You here too?” There’s not a trace of worry in Gabe’s face when he sees me. How can he not know what’s about to happen?

  He opens the door and motions for me to go through first.

  Mr. Zynco’s secretary looks at us and says, without emotion, “He’s in there.” She points to the closed door of the principal’s office. “Don’t knock. He’s waiting for you.”

  Again, Gabe opens the door and lets me go first. I step into the tiny office. We’re greeted, and there’s no disdain or worry in his voice. “Have a seat, guys.”

  We both sit, side by side, in chairs placed in front of his desk. There’s a third chair in which a young, frizzy-haired woman sits, a spiral-bound tablet and pen in her hand. “This is Ms. Christopher. She’s with the Neighborhood Tribune. She’s asked to interview you for the paper. What say, guys? You game?”

  I look at this strange woman. Interview us? Why?

  She must see and understand my expression. “Gabe didn’t tell you? He came into our offices last evening and pitched the story. This is big. We’re just a tiny paper. You probably get a copy thrown into your yard for free, but for this area, two gay guys going to the prom together is big, big news.”

  Gabe? My eyes, I hope, ask my question: what have you done?

  “Ba—” He stops himself. I know he was about to call me babe. But he was wise to stifle, here in the principal’s office, in front of a reporter, no less. “I would have run it by you,” he says to me, “but when I got the idea, you were at prayers.”

  “Like those take two or three hours,” I say with disdain. How could he make this decision and not tell me when it involves both of us?

  This Christopher woman pipes up. “Kerem, if you’re not on board with this, I’ll understand. Gabe said I’d need your principal’s approval and yours as well. So if you’re not cool with it, I’ll kill the story. But I really do wanna do it.”

  Gabe looks at me, pleadingly. “Ker, this is a good thing. We’ve come this far. This is just another step in our coming out. Do it. For me?”

  How can I resist? He’s right. Yes, everyone at school knows now. But if the whole community knows, there can’t be any backlash. Living openly. That’s what we agreed on.

  “Fine. What
do you want to know?”

  “Is there somewhere private?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid,” Mr. Zynco answers her, “right here is as private as you’re going to get. I’m all for first amendment rights, but you have to understand that schools are little dictatorships. I need to know what you ask and what they answer. If there’s anything that will reflect negatively on the school, I must try to dissuade you from publishing—at least that part of your story. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  And we spend the next forty-five minutes answering her questions. Nothing even borders on negativity, so I know this will be a really nice profile we can all be happy with.

  She thanks us for our time when we’ve exhausted all her questions; then we leave. The bell has rung for second period, so the secretary drones, “I sent aides to pick up your stuff for you.” That woman is, and always has been, a sour personality. She’s either very efficient or the principal is sleeping with her because she wins no one over with her nonexistent smiles.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Gabe says when we’re in the hallway.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice, now did I?” I can’t believe I’ve said that because I thought I was over my initial pissiness at his volunteering our lives to the community.

  “You could have said no.” His voice is quiet, full of hurt. I melt.

  “No, I couldn’t. I know this was important to you. And I know it will be good for us. I just hope that my parents are on board with it. If not, you can explain it to them.”

  He pecks me on the cheek. “I know your folks. They’ll be happy as clams you did this.”

  “What does that mean? Happy as clams? How do you know mollusks can be happy? Huh? Huh?” I keep saying huh? over and over as we head to our classes. I would guess he’s glad to be rid of me when we split at the first hallway intersection. I say one more huh?, loud, when he’s about ten feet down the hall to my right.

  He looks back at me and grins.

  I forgot to ask when the story would appear, but the next afternoon, the Neighborhood Tribune’s in my yard, and I remember it comes on Thursdays, regular as clockwork. I snatch it up because I haven’t told Mama and Baba the fact that our lives have been immortalized in print. They were both out last night, and this morning, wouldn’t you know it? I got up late and skipped breakfast.

  Gabe scoops up the copy off his lawn, and together we head to the pond. Neither of us is expecting anything earth-shattering in this article, but we’d agreed yesterday that when it came out, we’d read it together and in private.

  Nothing’s said as we walk to the land of the MFs. We sit on our bench, and still we don’t talk. Like a solemn ritual, we each remove the plastic sleeve from our copies. We unroll the papers. We snap them to unfold them to make them readable. Like synchronized swimmers, we turn the pages until we find the article, tucked away on page six.

  I scan; he scans. There’s a picture Ms. Christopher took of us both, standing with the principal, all smiles. The article’s flattering. It tells of Gabe on the first day at a new school and how he sees me and wants to get to know me. Christopher weaves our tale, not in gruesome detail, but enough to paint a love story like anybody else’s. Even the “two boys going to the prom together” thing is treated as nothing very unusual. She states it simply, like something that happens every day in the modern world. The only thing the least controversial is the Muslim angle. In answer to one of her questions, I did tell her that many Muslim families would not be okay with a gay son. But I was quick to tell her of mine, and how loving they are. All in all, it’s an article to be proud of.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “What do I think? I think I will cherish this forever. I think Mom will be pasting it into my senior scrapbook tonight. I think your folks’ll be honored by what you said about them. I think we’ll be showing this to our kids and our grandkids. That’s what I think. And you know what else I think? I think this article’ll do more to convince a skeptical community than anything ever written before. Certainly it’ll do more good than all the stories about conflicted gay children who’ve been bullied and who commit suicide, feeling unloved. And it’ll do more good than any stories about crazed Muslims who radicalize and kill people because they’re convinced their god wants them to. This article is about love. And the world needs more of that.”

  “Wow. You really speak your mind,” I say, so proud of him right now I can burst. “I’m glad we did this.”

  “So am I, babe, so am I.” And he grabs me and plants a lingering kiss that has all the love in the world in it.

  We sit in silence, basking in the warmth of the kiss, the warmth of this article.

  And then that kid is back. I notice him first. He’s chucking rocks at the MFs once again. I pray to Allah that He send the male swan swooping in to bite the kid’s little pecker off.

  “Hey, kid,” Gabe yells. “What did we tell you? I’m calling the cops if you don’t lay off. And if one of those birds bites your eyes out, don’t come stumbling blind across the park, crying your nonexistent eyes out to us.”

  The startled kid, who had no idea we were there watching him, I guess, turns, rock in air. There’s a “deer in the headlights” look in his eyes which we can see from fifteen feet away.

  Gabe stands, and the kid takes off running. Then Gabe turns, laughing. “I think we made a believer out of him.”

  Joining in the laugh, I stand. “I need to get home. Mama and Baba will be home soon, and I want to show them this.” I wave the paper in the air.

  When I enter the house, I call out, “Mama? Baba? You home?”

  There is no answer. I decide to get some juice, so I go to the kitchen. As I’m pouring myself a glass of apple juice, I notice Tim sitting on the sofa, his back to me. He hasn’t said a word.

  I start to speak. Then I notice what he is reading. The Neighborhood Tribune, page six.

  Chapter 21

  Timur

  OUTRAGEOUS! THE whole world is going to read this and think it’s normal. There’s nothing normal about these two. Why can’t Aunt and Uncle see that?

  Now it’s in print for all to see. Hasan’s family will read this. We are disgraced.

  The one thing that can save us is that surely Uncle will be shamed by this article and put a stop to this. Kerem and this pervert cannot go to the prom together. What makes them think this is okay?

  Are there no authorities in this school? No one with morals? With good sense? Why have they not forbidden this? The principal’s an idiot. I knew that from my time there. A Godless fool. But surely someone higher up will see this sort of behavior leads to disgrace.

  If the school board has no morals and condones this, then someone—the mayor, a politician, a preacher, an imam can do something. This is a community newspaper, it’s nothing, barely any circulation at all, but I will post this article online. Someone of importance and authority will see it and call a halt to this.

  This is the only way I can save our family. It is bad enough that Aysel defies Hasan’s family, refusing the midwife. And now Kerem’s abomination. I can’t let them destroy us. I can do very little about Aysel. She’s proven that, over and over. But I can’t allow Kerem to attend prom with a queer. I should beat Gabriel within an inch of his life, put the fear of Allah into him.

  But that would not stop Kerem. He’d run to his side, cry over him, make a fool of himself even worse. They made it into the newspaper already; whatever I could do to Kerem’s abominable love would make the news again. That would compound the disgrace.

  Stopping it is the only way. Then Hasan’s family will see that we are good Muslims, that we are not sinners.

  And that, coupled with this baby, will go a long way. Despite her refusal of the midwife, Aysel must redeem herself by raising this baby to be a good Muslim, an Allah-fearing Muslim. She must make her parents see that the one path to heaven is through a clean, true way of life.

  Our family can be redeemed. We can sit at Allah’s
feet someday.

  If Aysel doesn’t utterly disgrace us.

  If Kerem doesn’t throw us all into dishonor.

  Neither can happen.

  Chapter 22

  Gabriel

  “WE’VE GONE viral, babe,” I shout to Kerem, who’s waiting for me across the street.

  As I cross, he says, “What’re you talking about?”

  “The article. Somebody tweeted the link.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know it’s been retweeted so many times that we may never know who posted it the first time. And you know what?”

  “No, but I’d bet you’re going to tell me,” Kerem quips.

  “Most of the comments I’ve seen are positive—very few negatives. Yeah, I did see a few nasty remarks, but those got shot down quickly. People love us!” I grab him and hug him.

  “I’m in shock. Yeah, I’ve seen Facebookers fawn over all the ‘two guys going to the prom together’ stories, but this is a different angle. One that could be explosive. We have the all-American swim teamer crossing over to the dark side and dating a terrorist.”

  I hate he has phrased it this way, but he does have a point.

  “Don’t talk like that. We both know you’re not a terrorist, and I didn’t cross over to any dark side. We fell in love, and that’s exactly how Christopher wrote us—brilliantly, I might add. She was able to take potential controversy and make it normal, as American as apple pie and baseball. Score one for her.”

  “It is a good article, isn’t it?” he says. “I guess I’m still stuck in the old world, the one where I was convinced that no one would accept us.”

  “It’s a new world, babe, and this thing on Twitter just proved it.”

  Everyone at school is talking about the article. They are all basking in our glory, happy that we, and they, have all that Twitter attention. More than one of the other seniors come up to us to tell us how happy they are or how proud or how we should ignore the naysayers.