Hold My Hand Page 4

  Alek closed the book so they wouldn’t have to stare at the offending letters. “You have to remember that when someone does something like this, it’s because they hate themselves, and hating on someone else makes them feel better, you know?”

  “It’s such an ugly word.” Arno tried to keep a brave face, but Alek could tell what it was costing him.

  “Totally.”

  Arno’s voice dropped down to a whisper. “Tell me that it gets better,” he pleaded.

  “What does?”

  “You know. This.”

  And then Alek understood that Arno was coming out to him.

  Although Alek had come out to various people over the last six months, this was the first time someone had come out to him. He knew firsthand how much this moment meant to Arno and how important his response would be.

  None of the people Alek had come out to responded in a way that would qualify as horrible: no disowning, no Bible-fearing “You’re damned to hell,” none of that after-school-special, old-fashioned bullshit. But certain responses, nonetheless, had been better than others.

  The worst was probably from his former friend Matthew, who lived around the corner.

  “I always suspected.” The condescension dripped off his voice, like ever-wise Matthew had been just waiting for Alek to figure out what was so obvious to everyone else. Well, Alek was happy to find an excuse to unfriend Matthew and his bad breath.

  The totally unfazed responses weren’t much better. The people who were just like, “Okay—is that all?” felt like they were working too hard to show how little it mattered to them. And besides, Alek hated having to wonder if they hadn’t actually heard his coming out or had mistaken it for something else. Are they trying to show how cool and accepting they are? Alek would have to wonder for the rest of the conversation. Or are they just hard of hearing?

  On the other side of the spectrum, and equally irksome, were the people who made a huge deal about it and how accepting they were, like his guidance counselor, Ms. Schmidt. “I guess except for discovering that I’m a homosexual, nothing else really interesting happened over the summer,” he had blurted out.

  Ms. Schmidt responded with a clearly prepared multi-minute monologue about how accepting she was of queer identity, and how she would support him in all his school endeavors, curricular and extracurricular, before adding a discreet “Be safe” in that disturbingly ominous way, as if being queer was, in and of itself, a way of becoming HIV positive. The whole time Alek was in Ms. Schmidt’s office, he felt like all he was, in her eyes, was queer. And yes, sure, Alek was queer. But he was more than that, too.

  Alek tried to give Arno the kind of response he appreciated most: chill, supportive, interested, and not too precious. “Of course it gets better. We can, like, start a gay Armenian club.” Alek assumed a radio broadcaster’s voice. “Genocided and homosexual? We know your plight!”

  Arno chuckled his wry, dry laugh. “Does it even count? It’s not like I’ve even—you know—done anything.”

  “That’s so cool, Arno. I didn’t know until, well—my lips were actually planted on my boyfriend’s.”

  “Ethan?” Arno asked.

  “Yeah—how’d you know?”

  “I follow him on Instagram. Everyone follows him on Instagram.”

  “Including my grandmother, apparently.”

  “He’s got, like, four thousand followers. You two are, like, celebrities in the Central NJ queer teens scene.”

  Alek laughed. “(A) That can’t possibly be a thing. And two, I think it’s awesome that you know yourself enough to be out. And don’t let the ass-wipe who did this change that.”

  Arno fingered the pages of his script. “You know, it’s not even an Armenian word.”

  “No?”

  “It’s Turkish.”

  “Big surprise.” Alek went for the cheap laugh and got it—nothing like two Armenians sharing a racist joke about the country that continued to deny the genocide it had committed over a hundred years ago. Alek undid his scarf and tossed it on the desk. “I had no idea. Just like when I first met Ethan, I had no idea he was gay.”

  Arno laughed. “You didn’t know Ethan was gay?”

  “I can be sort of blind sometimes, okay?”

  “Sort of?”

  “Okay, mega-blind. Ethan was this supercool badass skater boy who’d convinced me to cut summer school and go into the city with him. But when we were together I just felt—I don’t know—free. Free to be myself. And then we were alone in his room and before I knew it…” Alek trailed off rather than risk TMI. “The first mini-fight we got into was when he used the word faggot before I knew he was gay and I got all kinds of offended. But he showed me how we can control the power that words have over us. Just like now you and I can make gyot into whatever we want it to be.” Alek stumbled over the word, his tongue resisting those letters in that combination. “It’s just a word.”

  “But it’s a bad word.”

  “And saying it can take its power away. Watch and listen, young one.” Alek interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles, then gave himself a moment to stretch, as if he were preparing to perform a challenging physical feat. “Okay: you can be such a … gyot sometimes.” Alek tripped over the word, just a little, before playfully punching Arno on the arm. “Now you try.”

  Arno cleared his throat. “You—”

  “You have to warm up,” Alek instructed him.

  The younger boy stood up and played along, stretching his hands up above, over his head. “You are a total gyot.” Arno punched Alek back on his arm, equally playfully.

  “See—screw whoever did that. I’m going to make sure that that never happens again, to you or me or any other gyot who has the unique misfortune of having to attend this Saturday school.”

  Arno’s eyes widened. “How’re you going to do that?”

  “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Stepanian about it, obvi.”

  “Seriously?”

  Alek nodded.

  “I don’t know, Alek. Maybe it’s just easier to let it slide, you know? Who cares?”

  “It might be easier, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. How old are you, Arno?”

  “Thirteen. And a half.”

  “Well, I’m about to turn fifteen, and let me tell you what wisdom I’ve amassed in those eighteen months. If we don’t do anything, then, in some ways, we’re just as bad as the people who did this. Think of all the future up-and-coming gyots who’re going to have to sit through endless boring hours in this Saturday school. That’s torture enough. It’s our duty to make sure they don’t have to deal with even more agony. Evil is what happens when good people do nothing.”

  Alek got up to leave the classroom.

  “Hey, Alek.”

  “Yeah?”

  Arno stood up and handed Alek his now-twice-forgotten essay, their fingers brushing for the briefest of moments. “Congratulations, by the way. What a great honor.”

  5

  For most of their relationship, Alek and Ethan had made sure that every few days, they’d find alone time. Usually, that meant they were at Ethan’s house. More specifically, in his room, where they’d first kissed and where they’d kissed infinitely more since. The sexiest hours of Alek’s life had been spent there, cocooned in the images of half-naked men covering every inch of the walls and ceiling. Ethan’s room was infinitely more conducive than Alek’s, which had simple, clean lines.

  Besides, Ethan’s dad wasn’t home most of the time. This was especially true now that he’d started dating Lesley, a sociology professor at NYU with whom he’d spend one or two nights a week in New York City. And even when he was home, Ethan’s dad afforded the boys a degree of privacy that never occurred to the Khederians. Although Alek’s parents always welcomed Ethan when he came over and even let the boys hang out in Alek’s room with the door closed, they did so in the exact same way they had whenever Nik had a girlfriend over. That meant that fifteen minutes couldn’t pass without them knockin
g on the door and asking Alek and Ethan if they wanted something to eat or for help with the computer in the downstairs office or a question about how to set the DVR. Alek didn’t know if this was a brilliant ploy or not, but either way, it guaranteed the two of them would never get to an intimate place.

  Every time he and Ethan had been alone together since Thanksgiving, however, he was there, too. He would arrive imperceptibly, this demon of anxiety and expectation, watching, distracting, so it became impossible for Alek to lose himself the way he had before.

  Alek even started fabricating excuses to avoid situations where they would be alone. He’d make Ethan come over to his house, or when he went over to Ethan’s, he’d make Becky accompany him. Like today, after school, halfway through the first week of December.

  “Come on, Becky, we’re going to be late.” Alek paced up and down Becky’s bedroom as she pulled on woolen socks and rooted through her closet for a pair of shoes.

  “Let’s see—you follow me home after school like a total stalker, insist that I go with you to your boyfriend’s house pronto, even though I’ve told you plenty of times I’m tired of having to play third wheel while the two of you coo at each other like rabid doves, and then you give me grief when it takes me more than five seconds to change.”

  “Why do you even need to change? You look fine.” Alek stayed standing, hoping it would motivate her to move faster.

  “Forgive me, your highness.” Becky affected a British accent and took an outrageously low bow. “Next time, I shall hop to follow your orders more promptly.” She finally dug out a pair of boots from the pile inside her closet and yanked them on. “Now out. I’m changing my sweater.” Becky gestured to the door to her room.

  “Seriously?”

  “I know all about your deviant tendencies.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’re not going to steal a glimpse of me when I’m just in my bra?”

  “Becky, I know it’s difficult to forget this because of the kind of raw masculine energy that just pours out of me effortlessly…”

  “As your best friend, is it my obligation to shatter your delusions or to let you keep them?”

  “… but as a homosexual, I’m not attracted to members of the fairer sex. Besides, I know what’s going to happen—if I’m not here reminding you that we’re working on a schedule, you’re going to take FOREVER figuring out which sweater you want to wear, and that whole time, I’m going to be stuck in the hallway outside of your bedroom, like I’m in exile. So how about this?” Alek tossed her a Christmas sweater, designed with white snowflakes against a red-and-green background.

  “That makes me look like an ornament.”

  “You’re impossible.” Alek scooted over to the corner of Becky’s bed, covered with the gray-and-pink quilt her mother had stitched for her birthday three years ago, and turned to face the corner of the room. “Satisfied?”

  “Okay—but no turning around till I say so.”

  “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  “The dork doth quote Shakespeare too much, methinks.”

  Every time the two of them had gotten together since Thanksgiving, he had wanted to talk to her about Ethan and sex. But now, weeks later, the words still wouldn’t come out, like they were shackled to the back of his throat.

  “It’s good that you came over, because I’ve been wanting to tell you something anyway.” Alek heard Becky’s drawers being opened and closed as she searched for just the perfect top.

  “Is this about Mahira and John? Because seriously, I couldn’t care less if they got back together or not. Gossip about your band-nerd friends is almost as boring as Saturday school.”

  “It has nothing to do with them,” Becky insisted. “Although I’m surprised you’re not more shocked by a flutist dating a clarinetist. It is quite scandalous.”

  “So…” Alek prompted.

  “Well…”

  “What already?”

  “I’m building up to it, okay? Sheesh.” Becky took another pause. “At my competition last weekend—”

  “What happened? Did Dustin beat you out? Again?”

  “Of course not! I scored three points higher than him, thank you very much.”

  Alek continued to scrutinize the corner of Becky’s room during her extended silence. She kept all of her rollerblading paraphernalia in this corner—wheels and pads and gears and tools Alek couldn’t identify. “Just spill it, okay? And while you’re at it, can you speed up this sweater-selection process?”

  “I’m taking care to change my outfit, you see, because after Ethan’s, I’m going to see Dustin.”

  “Is there a competition tonight?”

  “They don’t have competitions on weeknights, duh.”

  “So?”

  “Oh my God, you can be so thick sometimes.” Becky wasn’t even trying to hide the exasperation in her voice. “I have plans to hang out with Dustin. How much more obvious can I be?”

  “Rebecca Amy Boyce—do you have a boyfriend?” Alek turned around, finding Becky wearing only a bra above the striped skirt she’d changed into. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Alek turned back around quickly, almost giving himself whiplash.

  “I didn’t say he was my boyfriend. I just said we’re hanging out.”

  “Hanging out hanging out, or just hanging out?”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate to say any more. Ladies don’t kiss and tell.”

  “I don’t care what ladies do! Remember what you said when I told you I kissed Ethan the first time?” Alek plowed on, not waiting for an answer. “Well, I do. You said, ‘I’m your best friend. I have a right to know these things before they happen.’ So spill it, Becky.” The words rushed out of his mouth like a river. “Have you already kissed, or do you just think it’s going to happen? Have you done more already? If he’s tried to get to second base with you, I’ll beat the shit out of him. Unless, of course, that’s what you wanted. Did you want to get to second base with him? I’m not judging, I just want to know, you know?”

  “Oh my God, Alek, calm down, okay? We just started hanging out. And I’d love to tell you more, but I’d hate to make us any later to Ethan’s. Now turn around—I’m done.”

  Becky had changed skirts again, ending up in a dark-blue woolen one, with a turtleneck sweater on top.

  “And, Alek—and this is the most important thing.” Becky cleared her throat.

  “Yes, Becky?”

  “No one says ‘second base’ anymore. We just call it groping.”

  * * *

  Alek didn’t think Ethan had minded when he and Becky showed up together, but when Alek left with her just an hour later, he could feel his boyfriend’s disappointment. And he felt it again when he told Ethan, during lunch two days later, that he couldn’t come over that night for their study date.

  “No prob, man.” Ethan, ever chill, didn’t even ask Alek why he’d changed his mind. “How about tomorrow afternoon, then, after Saturday school?”

  Without an answer prepared, Alek nodded meekly. Afternoon, at least, felt safer than night.

  Sitting in Saturday school the next morning, thoughts of how he was disappointing Ethan were trumped by his own disappointment that Mrs. Stepanian hadn’t responded to the e-mail Alek had sent her earlier that week, detailing what had happened with Arno. He was beginning to think that she would ignore the issue altogether, until her husband, the reverend father, appeared a few minutes before the end of class.

  Alek scanned his Saturday school class, trying to guess the identity of the guilty party. Voki looked bored, the way he always did. Shushan looked puzzled, the way she always did. And the rest of the class all looked innocent enough, making it even harder to figure out who in that room would be capable of something so hateful.

  “My wife has told me about a deeply troubling incident that occurred in this classroom. It was so troubling, I insisted on coming to speak to you directly.” Reverend Father Stepanian stood motionless, like he was delivering a sermon. Hi
s deep baritone echoed in the classroom, too small to contain its rich vibrato.

  Shushan made eye contact with the gaggle of girls in class. Alek reconsidered his assessment of their collective vapidity as they wordlessly communicated like a flock of birds through furtive eyes and head tilts, if any of them knew what was going on and none of them did.

  Or at least, they all pretended not to know. But could one of them be the guilty party? Nik slipped down in his chair, trying to look too jaded to care about the reverend father’s presence.

  “There is never a situation that justifies the use of hate language. Just so that there is no confusion, I repeat: there is never a situation that justifies the use of hate language. I will not repeat the word that caused the incident, but words of hate, be they about race, class, ethnicity, sexuality, or religion, are never acceptable in a house of worship. Or anywhere else, for that matter, if you want to be a good Christian.”

  Arno stared straight ahead, doing his best to make it look like he was equally surprised by what the reverend father was saying. Alek didn’t feel the need to feign ignorance. He was proud of having gone to Mrs. Stepanian. He was proud of his church and of being Armenian and of having such a powerful, reasonable man at the head of his institution.

  “I trust this is the last I will have to say to you all about this matter.” The reverend father ran his hand over his perfectly trimmed beard. “It is our duty as Christians to love everybody and to welcome them back to the fold, regardless of how far from the Lord’s path some of them may have wandered or how confused they may be. So I hope, in the future, rather than resorting to the language of hate, or to bullying, you will find a more Christian approach.”

  An awkward silence followed, broken by the equally awkward sound of the students’ muttered yeses and profound confusion about what the hell the reverend father was actually talking about.

  Alek, however, didn’t feel confused. He felt betrayed, as if he’d learned that he’d been lied to by someone he trusted. He replayed the words in his mind, trying to convince himself that he had misheard, that somehow, reconfigured, the words coming out of the reverend father’s mouth meant something different. But any way he looked at them, any way that he used his cognitive functions to understand what had just happened, he arrived at the same conclusion: in trying to condemn what had just happened, Reverend Father had inadvertently condoned it.