Authors: Michael Barakiva
Alek thought about sputtering out a thank-you to Ethan, but he decided against calling any more attention to himself. He scrambled to his feet, turned around, and ran through the tunnel and all the way back home.
4
The merciless blaring of his alarm clock was a psychic assault on Alek’s brain. He cheated his eyes open a sliver. The red numbers glared 7:17. Alek did the math in his head, desperate for a computation that allowed him one more snooze without being late. But when the numbers refused to cooperate, he had to hurl himself out of bed and onto the floor, letting the impact smash him into consciousness. He lay like that for a moment, wondering what Faustian bargain he could make to get out of having to go to the first day of summer school. But there was no flicker of hope, no appearance of a demonic power. Apparently, no one was interested in his soul.
The five days that had elapsed since the end of the school year proper didn’t even seem like a minivacation, especially since the rain made Alek spend most of the weekend cooped up with his family.
“Hurry up if you want breakfast,” Alek heard his father scream up from downstairs.
Alek had perfected the art of getting ready in twelve minutes flat. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned the shower on, and, while it was warming up, gathered his notebooks and textbooks. He put them in the beat-up green JanSport, glaring at the impossibly long-lived bag with hatred. Then he lay out his clothes. Usually he tried to look nice for the first day of school. But since this was just a program for delinquents and leftovers, denim shorts and a plain mustard T-shirt would do.
He jumped in the shower, scrubbed himself down, hopped out, and toweled himself and his hair dry. Then he threw his clothes on and went downstairs, the 7:29 on the clock proof of his perfected system.
Nik and his mom were already seated at the kitchen table, dressed and ready to start the day. Nik was wearing his new chunky blue eyeglasses, which Alek knew his brother thought made him look cool, but Alek thought were so pathetically wannabe hipster that it was embarrassing.
Alek’s brother had always been lanky, but since he started needing to shave, his body had reached almost comedic proportions. Alek didn’t think the way he was dressing helped either. For his first day of orientation as a camp counselor, Nik was wearing shorts that he’d rolled up above the knee and a white-and-blue horizontally striped shirt under a dark blue jacket. And to make it worse, he was wearing a red belt to match his red shoes, as if accessorizing well would make up for his total lack of personality.
“Hi, honey,” Alek’s mom greeted him. She was dressed for work impeccably as always, with a skirt that came just below her knees and a wraparound light green jacket over a cream blouse. She put her chirping BlackBerry down and looked up at Alek. “Did you sleep well?”
Alek grunted noncommittally and sat down at the table. He wondered if he’d get in trouble for being late, since normally he’d be responsible for helping to lay out the breakfast that greeted him: a pot of hot tea, a pile of freshly baked scones, apricot and blueberry jam, a basket of pita bread, a platter of freshly cut fruit, a plate of thinly sliced cold cuts and cheeses, and, of course, a bowl of zatar. His Dad usually added extra marjoram to the ground herbal mixture, so that by the time it achieved the pasty consistency perfect for pita dipping, it had even more punch. As always, nothing had been touched until everyone was present. The moment Alek sat down, his brother began digging in.
“What do you want in your omelet?” his father asked. He was standing at the stove, wearing a floral kitchen apron over his pajamas, his graying hair in loose curls around his head.
“Whatever,” Alek responded.
His father answered enthusiastically, “Well, I’ve already put in some tomatoes, spinach, and—how about some cheese?”
“I said
whatever
,” Alek repeated.
“Okay then,” his father continued with gusto. “Some chanakh.”
Alek smiled. His dad knew chanakh’s biting saltiness made it Alek’s favorite. He tossed a healthy pat of butter into the already-warmed skillet, and beat the cheese into the egg-and-vegetable mixture as the butter melted. At the moment after the butter finished bubbling but before it started to burn, he poured in the egg mixture.
Alek dipped the pita in the zatar, gobbled it up, then spread some jam on a scone.
“What’s the matter, Alek? You’re barely eating,” his mother said.
“Do you know what my friends have for breakfast? Like, a bowl of cereal, and that’s it!”
“You know
these Americans
,” his mother responded. “They don’t know the first thing about food. Remember when”—she barely contained her laughter—“remember when you slept over Jason’s house in sixth grade?”
“When you still had friends,” Nik whispered, earning an under-the-table kick from Alek.
Alek hoped his father would be too busy making the omelets to hear, but he picked up as if on cue.
“Yes, yes, and Jason’s parents said you could make pancakes from scratch with them the next morning!” his father joined in.
“What happened? I don’t remember,” Nik said, although Alek knew he was just giving their parents the excuse they needed to retell the story.
“Well,” Alek’s mom continued, “Alek woke up the next day, and down they all went to their kitchen. He was so excited, he could barely contain himself. Until, of course, he saw them take out the Bisquick box of pancake mix.” Now she turned from Nik to Alek. “Do you remember what you said?”
“No,” Alek deadpanned, wishing the ordeal would end.
“Well, I do, because Jason’s mom called us that morning and told us all about it. You said, ‘That’s not from scratch,’ and then you proceeded to go to their cabinets and get the flour and baking powder and sugar and salt and mix the batter yourself. And then when you were done, you said, ‘Now,
that’s
from scratch.’” His family guffawed at the punch line, although Alek didn’t see its irrefutable hilarity. “And when you got home, I had to explain to you that to
these Americans
, using a mix
is
making it from scratch.”
Alek’s parents threw around that phrase—
these Americans
—whenever they wanted to pass judgment without making it sound like they were passing judgment.
“
These Americans
have a television set in every room.”
“
These Americans
think dinnertime is five p.m.”
“
These Americans
are obsessed with sports.”
And on and on they went.
Whenever Alek tried to call his parents out on it, they insisted the phrase was merely descriptive. But the certain lilt they gave it made it clear that whenever
these Americans
did something, Mr. and Mrs. Khederian did not approve. Alek wondered what would happen if he pointed out that since his parents were born in this country, they were just as American as
these Americans
.
“Well, you know what, Mom?
These Americans
don’t think that every time you sit down for a meal, you have to eat so much that you feel like you’re going to explode.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want your omelet?” his father asked, taking the skillet off the stove top. The smell of the tomatoes, spinach, and chanakh called out to Alek.
“I didn’t say that,” Alek conceded.
His father walked over, slid the omelet out of the skillet onto Alek’s plate, and sprinkled some sugar on top in the traditional Armenian fashion.
“What do you say?” his mother asked pointedly.
“Thanks,” Alek muttered.
“
What
do you say?” his mother repeated.
“Thank you,” Alek said properly.
“That’s better,” his mother said. “And wish your father good luck on his job interview.”
“You have an interview today?” Alek asked disbelievingly, looking at his father’s pajamas-and-apron outfit.
“It’s not until the afternoon,” his father replied defensively.
“Wish him luck,” Alek’s mother repeated.
“Hachoghootyoon,”
Alek mumbled in Armenian, earning him a grateful look from both his parents that wishing luck in English would never have elicited.
“You psyched about your first day of summer school?” Nik asked his brother in between bouts of shoving food into his beanpole body.
“Yeah, I think it’s going to be thrilling,” Alek answered sarcastically between his own omelet bites.
“Well, my offer stands. If you find the work too challenging, I’d be happy to help you with it. You know, I did tutor for the Honor Society last year.” Nik smiled.
“Nik, if I wanted to puke, I could just stick a finger down my throat.”
“Aleksander, don’t talk like that at the breakfast table,” his mom said.
“But he—”
“I just offered to help him,” Nik protested innocently. “By the way, Mom, did you see the article on Peter Balakian in the
New York Times
today?” Every time Nik wanted to distract his parents, he brought up something Armenian, and every time, they fell for it.
“Yes, I did, Nik. It was about his new book.” His mom beamed at Nik with pride.
“I can’t wait to read it. That’s the first thing I’m going to buy with my camp money,” Nik said.
“Why don’t you just borrow my copy?” their father asked.
“I’d like to have my own so that I can take it with me when I go away to college.”
Alek thought he really was going to puke now.
“Mom, do you mind if we leave a little early? I want to make sure I make a good impression on the first day,” Nik said.
“Of course not,” their mom said. “Now, honey.” She turned to look at Alek. “When do you want to go shopping for your summer clothes?” she asked, her thumbs dancing over the BlackBerry keyboard.
“You could just drop me off and let me do it myself,” he said.
“Maybe next year, honey,” his mother responded, eyes still locked on her BlackBerry screen.
“Saturday, then,” Alek said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“But you were going to take me and Nanar into New York so we could start working on our heritage project,” Nik practically whined.
“Are you sure you don’t have time to go during the week?” their mother asked Alek.
“I just don’t want to commit to anything before I know exactly what my workload for summer school is going to be,” Alek shot back sharply. “Cramming an entire year into a few weeks means an enormous amount of homework, as I’m sure you and Ms. Schmidt discussed. Of course, I understand if taking Nik and his Armenian girlfriend into the city is more important than spending time with me. Nik does get better grades, after all. It must be nice to have one child you can be proud of.”
His mom looked up from her BlackBerry, frustration and hurt simmering in her eyes. Alek knew he’d gone too far, but instead of saying anything, she just exhaled sadly.
“I guess it’ll have to wait, because I’m helping Nik and Nanar on Saturday, and on Sunday we have church.”
“If we went to a normal church, like
these Americans
, we wouldn’t have to commute three hours every Sunday,” Alek responded.
“We’re Armenians, Aleksander,” his father interjected. “And so we go to an Armenian church. Period. Now is there anything else you’d like to say to ruin everyone’s morning?”
“No, that’s all. May I be excused from the table? I’d like to be on time for my first day of summer school so I can make a good impression.” Without waiting for a reply, Alek grabbed his hated green JanSport and walked out the door.
* * *
Passing the turnoff to Orchard Street on the way to school, Alek remembered how he and Becky had cracked each other up after watching
My Fair Lady
that past weekend.
“Goo’ mornin’, gov’nah,” Becky had said, imitating Eliza’s Cockney accent before she transformed into an upper-class lady.
Alek mimicked the professor’s proper British accent. “‘By right she should be taken out and hung, for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue!’”
“‘The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,’” Becky quoted.
“‘By George, she’s got it! By George, she’s got it!’” Alek exclaimed with glee as the professor did when Eliza was finally able to speak properly.
Alek loved hanging out with Becky because it was easy. They had spent almost every weekend of their freshman year like this. After watching a movie, they’d argue about what they did or didn’t like or just horse around. Sometimes, they could just sit in a comfortable silence sipping Diet Dr Pepper.
After descending the little hill in front of his school, Alek saw the front entrance was closed for the renovation of the main lobby, so he walked around to the rear.
We don’t even get to use the real entrance,
Alek thought. He wondered if he’d know anyone else.
An impressive assembly of South Windsor High’s leftovers filed off the buses like disoriented ants. Some looked barely awake. Others were wearing clothes that must’ve been hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs. Some kids weren’t even carrying book bags. Alek fantasized screaming, “Children of dysfunctional families, unite!” and leading this motley crew in a coup of the school.
The other students weren’t the only surreal element of summer school. The whole place felt underpopulated, as if it had been ravaged by a devastating plague. Most of the building was closed off, and the classrooms were being painted, so a chemical stench lingered in the hallways. None of the posters for student activities were up, and even small sounds echoed off the walls. It was like walking through a ghost town. Alek half expected to see tumbleweeds blowing down the corridors.
He suffered through English with Ms. Imbrie, then dragged himself down to the cafeteria. Because there were so few students in summer session, the kitchen was closed and everyone was expected to bring their own lunches. He plopped down at the table where he and Becky usually sat, hoping against reason that she would materialize out of thin air and entertain him the way she did during the regular school year. He even missed her jabs at the Armenian food his parents inevitably packed for him, such as today’s dolma, with baklava for dessert and a yogurt drink to wash it all down. Although he was sure that Nik would’ve shown it off proudly, Alek would’ve killed for a PB&J, some Lay’s potato chips, and a flavorless waxy red apple.