Hold My Hand

by Michael Barakiva

  Intellectually, Alek understood that people rarely end up marrying their high school sweethearts, as he and Ethan had talked about on the Intrepid (was it possible that was only two days ago?). His parents had both dated plenty before they met in grad school. Becky’s mother had already been divorced when she met Becky’s dad. And he hadn’t considered himself naïve about the obstacles he and Ethan would face when Ethan graduated in May.

  But still, in his heart, he couldn’t imagine a force powerful enough to wrest them asunder. In his known universe, they had no kryptonite.

  Until, of course, they did.

  Alek spent the rest of that Sunday indulging in the act of ignoring: ignoring his mother’s plaintive knocks on his door, his father’s more assertive ones, the buzzing of his cell phone, the alerts from his computer every time a new e-mail arrived. Previously, Alek had loved the beginning of winter break: that nebulous period leading up to New Year’s, when nothing was expected of you. From now on, though, he was sure he’d remember it as the time he’d have to come to terms with the shame and pain of having been cheated on.

  With the exception of two trips to the bathroom and one journey downstairs that consisted of walking past his parents to the well-stocked fridge and realizing that not even homemade cheese kadaif did anything to whet his appetite, Alek spent the rest of his day not just in his room but in his bed, like an invalid.

  That day was lost, as if he’d been in a trance, like one of those days spent buried in a book or video game. Except that this time, he had nothing to show for it: no hundreds of pages read, no leveling up, no weapons unlocked. And then, thankfully, it was night and dark and he could surrender himself to sleep again.

  The next morning, the first Monday of break, he waited until all the activity in his house died before venturing out of his bedroom. His mother would be at work, he knew, but the whereabouts of his father and brother were unknown. Alek imagined they’d probably gone off to do something together—a celebration of the first weekday of winter break and the freedom it afforded. He might’ve felt jealousy or anger at being left behind. But he didn’t. He didn’t feel much. He just knew the house was now empty, except for him, and that’s all that mattered.

  He tried to eat, more out of the knowledge that sustenance was important than actual hunger, wondering why the usually delicious homemade hummus and dolma tasted so much like cardboard, before giving up. He brushed his teeth afterward, just like he was supposed to, although the idea of a shower still felt like a Herculean labor, impossible for a mere mortal like himself to accomplish.

  He managed to put on his jacket and boots, but only by outwilling the evil wizard controlling his mind, making everyday tasks seem impossible. Something as complicated as walking to Becky’s seemed out of the question, obviously.

  But he could open the front door. And then he could take one step in the direction of Orchard Street. And then one more. And another. And another, through the snow-turned-slush, until he finally stood outside the orange house with the white trim.

  Alek rang the doorbell to his best friend’s house, more grateful than ever that he had a best friend. Especially one within walking distance.

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you and e-mailing you and PMing you nonstop! I was about to release the homing pigeons!” Becky was tugging on the leggings under her burgundy-and-gray-striped skirt. “Also, you look horrible. Have you become a drug addict in the seventy-two hours that have elapsed since last I saw you? Or maybe you look more like a zombie. Maybe a drug-addict zombie? Do zombies take drugs?”

  “Happy holidays to you, too, Becky.” Alek tried to smile.

  “Don’t just stand there—you’re letting all the cold air in!” Becky yanked him inside and closed the door.

  “Hello, Alek…”

  “… and happy holidays!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Boyce sat snuggling on their Dutch sofa with no back. Artifacts from their world travels decorated the living room: the most recent addition was a kakemono, a Japanese scroll, which had been hung just next to the tansu.

  “Happy holidays!” Alek recited. He tried to sound normal, but he could hear the tinniness in his own voice.

  Mrs. Boyce got up to adjust the thermostat. “Are you enjoying…”

  “… your winter break so far?” her husband finished for her.

  It was a simple enough question. But for reasons entirely unclear to him, Alek was incapable of answering. He just stood, frozen, dumbfounded by both the question and his inability to answer it.

  Luckily, Becky came to his rescue. “We’ve only been on break like three days, Mom. One, if you don’t count the weekend. So I’m sure he’s enjoying it fine.” She tugged on Alek’s arm. “Now hurry up—I don’t have a lot of time, so can we skip the part where you talk to my parents because you were raised with good immigrant manners?” Becky practically yanked Alek down the hallway to the basement stairs. “And I have been dying to tell you all about the marching band party Mahira and John made me go to, which I only did because the only thing that I could imagine that would be lamer was spending Saturday night at home with my parents.”

  “We heard that…”

  “… you know,” her mother called down to them.

  But Becky was already closing the door behind them, covering their escape. When they were safely downstairs, shielded from Becky’s parents, she switched to the topic of true interest. “I’ve been calling you nonstop. I was going to do a skate-by tonight if you didn’t pick up. What the hell is going on?”

  “Ethan cheated on me,” Alek blurted.

  “Oh my God. Is that why you Houdini’ed on him Saturday night?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Ethan called Dustin.”

  “He did what?”

  “Ethan called everyone. He even called me. He was freaking out.”

  “Don’t you hate that thing when someone does something horrible and then they use the excuse of being worried about you to cause even bigger drama?” Alek plopped down on Becky’s basement sofa, trying to disappear in its folds.

  “Are you sure he cheated?” Becky climbed on the sofa next to him. “Maybe it was just, like, a stupid, dumb, meaningless kiss.”

  “Nope.” Alek put his legs on her lap, something he’d never dared under ordinary circumstances. “He went all the way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “One hundred percent. Because he told me right before we were going to—you know.”

  Becky removed Alek’s legs from her lap. “No. I do not know.”

  Alek was tired of pitas and kebabs euphemisms.

  “What it?”

  “You know. It.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  Becky leaned forward, putting her weight on her knees so that she could get right in Alek’s face. “Tell me everything. And if you leave out even a single detail, Alek Khederian, you will live to regret it.”

  The story poured out of Alek like paint out of a tipped can. He spoke as the events came to him, out of chronological order, nonsensically, painfully, embarrassedly. If she hadn’t been his best friend, if she hadn’t known how his brain worked and how to follow its most convoluted meanderings, she probably wouldn’t have even been able to make sense of it.

  When he finished, Becky wrapped him up in a hug warmer than the down comforter he’d been hiding under the last two days.

  “I love you, you know?” she said.

  “I love you, too, Becky.”

  “And besides, I think you’re overlooking something very important here,” she said slowly.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re going to stick up for Ethan.”

  “No—I’m going to tell you that clearly this happened the way it was supposed to.”

  Alek put his hands on his head. “How can you say that?”

  “Because if you had sex for the first time without telling me beforehand, without giving me every pro and con going on in your mind, without de
liberating the details with the kind of minutiae traditionally reserved for close readings in AP English, I would’ve killed you. And then where would we be? You’d be dead, for one. And I’d have killed my best friend, which would be a terrible thing to have to tell people for the rest of my life. ‘What ever happened to that Armenian guy?’ ‘Alek?’ ‘Yeah, him.’ ‘Oh, I killed him.’ ‘Bummer.’ ‘Totally.’”

  And then the impossible happened. Alek smiled.

  “If you killed me, my ghost would come and haunt you, for—like—ever. And I’d do it at the worst times, too, like when you and Dustin were making out or during your driver’s license test. I would be, like, the most annoying ghost ever.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Because you’re just about the most annoying friend ever.”

  “You better get used to seeing the most annoying friend ever because now that I’m single, I’m going to be here basically 24/7.”

  “You’re not single.”

  “Of course I am!” Alek said. “He cheated on me.”

  “I’m not disputing that. What I’m disputing is that you think you two have broken up.”

  “If I say we’re broken up, then we’re broken up!”

  “That’s not how it works, Alek. You have to say it to him.”

  “Don’t you think that’s what ‘don’t ever touch me again’ means?”

  Becky contemplated Alek’s words as she removed an Honest Tea from the basement mini-fridge. “No. I think you need to say some variation of the words, ‘We’re breaking up’ or ‘We just broke up’ or ‘You cheated on me and I can never forgive you because you betrayed everything holy about the world’ for an actual breakup to occur. Like, if I were Ethan right now, I wouldn’t know that we were broken up. I could think that we were just in some horrible fight.”

  “This is different. We’ve survived a horrible fight—remember homecoming?” Alek asked.

  “I still don’t understand how you managed to lose all those alpacas.”

  “And I still don’t understand how you don’t understand what ‘I don’t ever want to talk about those alpacas again’ means.”

  “Okay, but you still have to break up with him.” Becky planted her hands on her hips.

  “So that’s what you think I should do?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So you think I should forgive him?” Alek demanded.

  “I didn’t say that, either—I’m just saying, you don’t actually know what happened. You didn’t give him a chance to talk. Maybe there are some—I don’t know—extenuating circumstances.”

  The boiler in Becky’s basement rattled to life, like an animal emerging from hibernation.

  “Cheating is wrong. Period. And nothing can make it less wrong. So what else do I need to know?”

  “Come on, Alek. That’s such a dumb way to look at it.” Becky finished her Honest Tea, burped, and then tossed it in a recycling bin like a basketball player shooting a free throw. “Like, stealing is wrong, but if your family were starving, would stealing bread to feed them be wrong? I don’t think so.”

  “Okay—can you think of a situation in which it would be okay to cheat?” Alek came over and picked out the pieces of grapefruit from the bag of Haribo Fruit Salad candy Becky had produced from a cushion in the sofa. It was the first thing he’d eaten in two days, and he savored the bitterness and sweetness of the grapefruit candy, made all the more delicious by the knowledge that his parents would never let him eat this kind of food at home. Nor would they even call it food.

  Becky handed Alek the bag of candy and produced a second one. “Okay, maybe not, but that’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point, then?”

  “The point is that you have to talk to Ethan.”

  For once, Alek said nothing. He just chewed on it.

  12

  Alek prayed that he’d be able to avoid his parents until he figured out what he was going to do about Ethan. But when he returned from Becky’s, they were waiting for him, like predators for their prey.

  “Hey, guys.” Alek dragged his feet into the kitchen, grateful, at least, that Nik wasn’t around.

  “Alek!” The relief fairly poured out of his mother’s eyes when she saw her younger son awake, walking and talking.

  “We’re ordering dinner.” His father had been tight-lipped ever since Alek had returned from New York.

  Alek sat down. He knew this might take a while.

  “Hello, can I speak to Mr. Lee?” After years of criticizing “these Americans” for ordering in instead of cooking their own food, Alek’s mom had recently surrendered to the ritual. But naturally, she had developed her own methodology.

  The first part involved getting the proprietor of the establishment on the phone. “Hello, Mr. Lee!” Mrs. Khederian raised her voice when speaking to the owner of Hunan House, as if volume was necessary to compensate for her imagination of his limited comprehension of English. In reality, however, when the Boyces took Alek to the same restaurant, he’d witnessed Mr. Lee effortlessly engage numerous customers in extended conversations.

  “I’d like to put in an order for dinner,” Mrs. Khederian instructed. She laughed at Mr. Lee’s response, then put her hand over the receiver to relay it. “He said, ‘Why not try Jade House this time?’ Isn’t he such a kidder?” She removed her hand and continued speaking into the phone. “Yes, I’d like to start with the wonton soup, but could you go a little light on the salt in the broth? And would you mind making the wontons with chicken, not pork? I find the pork a little stringy.” Mrs. Khederian laughed again at Mr. Lee’s response.

  If Alek were Mr. Lee, he would’ve instructed his employees to never pick up the phone when they saw the Khederians’ number appear on the caller ID.

  “Next, we’d like some egg rolls, but they should be made right after the oil in the deep fryer has been changed. And what kind of oil are you using today?” She paused for his response. “Yes, but you do know that avocado oil has an even higher burn point than canola’s? And it’s healthier for you, too. There’s a Mexican brand I particularly adore—Avoro. Why don’t I e-mail you the information on where to get it?” Another pause. “Of course I’d be happy to pay extra. Maybe I can reach out to some of your customers and see if they’d be willing to join me? But do please make sure that each of our dishes is cooked at the same time today, so that none of it shows up cold. That wouldn’t make for a good Yelp review, would it?” Mrs. Khederian giggled at Mr. Lee’s response. “What a charmer you are, Mr. Lee.”

  Alek marveled at his mother’s ability to goad, instruct, threaten, and flirt all within the same conversation. And now that she had discovered the power of leaving reviews online for businesses whose service she had found disappointing, she was even more empowered. Alek swore he could spot his mother’s handiwork on all of the local review sites that he trolled. He would’ve bet his college tuition fund that she had authored “Chicken Breast Drier Than Sahara Desert” and “Better to Starve Than Eat Here.”

  “Don’t forget to tell him about the vegetables,” Mr. Khederian piped in.

  “Mr. Lee, my husband has reminded me to talk to you about the order in which the vegetables are sautéed in your chicken and mixed vegetables dish.” Alek had asked one time if they could order that same dish with shrimp, and his mother had looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. Seafood was always a dangerous gamble, even in the finest restaurants, she had told him, and in takeout, the risk was too great. “As I’m sure you know, vegetables have to be sautéed in inverse order of toughness, and we felt like the carrots had been added after the peppers, making the peppers a bit soggy and leaving the carrots too tough. And are you sure that all the vegetables are fresh? I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but some of the broccoli crowns teetered on yellow last time. How do they look today?” Mrs. Khederian listened intently, as if the voice on the other line were divulging state secrets. “Would you mind taking a picture and sending it to me? Of course I’ll wait.” />
  Alek’s mom put her hand over the receiver and confided to her audience. “Isn’t technology amazing?”

  “You know, there’s a mute button, Mom.” Alek put his head in his hands.

  She searched her smartphone until she found and pressed said button. “What will they think of next?” She spoke back into the phone. “Now, would you mind telling me about what goes into the white sauce? Can you hear me, Mr. Lee? Mr. Lee?”

  “You have to unmute it now,” Alek said.

  “And how do I do that?” she asked.

  Alek took a deep breath. And then another one. “You just hit the same button you hit the first time. The one that now says ‘unmute.’”

  “Of course.” In attempting this Daredevil feat of agility, however, Mrs. Khederian accidentally hung up on Mr. Lee.

  If it were Alek on the other end of the line, there’s no way he would’ve picked up when his mother called again. But Mr. Lee, it appeared, was a glutton for punishment.

  “There you are, Mr. Lee! I think you accidentally hung up on me. Now I wanted to talk to you about the white sauce. Last time, it felt—what’s the word…”

  “… gloopy?” Alek offered, hating himself for acting as his mother’s accomplice.

  “Yes, gloopy. It felt gloopy last time. Are you using flour or cornstarch as your thickening agent? Maybe you should just include all of the sauces, on the side of course, so we can see which one best complements each dish.”

  Alek watched the minute hand continue its predictable arc on the kitchen clock, designed to look like a brass pan hanging from its handle. It took his mother longer to place the order than it would take the restaurant to prepare the dishes. “And can you make sure we’re the first route on the delivery? I’d hate to have to reheat the food when it arrives.”