Hold My Hand

by Michael Barakiva

  Becky started speaking before he’d finished the question, raising her voice over his. “Are you deaf as well as—”

  “Okay, guys, I think you both need to take a step back.” Dustin hadn’t raised his voice, but somehow his calm, clear tone cut through their hysteria.

  “But he—” Becky protested.

  “But she—” Alek sputtered.

  “That’s enough.”

  Both Becky and Alek shut up.

  “Becks.” Dustin rose from the sofa and stood between them. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “You know Alek doesn’t mean any of the things he’s saying tonight. He’s all kinds of bent because of what he’s going through. You gotta cut him some slack.”

  “I guess,” Becky semi-conceded.

  “And, Alek, my man.” Dustin turned to face him. “I may not be fun and quirky and weird like you and Becks. But I treat her right and think she’s the aces. And I know that you do, too. Isn’t that enough common ground? So why don’t you take a seat and tell us both what happened?”

  Alek regarded Dustin anew. Was it possible that he’d underestimated him this whole time, that what seemed like blandness was just pure chillness? How would Alek have responded if one of Ethan’s friends had talked to him the way he’d talked to Dustin? And wasn’t the most important thing about whomever was lucky enough to be with Becky that he thought the world of her and treated her well?

  “When I showed up at Ethan’s, I could smell from the front door that he’d been cooking.” Alek plopped himself down on the sofa.

  “Ethan, cooking?” Becky sat herself next to him, leaving just enough room for Dustin between them.

  Dustin took the cue. “This doesn’t sound good.”

  “Cooking is a strong word for what I discovered in the kitchen.” Alek relaxed, letting the story flow out. Whenever he found himself editing something out for Dustin’s benefit, he went back and included the detail, as he would have if he’d been alone with Becky.

  Sometimes, it was Dustin who asked for specifics. “So were you guys just kissing or, like, really going at it?”

  “We were definitely hitting it.” Alek gave Dustin credit for not being one of those straight guys who freaked out when in the proximity of anything gay, as if it were a contagious condition or asking about it was tantamount to coming out.

  When Becky was dissatisfied with the level of detail being provided, she let it be known. “Where was his father during all this? And what color flannel was he wearing?”

  “Lesley’s. Red and black, small pattern, you know? With a wifebeater underneath.”

  “Could we please use a different name for that?” Becky protested.

  “Okay—A-shirts, or whatever they’re called.”

  When he reached the end of the story, Alek felt like a poison had been purged from his system. “Pretty amazing, right? I actually did it.”

  Becky had one of those quizzical looks, the kind Alek had learned to recognize as being a precursor for her saying something totally unexpected. “Is it my duty, as your solemnly sworn best friend, to point out that you basically dumped Ethan for no reason?”

  “What do you mean? He lied to me. Again!”

  Alek could tell Dustin wanted to say something but didn’t. So Becky did. “I mean, not really.”

  “He said Remi wasn’t at the party when he was.”

  “Oh my God—are you seriously going to…” Becky looked up suddenly. “Hold on! It’s almost midnight!” Becky unmuted the TV, giving voice to the flickering lights that had been playing in the background.

  Alek joined in as Becky and Dustin counted down to zero with Ryan Seacrest and his suspiciously perfect teeth, then turned away so that they would have some privacy for their first kiss of the New Year.

  “Get over here, Alek.” Dustin yanked him between them, where Becky and Dustin kissed him on either cheek. Alek kissed Becky first, then Dustin, before all three of them launched into a loud and off-key version of “Auld Lang Syne.”

  It certainly wasn’t how Alek had expected to spend his New Year’s Eve—living out the worst possible stereotype of the single gay sandwiched between his coupled, hetero friends. But between being alone and this, he’d choose the latter every time.

  18

  Alek stumbled out of Becky’s at close to one a.m., aware that he’d broken his curfew again, aware that he’d probably be grounded, aware that he still hadn’t been grounded for the first infraction the night of the six-month with Ethan, aware that the cumulative grounding would probably last until he left for college or later.

  It was that funny time when it still felt like the night before but was technically the next day. Alek wondered why the day change didn’t happen later—like at two a.m., or even four, to prevent this confusion. But he didn’t rule the world. If he did, that would be one of the many things he’d change, like why the United States still used inches and pounds when the rest of the world was on the metric system.

  It was colder still than when he’d stormed out of Ethan’s. Even though that had been just a few hours ago, it felt like it had happened in a different decade. And although he wanted to ignore them, Becky’s words about breaking up with Ethan for no reason still tugged at him, at the corner of his consciousness, like a star you could see only if you didn’t look directly at it.

  Any other night, the entirety of his neighborhood would’ve been asleep at this time. In fact, once Becky bet Alek that she could lie down in the middle on her street at midnight and stay there until six a.m. unharmed. But on New Year’s Eve, he passed the occasional lit window or parking car, its inhabitants returning from the night’s festivities. He didn’t take the most direct route home, weaving circuitously through blocks and parks and houses that all looked suspiciously alike, an homage to the uniformity of suburban planning.

  He took his time returning home.

  He opened the door to his house quietly, not really trying to sneak in, just not wanting to wake up anyone who might already be asleep. The light in the kitchen told him he needn’t have bothered. Either an army of badgers was attacking the Khederian kitchen, or his brother was making a late-night snack.

  Alek walked into the kitchen, not bothering to greet Nik, who was in the throes of assembling an impressive sandwich. A half-sliced tomato presented itself on the kitchen counter. The savory scent of a sizzling onion, sautéing on the stove, enticed him. How many of the greatest recipes in the world started with sautéing an onion? The kebab meat and pita warming up in the toaster oven, however, made Alek think of Ethan, and in spite of everything, a ripple of laughter erupted from him.

  “What’s so funny?” Nik asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Alek didn’t think he was hungry when he came home. But the sight and, more importantly, the smells of the kitchen reminded Alek how long it had been since he’d devoured the Chinese food. As if Nik could read his brother’s mind, he slid the Tupperware containing the kebabs across the kitchen counter. Alek caught it, unsnapping the lid that ensured air-free storage.

  “Do you sometimes,” Alek said as he placed his kebab next to Nik’s in the toaster oven, “wish we had a microwave? You know, like everybody else?”

  “Mom says that microwaves destroy food’s nutrients. And taste.”

  “Mom says lots of things.”

  Nik sliced another onion, throwing it into the skillet. Alek understood this was as close to an invitation as he’d receive to stay and talk.

  Alek filled the electric kettle. “Mint?” he asked his brother.

  His brother grunted his consent.

  They had two sets of tea ware, of course: porcelain for everyday use, fine china for guests. Alek filled an empty tea filter with three teaspoons of loose mint tea (one per cup, plus one “for the pot”). Using loose tea was not just a flavor-palate decision, his mother had explained to them. “Who knows what they use to make those tea bags? Adhesives? Bleach? It’s the last stuff you want to be pouring boiling water over and then ingesting! B
esides, the tea used in most prepackaged tea bags is usually just the dustings and breakings from actual tea leaves, which means they release more tannins and don’t taste as good. Really, loose tea is the only option.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Nik munched on some almonds.

  Alek gave his head the barest of noncommittal nods as he got the ketchup (for himself) and mustard (for his brother) out of the fridge.

  “What did you write in your essay? The one that beat mine?”

  While they waited for their meat and pita to warm up, Alek threw together a small salad: greens from the fridge, the remainder of the sliced tomato that was already on the counter, and a carrot that he quickly rinsed (rinsing vegetables, his mother had repeatedly reminded them, should always take place before any incision was made), peeled, then transformed it into paper-thin ribbons using the peeler again.

  “We had just finished making all that dolma for Thanksgiving, remember?”

  Nik laughed. “There were, like, grapevine leaves everywhere.”

  “Exactly! And I thought about how this is a dish that Armenians have been making forever.”

  “I’d say between three and five thousand years.” Nik tilted his head. “Grapes probably arrived in what is now Armenia around 5000 BC from Phoenician traders.”

  “Okay then—so like I said, forever. And Mom was using the food processor for the pie crusts, so we had to chop the peppers and onions and parsley by hand. And it got me thinking how, like, for the history of time, Armenians had been making this dish just about the way we were making it then. Families sitting at the table, making the filling, stuffing the leaves, rolling them out, and cooking them up. And how lucky we were to be part of that lineage. That is what being Armenian means to me.”

  “No wonder you beat me.” Nik nodded appreciatively. “I just wrote what I thought I should write about: the indignity of being the victims of an unacknowledged genocide, the well-known story of how we were the first people to convert to Christianity, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “You know, odars”—Alek used the Armenian word used to describe non-Armenians—“don’t know that story.”

  “Huh. Seriously?” Nik asked.

  “Totally,” Alek confirmed.

  Nik removed the meat and pitas from the toaster oven and began assembling the sandwiches.

  “What does being Armenian really mean to you?” Alek whipped up a little salad dressing: equal parts oil, lemon, and vinegar with a squirt of Dijon mustard, a dash of fresh chopped mint, and a healthy shake of salt and pepper.

  They sat down at the kitchen table, not bothering to put place mats down but still folding napkins on their laps. Nik spoke between bites, something he’d never have done if their parents were present. “I would’ve written about anything but the genocide. Yes, it was horrible, and yes, the fact that it’s unacknowledged makes it even worse. But the Armenian people were around for thousands of years before that and will be for thousands more, and wouldn’t it be sad if we let our entire identity be defined by the worst thing that happened, versus the great stuff we’ve done?” Nik sprinkled a little vinegar on his sandwich. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s the big deal about being out in church?”

  Alek put his sandwich down. “God, you can be such a prick.”

  “Why? Because I’m asking about this?”

  “Sure. And what about you throwing around that ‘heterophobic’ bullshit? It’s like white people insisting that all lives matter.”

  “Don’t act like you’re such a freakin’ angel, you know? Ever since you came out, Mom and Dad have been fawning over you, like just because you’re gay, you’re special.”

  “My being gay is only a small part of the inimitable spectacularness that is me.”

  “So what—because I’m straight, I’m not allowed to ask about the gay stuff? I want to know why it means so much to you, because I don’t get it. And I’m trying to. So you can either make me feel like an asshole for not understanding, or you can just tell me already.”

  “Fair enough.” Alek swallowed.

  “Because, seriously, the last thing I’d want the reverend father knowing is anything about who I’m dating.”

  The gentle hiss of the boiling water provided Alek an excuse to leave the table. He prepared the pot, pouring a little hot water in and swirling it around first. Once it was sufficiently warm, he discarded the water, placed the packed filter inside, and slowly poured the boiling water over the loose tea. “Okay. It’s like this. Let’s say you were hanging out with a bunch of people, and one of them started talking about how the Armenian genocide didn’t happen.” Alek returned to the table with the teapot and two mugs.

  “A denier?”

  “Exactly. What would you do?” They both knew to wait three to five minutes for the tea to be properly brewed before pouring it.

  “I would try to swallow my rage and fury, then, as calmly as I could, cite all the impressive historical facts to support my case.”

  “Great! Now, why would you do that? Why would you risk angering this person, making the people around you uncomfortable, why would you feel compelled to do all that, when you could just Elsa-let-it-go?”

  Nik wrapped his hands around the warm teapot. “Because it would be dishonest not to. I don’t want them believing a lie. And I’d want to try to change this denier’s mind.”

  “Great. So why am I out at church? Because we live in a world built on assumptions, and one of them is that everyone is straight.”

  “That’s not—”

  “It isn’t?” Alek interrupted. “Come on—how many times am I asked at church if I’ve found a nice Armenian girl yet versus how often you’re asked about your boyfriend, Nik? Huh?” Alek responded, plowing forward. “And even though gay marriage has been legal in this country for, like, how many years now, when you meet a woman who says she’s married, what gender do you imagine her spouse to be? It’s woven into our society, these assumptions, and every one of them is a microaggression to someone queer like me.”

  “Okay—point made,” Nik conceded.

  “So I have to make a decision: either let everyone assume I’m straight, which is a lie, or come out. I don’t get to not make the decision. And just as you want the people in the group to know the truth about the Armenian Genocide, I want people to know the truth about me. And just like you might want to try and change the denier’s mind, I want all those old Armos at church to see that queer people are just like them. You know, it’s infinitely harder to be homophobic when you actually know someone gay? Well, I could be that gay person to everyone in our church.” Alek took a deep breath, looked up into the distance, and used his movie-trailer voice. “EveryGay, they’d call me, showing up in Armenian churches everywhere, changing perceived notions of homosexuality and queerness just by his sheer normalcy!”

  Nik laughed. “Thank you.” Deeming it had brewed sufficiently, he poured them both some tea. “I think I get it now.”

  “Anytime.” Alek took another bite of his sandwich. It tasted good.

  “And is that what you wrote about when you resubmitted your paper?”

  “More or less. There was nothing really shocking about it. I just wanted to be honest about who I was. And how going to church makes someone like me feel.”

  Nik finished his sandwich and moved on to the salad. “I’ve been dreaming about reading my paper at the Christmas Eve service since—I can’t even remember how long. And every year, it’s gone to a senior. So yeah, I really thought it was going to be me this time. Losing out to any sophomore would’ve been hard. Losing out to you made it worse.” Nik blew on his tea, then took a tentative sip.

  “I didn’t care about it, honestly. But once I got it, with everything that’s been happening, I thought, What a great chance to share with the people in the congregation who I really am. I know it wouldn’t change some of their minds—I’m not that naïve. But I think some of them, at least, would’ve thought
about it. At that moment, or on their drive home, or maybe in the days or weeks to come. And wouldn’t that have been a great way to spend Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes, it would have.” Nik nodded. “It would’ve been a great way to spend Christmas Eve.”

  * * *

  Alek woke the next day knowing that the first thing he’d have to face in the New Year, before school and homework and Ethan and Becky and everything else that would populate the upcoming 365 days, was his parents.

  “We have to leave for church in one hour if we want to be on time for the New Year’s Day service, Alek,” his mother called to him through the closed door that had been his salvation during the last two weeks.

  Alek showered, brushed his teeth, and made himself presentable before he went downstairs. He hated to disturb the portrait of suburban kitchen table bliss he found: his father eating a bagel with cream cheese, reading the New York Times; his mother munching on a croissant, the New Yorker folded back in her other hand; two freshly brewed cups of coffee filling the room with their invigorating aroma. “I’m not going.”

  The breakfast carbs came down first, then the literature, folded carefully next to the cups of coffee in the hope they could be resumed quickly.

  “And why not?” His father spoke first.

  “I’ve been banned, remember?”

  “Just from Saturday school,” his mother reminded him.

  “It doesn’t matter—why would I possibly want to go somewhere I’m not wanted?”

  “This is important to us, Alek,” his father said. “For our family. We have been exceedingly reasonable with you these last few weeks. Do I need to remind you how you weren’t punished for when you broke curfew ten days ago with Ethan in the city? And we haven’t even spoken about last night, when you broke your curfew again!” His father picked up a bowl of sunflower seeds.

  “And…?”

  “What ‘and’?” his father responded. “There doesn’t need to be any ‘and.’” His father and mother began eating the seeds: placing them between their front teeth, cracking them open in a swift diagonal motion, extracting the meat of the seed, spitting the shell out into a bowl on the table, and chewing and swallowing the seed, all in one swift nanosecond of a gesture.