Hold My Hand

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by Michael Barakiva


  Alek moved a small pile of sunflower seeds closer to him. “But nothing bad actually happened, right? I wasn’t mugged or killed or kidnapped. I didn’t spontaneously burst into flame, right? So what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that it’s easier for any of those to happen at night.” His dad consumed two seeds in rapid succession.

  “Not burst into flame,” Alek pointed out. “That would only be possible in daylight.”

  “If you were a vampire.” His mother joined in, pouring a pile of seeds out in front of her for easier access. “A phoenix, for example, could burst into flame at any time.”

  Alek nodded at his mom appreciatively.

  “We’re not talking about bursting into flame.” His father rerouted the conversation. “We’re talking about you respecting the rules we lay down. You don’t need to understand them or even appreciate them. But you do need to follow them.”

  “Guys, do you have any idea what most fifteen-year-olds are like in this country? In this world? There are fifteen-year-olds who are pregnant. Fifteen-year-olds who drink and do drugs. There are even fifteen-year-olds, and get ready for this, who haven’t started preparing for their PSATs.”

  This last item, apparently, was too shocking for his parents’ sensibilities. Mrs. Khederian inhaled sharply, aghast, while his father covered his mouth, mute at the horror he was forced to confront.

  “It’s scary, I know, but it’s true,” Alek continued. “The worst thing I have ever done in my life was get home a few hours late the night my boyfriend told me he had cheated on me and then again the night I finally dumped him. Is that so horrible?”

  “Oh, honey.” Mrs. Khederian moved the bowl of sunflower seeds closer to Alek. “We weren’t going to make you tell us what happened that night—obviously we knew something did.”

  “But it helps us to know that there were extenuating circumstances,” his father added, more understanding than Alek would’ve guessed. “Does that have anything to do with how you’ve been acting at church?”

  And there it was—the opening that Alek hadn’t realize he’d been waiting for until it presented itself. “Dad, you and I may disagree about this, but I don’t need an explanation for how I’ve been acting at church. The church is the one that needs an explanation.” He felt his father go rigid, so Alek changed his tactic. “What do you think, Mom?”

  Mrs. Khederian got up to empty the now-full bowl of sunflower seed shells. She spoke deliberately, weighing each word. “You know that your father and I are in agreement when it comes to our children, Alek, so don’t try to play us off of each other.”

  “God—I’m not a spy that’s been sent in here to infiltrate and perform espionage. In three years, I’ll be old enough to vote and join the army and die for this country in war, so can we assume that I’m mature enough to have a frank conversation about something? I just want to hear your opinion. Is that too much to ask?”

  His parents exchanged one of their wordless communiques, engaging in the kind of quasi-telepathic exchange that Alek assumed was bestowed on all married couples on their wedding day.

  “I have a different relationship to the church than your father.” Alek’s mom started slowly, speaking to Alek but maintaining eye contact with her husband. “My parents—they were intellectuals. So even though they went to church like all Armenians, they didn’t take the religious part of it very seriously.”

  Alek looked over at his father, who didn’t say anything. “What other part of church is there?” He spat out an especially large sunflower-seed husk into the pile. They continued to work their way through the pile as they talked.

  “The cultural part.”

  “But both Metzmama and Metzbaba had religious funerals.” Alek spat out empty shells. “Service in the church, coffin dropped into consecrated ground under the supervision of the priest, the whole thing.”

  “It’s true.” His mom performed the insert-crack-extract-spit ritual. “But that didn’t mean they considered themselves devout. Like my Catholic friends who are personally pro-life but politically pro-choice. Or my Jewish friends who keep mostly kosher but enjoy a good bacon cheeseburger every now and then.” Insert-crack-extract-spit. “People are funny that way.”

  “My parents weren’t like that.” Alek’s father spoke softly. “They met at church. They went every week. And when Dede passed away, the only way your nana made it through the grief was with the support of her reverend father. If anything, she’s become more devout in the last few years.”

  “And yet, she had no problem with Ethan. She follows him on Instagram, for God’s sake!”

  “I guess you’re her bacon cheeseburger!” Mrs. Khederian exclaimed.

  “People, in my experience, will surprise you if you give them the chance.” Alek licked the salt remnants from the sunflower seeds on his fingertips.

  Mr. Khederian consumed two sunflower seeds in quick succession. “You have to remember, Alek, she believes it all. Literally. That Jesus was the human incarnation of the son of God sent to Earth, and that he sacrificed himself for our sins. And that’s what I believe.”

  “I don’t have that many sins. I bet he would’ve been okay just giving up a finger. Or maybe a hand. But his whole body? That seems a bit excessive.” Alek discarded a seed that proved uncrackable.

  His dad didn’t laugh. But his mother did. “That’s enough, Alek. It’s too easy to make fun of literalists. But that’s what your father is. He believes that the reverend father is the liaison between us and God, and that by offending him, you offend God.”

  “I am offended that women can’t be priests!” Alek wiped his fingers and lips clean with a napkin. “Is there any kind of profession or institution that could get away with that blatant sexism?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about those things—especially as a feminist.” Alek’s mom poured out another pile of seeds. “But have you thought about all the pain you’re causing your father and this family? About how easy it would be just to apologize to him, and to Reverend Father, and end all of this?”

  “I have been thinking a lot about apologies and forgiveness lately, mayrik.” Alek rarely spoke in any of the little Armenian he knew, but the word for mother was on his limited vocabulary list. And then he told his parents what had been going on the last few weeks. He didn’t tell them everything, obviously—but just enough about Ethan and New Year’s. “So it’s not like I just decided, ‘Hey—you know what I’m going to do today? Break my curfew—doesn’t that sound fun?!’ This was some real stuff going on, you know?” It felt good to unburden himself, like taking the heaviest textbook out of a stuffed backpack. “All of this is to say that I think the most important part of an apology, like penance in the church, is the belief that you’d behave differently given the chance. That if you could, you would turn back time, to quote the most fabulous of all Armenians—”

  “I just wished Cher had dressed more decently in that video.” Mrs. Khederian shuddered inadvertently. “Is it so much to ask?”

  “—and do it differently. But I don’t feel that way. I’m sorry that you and Dad don’t see it that way, but I don’t need to persuade you, because I know it’s true. I have nothing to apologize to the reverend father for.”

  “Well, there it is,” his mother said.

  The three Khederians sat, without speaking, continuing to devour the sunflower seeds until only a pile of husks were left before them.

  “Just out of curiosity, did you guys even read my new essay?”

  His parents shook their heads with just a wisp of sheepishness.

  Alek produced a printed-out copy and placed it on the table. “Give it a look, would you? I worked really hard on it. And while you’re reading, think about what it must be like to have to go somewhere every week where you’re told that there’s something wrong with you. That you’re less. That your very life is wrong. You know how much it sucks that I’m not going to be able to get married by an Armenian priest in an Armenian church? It’s
something that you and Dad and Nik just take for granted. So yes, I know that ‘just apologizing’ would make everything better. But it wouldn’t be honest. And you didn’t bring me up to be a liar.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, the silence punctuated by the sound of sunflower seeds being devoured.

  “Thank you, Alek. For all this.” Alek’s dad took his essay.

  Alek knew he’d made his points. Alek knew he’d “won,” that his parents weren’t going to make him go to church. So he was perhaps the most surprised of the three of them when he heard himself say, “If we’re going to go to church, can we at least try to be on time?”

  19

  The New Year’s Day church experience was, if anything, even more excruciating than usual. And since his family, in an uncharacteristic attempt to honor his wishes, arrived early, Alek had to spend the ten minutes before the service evading questions about why he wasn’t attending Saturday school any longer and why his brother was now scheduled to speak at the Christmas Eve service instead of him.

  He couldn’t tell if it was just his imagination, but Alek felt like people were watching and treating him differently. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on—Mr. and Mrs. Papazian still smiled their toothy grins when they saw him, and Gregor from Neptune High asked which schools Alek was thinking of applying to as he always did. But every interaction was weighted in a way it hadn’t been before, Alek felt. He knew how small communities gossiped. If he had to make a bet, he’d wager he had become the subject du jour.

  As the reverend father spoke in the service, his rich baritone resonating through the sanctuary, Alek thought about the conversation he’d had with his parents that morning. He looked at all of the individuals sitting in the sanctuary, wondering how many people there, like his father, believed in the Bible literally—that the Virgin Mary conceived immaculately, that Jesus Christ was the embodiment of the Holy Father on Earth, who died for our sins. On the one hand, the mythological nature of it made perfect sense to Alek, who’d grown up on a diet of superheroes and fantasy and science fiction. But on the other hand, trying to engage all the stuff that he knew was made up in any kind of non-fictitious way seemed ludicrous. And if Christianity were literally true, that meant all the other religions were wrong. If Jesus were the Holy Savior, then he couldn’t be a prophet, as the Muslims believed. Or, if the savior had already come, then how silly were the Jews, all waiting for something that had happened over two thousand years ago? Not to mention the impossibility of trying to reconcile the Abrahamic religions with any of the rest of the religions in the world.

  As a philosophy, he got it: “treat others the way you’d like to be treated” was all fine and good, although treating them the way you thought they actually wanted to be treated felt a bit more on point. Nonetheless, philosophically, it seemed like a pretty good way to engage the world. The idea that we’re all born with original sin, on the other hand, felt cynical as hell. Although when Alek looked at climate change, the arms race, racism, sexism, and the genocides in the history of humankind, it was difficult to believe that a species born inherently good or even neutral could commit so many atrocities.

  When the service ended and the congregation finally filed out to enjoy a potluck downstairs, Alek and Arno snuck back into the sanctuary, each holding a napkin full of flaky nazook. They didn’t have much time: Alek knew his parents would want to embark on the ninety-minute trip back home shortly, since it was already five p.m. and the sun would be setting soon. But until then, he’d infinitely rather be here with Arno than downstairs with everyone else.

  “Did you do anything special for New Year’s?” Arno asked.

  Alek barked out a dry laugh, launching into a description of the evening’s events.

  “You dumped Ethan?” Arno shook his head. “That is un-freakin’-believable.” He added just a moment later, “Excuse my language.”

  Alek didn’t know if Arno was necessarily talking to him or to the image of the Virgin Mary and Jesus inlaid in gold above them in the sanctuary of St. Stephen’s.

  Even though no one else was in the cavernous room, the two of them still whispered, as if the stained-glass saints lining the walls could eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “And do you regret it?” Arno licked a flake of the pastry off his finger.

  “Hell no!” Alek replied, with perhaps more conviction than he felt. He didn’t apologize for his language, like Arno had, but he couldn’t help but glance up and see if the Virgin Mary or the baby Jesus had any response to his cursing. They appeared nonplussed.

  “And I didn’t even tell you about Becky almost kicking me out of her house, or actually having a halfway decent conversation with my brother. And then my parents!”

  “You have had a very eventful twenty-four hours,” Arno observed.

  “Riiiiiight?” Alek took a nibble of his nazook. “You know, since I found out about Ethan and Remi, I’ve been wondering what an Ethan-less world would be like. And when I finally broke up with him, I thought it would be exhilarating and liberating, like all the pain of having been cheated on would finally go away.”

  “Has it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s only been a day. Just give it time, Alek. Think of everything you’ve been through. Not to mention getting kicked out of Saturday school.”

  “And how is good ol’ Saturday school?” Alek changed the subject eagerly.

  “Boring as usual. I…” Arno stumbled. “I feel horrible, Alek.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s because of me you got kicked out. I should’ve—I don’t know—gotten up in class and made some big speech about what happened. And how messed up it was, and totally unfair.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I wanted to. Honest, I did. And I tried. But I couldn’t. I’m not brave like you.”

  “More like stupid.” Alek finished his pastry and used his napkin to wipe the confectioners’ sugar off his face.

  “Everyone knows something is messed up.” Arno scooted even closer to Alek, conspiring. “Even Shushan.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I care!”

  “Arno, do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Do nothing, okay? It’s just not worth it.” Alek’s insistence echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “You’re too good for this place.”

  A draft swept through the sanctuary, blowing out a few of the candles, shifting the shadows, giving the ornate columns and baroque detail an even heavier feel.

  A smile crept onto Arno’s face. “It’s nice, Alek. That you think that.”

  “Of course I do! You and me—we have to stick together. Now, promise me—don’t do anything, okay?” Alek solemnly held out his right pinkie, which Arno hooked with his own. Alek was about to say something about the church and acceptance and Jesus and love, but before he could—

  Arno kissed him.

  Arno’s kiss was warm and soft and tentative, a question mark more than an exclamation point, an invitation extended expecting a polite decline. Alek didn’t know which one of them was more surprised when Alek put his hand on Arno’s face and leaned into the kiss.

  RSVP: yes.

  Arno’s eyes popped open, like without visual proof, he wouldn’t have believed Alek was actually kissing him back.

  Under the gaze of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, of the stained-glass saints and Christ’s stations of the cross, the two Armenian boys kissed.

  “Where did that come from?” Alek asked finally.

  Arno blushed. “I’ve been wanting to do that since that day you found me in the classroom. Since before, actually.”

  “Seriously?” The warmth of the kiss filled Alek like a sip of communion wine. “I had no idea.”

  “Oh my God, you can be so clueless!” Arno said. “But let me finish, okay?” Arno took a deep breath. “I’m going to tell you something that’s going to make you not like me very much.”

  “Seriously?”

 
; “Seriously.”

  “Come on, Arno, what could you possibly say?”

  Arno looked away. The words came out haltingly, tinged with shame. “I’m the one who wrote gyot.”

  “What?” Alek’s hand dropped off Arno’s face.

  “I was alone in that classroom, just messing around, writing whatever, and it just came out. I don’t know why. I know it’s wrong. And then you were there, and you were so angry about it, and I was embarrassed to tell you since I felt so stupid, you know? But then it gave us something to talk about. And after years of coming to church every week and sitting in these pews and hating it and feeling horrible about myself for who I was, things changed. Because I had a friend. Who was like me. And instead of feeling so far away from the church and the love of Jesus, I started feeling how powerful it could be. Because of you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Alek.” Tears started rolling down Arno’s face. “So you see, I’m the one who’s responsible for everything that happened to you—all because I’m too much of a coward to speak up. I’m so so sorry.”

  Alek stood, intending to leave, to turn his back on another liar, another person who had let him down. He’d already done it with the person who’d meant most to him in the world. This, if anything, should’ve been easier.

  But something about Arno, in all his wretched misery, something about being in the sanctuary with Jesus and the Virgin Mary looking down gave him pause.

  Yes, if Arno had been honest with him from the start, Alek’s life would be infinitely easier. He wouldn’t have been kicked out of Saturday school. He wouldn’t have fought with the reverend father or his parents. He’d still be reading his paper at Christmas Eve service. He wouldn’t feel like he had the plague every time he came to church. That was all true.

  And as messed up as he found so much of the church, its homophobia, its sexism, its corruption, its patriarchy, its hegemony, its insistence that all other gods were false, there was one part of Christianity that always struck him as inherently, profoundly, true—as true as his knowledge that he was gay. The part about forgiveness. Although Alek hadn’t always succeeded in living by that precept, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try now.

 

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