One Man Guy (12 page)

“It wasn’t stolen. You left it in the cart at Whole Foods.”

“Well, yes, but nobody turned it in to the lost and found, right? That means it was stolen.”

Alek put his head in his hands. “Well, what about the spare set?”

“We gave those to the Eisingers in case of an emergency.”

“So why don’t I just run over and get them?”

“Honey, do you know how early it is? On a Sunday? I’d hate to disturb them.”

Alek contemplated calling his mother’s attention to the ridiculousness of asking neighbors to hold on to keys in the event of an emergency and then deciding not to claim them in an actual emergency, but decided on a more practical tactic.

“What about Dad’s keys?”

“Well, I’m sure I put them right here when I came in last night,” his father said, inspecting the empty bowl on the semicircular table just inside the Khederians’ front door.

“Did you retrace your steps after you came in?” his mother asked.

“That’s a good idea, honey! Let’s see, I came in, took off my shoes, then went to the bathroom,” Alek’s father said, re-creating each incident as he was describing it. “Then I washed my hands, went to the basement—no, wait—the kitchen first—and poured myself a glass of water. Or was it Pellegrino?”

“I don’t think you actually need to narrate
every
detail,” Alek said through clenched teeth. “Just see if the keys somehow ended up somewhere else.”

“Now you’ve broken my concentration and I’m going to need to start again,” his father said. He walked back to the front door. “I came in last night, took off my shoes, and then went to the bathroom. After that I went to the basement—wait—no—the kitchen, and then—”

“I found the keys—they’re in the car,” Nik yelled from the garage.

“Yes! That’s it! I must’ve left them in the car!” Alek’s father exclaimed. They filed into the garage, and Alek silently prayed thanks that Nik didn’t ask to drive. His brother wasn’t a bad driver, but the way their mother clenched her knuckles as if she were on a roller coaster whenever Nik practiced with his permit increased everybody’s stress level.

A few miles later, right before they were about to turn onto the highway, his mother asked, “Did someone remember to bring the tabbouleh?” They collectively groaned and, a sharp U-turn later, were heading back home to pick up the bulgur wheat/parsley/tomato salad that his dad had prepared the night before for the potluck following services.

And they were back on the road, the Tupperware of tabbouleh sitting on Alek’s lap because their father was worried that it would spill in the trunk. Alek had given up pointing out that the plastic container could safely hold liquid when it was properly sealed.

Alek looked at the car clock. The seven forty-five seemed to be mocking him, because he knew instead of just showing up late like everyone else, his father would insist on speeding to try to make up the lost time. Alek just prayed they didn’t get pulled over like they did last year. Seeing his mother coerce, beg, and threaten her way out of the ticket was fun, but he’d rather not risk an encounter with the law again.

They arrived at the church just as the service was starting and sprinted into the cathedral, handing the tabbouleh off to a volunteer like a baton in an Olympic relay. Alek had to employ his entire arsenal of activities and mental exercises to keep himself awake during the service. First, he counted the number of people in attendance—this Sunday, 157 Armenians and their loved ones had woken up early to make the nine a.m. service. Or rather, that’s how many people were sitting in the pews by the end. Just as Alek had predicted, most of them trickled in sometime over the course of the next hour.

Next, he started naming all of the scenes depicted in the stained glass windows: the archangels, the Holy Family, the Ascension. Last, he came to the patron saint of the church, Saint Stephen, the first Christian martyr, who allegedly prayed to Christ to forgive his murderers as they were stoning him to death. Alek’s eyes lingered on Saint Stephen, hoping that Ethan would be as kind to him tomorrow as Saint Stephen had been to his killers. After all, freaking out in a cafeteria had to be a lesser offense than stoning someone to death. Even if after that freak-out, you sat next to the person in Algebra for two days wanting—but not finding—the courage to apologize. Right?

Alek watched the priests walk up and down the aisles, swinging metal globes filled with smoky incense attached to rods on chains. Every time, Alek hoped that one of the chains would snap, sending the metal orbs and burning incense all over the congregation. He didn’t want the cathedral set ablaze, but he did think it would provide a welcome distraction.

The priest was finally wending his way to the communion, which would be followed by the sermon. After the sermon had been delivered in Armenian, the priest would repeat it in English so all the faux Armenians like Alek who couldn’t understand Armenian could still benefit from the wise words. Nik always made a point of reacting to the first delivery of the service, so the whole congregation could see he understood Armenian. Sometimes Alek would react along, nodding knowingly with the adults or looking solemn for a certain passage, just to irritate Nik.

Two and a half hours later the service finally ended, and the families filed out of the cathedral and into the potluck line. When the weather permitted, like today, they sat outdoors on the great lawn behind the church. This time was also used to keep the congregation abreast of various church-related organizations, like Saturday and Sunday school, Armenian conversation and Bible studies classes, and the Armenian Church Youth Organization of America (ACYOA) chapter, of which Nik was, predictably, an active member. Alek dreaded the day his parents forced him to join one of the church youth groups.

The Khederians were one of the last families to get to the potluck, since Alek’s mother liked to sit up front for the service. By the time they reached their tabbouleh dish on the food table, it was almost gone. Alek could see his father smile proudly, especially because a neighboring tabbouleh dish had remained untouched. After piling their plates with lamb, pastries, yogurt, and salad, the Khederians joined Nik’s girlfriend’s parents, the Hovanians, at a large round table.

“Do you want any more lemonade?” Nik asked Nanar before he sat down.

“No, thank you,” Nanar replied formally.

Alek had never been able to get a read on Nik’s girlfriend. She was almost as tall as Nik, but curvy where he was beanpole straight, with the prerequisite dark brown Armenian hair and eyes. Although she was just a few months older than Nik, she almost looked like a woman, while Nik still straddled that awkward space between being a boy and a man. The only thing that Alek could tell she and Nik had in common, besides being Armenian, was wanting to please their parents.

“Are you sure?” Nik asked her again.

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, Andranik,” Nanar replied.

Nik sat down next to his girlfriend. But instead of immediately digging into his food, he took a moment, looked at her, and smiled. Nanar smiled back and put her hand on his. The entire exchange only took a few seconds, but reminded Alek how much more Nik smiled when he was around Nanar.

Mrs. Hovanian took a bite of her bureg, a savory pastry triangle, and started coughing violently. She was a plump woman, shorter and darker than most Armenians, with a pronounced nose and bright red cheeks. For a moment, Alek thought she was going to commit the unpardonable Armenian sin of spitting out food, but she managed to swallow it down with a large gulp of water.

“Are you okay?” Alek’s mother asked her.

“
I’m
okay. But I wish I could say the same of the Kirikians’ buregs,” she complained, folding the rest of the pastry into a napkin. “They’re so dry. I guess that’s what happens when you bring in a Macedonian woman to make them and you pretend that you made them yourself. You think any of us would make buregs this dry?”

“Of course not, dear,” Mr. Hovanian, a tall, prematurely balding man, agreed. “Isn’t that right, Nanar?”

“Yes, Papa,” Nanar said quietly.

“I think the Kirikians’ buregs are okay,” Alek’s dad ventured.

Mrs. Hovanian laughed heartily. “That’s very kind of you, Boghos, but I can’t help but notice you didn’t take any.”

“Have you tried any of the sarma?” Alek’s mom asked.

“We’d like to, but it’s all stuffed cabbage,” Mrs. Hovanian complained. “Not a grape leaf to be seen. I was hoping for some dolma as well, but all the stuffed peppers were gone by the time I reached the table, and I decided against the zucchini, since I find the summer squashes too stringy. But of course we love your tabbouleh, Kadarine. Nanar, tell Mrs. Khederian how much you like her tabbouleh.”

“It’s always the perfect ratio of bulgur to parsley to vegetables, Mrs. Khederian,” Nanar responded on cue.

“It’s a family recipe.” Alek’s mom beamed in response.

“Boghos, Kadarine, would you excuse us for a moment?” Mrs. Hovanian said, getting up. Her husband and daughter followed her. “We’d like to ask the Kalfayans about carpooling for the vacation. And please, no one mention the kufteh they made for last year’s trip. The beef was so overspiced, I was sick for the whole vacation!”

Alek’s mother watched them leave. The moment the Hovanians were out of earshot, she said, “Can you imagine how difficult it must be going through life finding fault with everything?”

“That must be very hard for you to imagine,” Alek deadpanned. No one in his family, however, noted the irony.

The Hovanians returned a few moments later, beaming. “The Kalfayans will be renting a minivan, so we can get a ride up with them to Niagara Falls,” Mr. Hovanian reported happily.

Nanar turned to Alek. “I was so sorry to hear you won’t be able to come on the vacation, Alek. I was looking forward to spending more time with you.”

Alek was touched by Nanar’s sincerity. “Nanar, please don’t worry about it.”

“And Mom and Dad are letting Alek choose next year’s vacation,” Nik said. Alek waited for the insult or cut-down to follow, but instead, Nik continued eating his bureg. Nanar’s kindness apparently transformed Nik into a normal human being.

“Mom, Dad, just make sure you leave the number for your hotel so that I can get in touch with you in case anything comes up and you’re out of range.” Alek stabbed a strip of lamb with his fork and shoved it into his mouth.

“We’ll make sure to leave all of that information with the sitter,” his mom assured him.

“What sitter?” Alek smiled back at his mom.

Alek’s mom looked confused. “What do you mean, dear?” she asked, trying to keep up appearances for the Hovanians’ sake.

“Well, Becky’s parents have been leaving her alone since she was thirteen.”

“But that’s just for a weekend—this is for a full week.”

“It’s not really a full week. You’re leaving Tuesday and coming back on Sunday, so that’s only five days, really. Besides, I’m
fourteen
! Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?”

“Alek,” his father began, “why don’t we talk about this later?”

Alek knew this meant,
There’s no way we’re going to let you have your way, but since we don’t want to appear tyrannical in front of the Hovanians, we’ll just wait to tell you no when we’re in private.

“You know, Papa started taking Mama on his business trips when I turned fourteen,” Nanar offered.

Alek looked at Nanar with gratitude for resuscitating his chance for a few days of freedom.

“Really?” Alek’s mom smiled weakly.

“I think it’s really good for kids to have some independence. It helps them grow up,” Mr. Hovanian explained. “Besides, with e-mail and cell phones and Facebook—”

“You have a Facebook account, Mr. Hovanian?” Alek asked.

“Of course he does. We both do!” Mrs. Hovanian confirmed. “How else do you think we keep up with the AGBU and the United Armenian Fund?”

“With all of this technology, keeping track of your kids has never been easier. Even when you’re away,” Mr. Hovanian finished up.

“And if anything did happen, I could just run over to the Eisingers,” Alek added. “As long as it’s not too early—I’d hate to inconvenience them for an emergency.” Alek admonished himself immediately for taking the jab before he’d clinched the deal, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I guess if we gave you a list of rules that you’d have to follow or be grounded for the rest of your natural life, and you made sure to check in every day, and night, it might work,” Alek’s mom conceded.

Alek looked over at Nik. This is exactly the time when he’d usually say something to spoil things. As expected, Nik opened his mouth to speak.

“Oh, Mom, relax. He’ll be fine,” Nik said.

Alek stared at his brother, dumbfounded. But Nik just continued to eat and stare into Nanar’s eyes.

Alek’s mom looked at his dad for approval. When he nodded, she said, “No more than one friend over at a time, bed by eleven, no more than one hour of television on school days—”

“Wow! A whole hour! You guys are getting soft in your old age.”

His mom ignored Alek’s jab. “And you call every day…”

“… at least once,” his dad added.

“…
at least
once to tell us everything is okay.”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

The eerie orange light flickered, daring Alek to enter. He vividly recalled Jack shoving and mounting him the last time he had dared to go to the other side. But he had promised himself that he would apologize to Ethan today, and since he’d failed to do it during Algebra, he had no option but to brave the tunnel, Jack, and the rest of the Dropouts.

Alek took one step, then another. When he was halfway through, the lights blinked out, stranding him in darkness. Alek forced himself to continue stepping forward, keeping his focus on the promise of light at the end.

When he finally emerged, he saw the D.O.s skating, flipping, and skidding through the parking lot they’d claimed. Before he could locate Ethan, he heard Jack’s voice boom across the parking lot. “What’re you doing here, dumb-ass?”

“Screw you, asshole,” Alek responded without missing a beat.