Authors: Michael Barakiva
Becky tilted her head and looked at Alek for a few moments. “If you want to do something, then you have to trust your instincts and do it,” she said decisively, squinting at him like he was out of focus. She scootched her way next to Alek on the sofa. “Because you never know how something’s going to end up.”
Alek waited for her to say or do something else, but when that didn’t happen, he cleared his throat loudly. But she still just sat there and closed her eyes.
“Becky, it’s getting late and I need to start on some homework. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Becky opened her eyes quickly, like she had just woken up. “Soon, okay. No problem. We’ll find some time when I’m not serving up Double Fudge Cookie Dough Blizzards.”
* * *
Alek never woke up early on Saturday mornings. But the next day, he made an exception, because he wanted to show off his first test to his parents. Mr. Weedin had walked up and down the aisles of the classroom the day before, returning the exams to the students. Each time he gave back a test, he’d follow it with a pointed remark, spoken just loud enough so that the entire class could infer how you’d done. For example, when he handed Emily Fink her test back, he said disappointedly, “Emily, I would recommend studying next time. It does wonders.” To Ethan, Mr. Weedin said, “Mediocre at best, Mr. Novick.” But when he got to Alek, his face almost eased up. “Well done, Mr. Khederian. Well done, indeed.”
Alek held the test with a big fat red circled ninety-three on top, waiting for his parents to wake up. He had wanted to show it to them when he got back from Becky’s the night before, but they were already asleep. Two hours of Saturday morning cartoons later, he heard them stirring above. He scampered up the stairs to their bedroom and put his ear to the door to make sure they were actually awake. He hoped that they’d be so impressed with his test that he’d be invited to go into New York with Nik and Nanar, and maybe they’d even drop him off somewhere while they researched their heritage projects.
“Boghos, I just feel like I’m at my wit’s end with him.”
“It’s not like he failed, Kadarine.”
“I’m not talking about summer school. I’m talking about all of it. Where is that sweet little boy we brought up? The last year, his behavior’s been, well, relentless.”
“This has been a hard time for all of us, Kada. With you having to go back to work full-time, and me, well—”
“Honey, I know you’ll find another job soon.”
“All I mean is that this has been a tough time for everyone, and we’ll all come through it. Alek’s no exception. Besides, he’s a teenager. This is how they behave.”
“Nik didn’t—”
“Nik hasn’t yet. But who knows what he’ll be like next year, or when he goes to college?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Boghos. We did a good job bringing our sons up. Why did I take years out of my life to raise and spend time with my children if they’re going to behave like
these American
kids who were brought up by nannies and babysitters and day care centers?”
Alek couldn’t listen anymore. He tiptoed away from the door and to his room, quietly closing his door behind him. He dropped the test into the trash can underneath his desk. He played his mother’s words over and over in his head, and each time they stung more.
* * *
Alek stayed in his room for the next few hours. His mother had chosen a moss green for the walls and a complementary light oak bedroom set for the furniture. Alek wished the walls were painted in a bolder color, like orange, but he figured that if his mom wasn’t letting him buy his own clothes yet, there was no point in even asking if he could repaint his room. He was lying on his bed, flipping through next week’s assignment in the algebra textbook, when he heard his father knock on the door.
“What is it, Dad?” he called back.
His dad opened the door and leaned in the doorway. “I wish you would call me
hairik
.”
“And I wish you would call me Your Excellency.” Alek had stopped using the Armenian words for
father
and
mother
years ago, and he had no intention of going back.
“Your brother and mother have left, and I’m going to make some sarma. You wanna watch?”
“Why don’t you teach me how to make it myself?”
“Soon, Alek. Soon, but not yet.”
Like every Khederian since the beginning of time, Nik had waited until he was sixteen to be entrusted with the ancient Armenian art of rolling grapevine leaves. So even though it was Alek’s favorite dish, until he turned sixteen and his parents decided he was ready, he’d have to settle for watching his father prepare it.
“Sure,” Alek responded.
His father turned, and Alek followed him out of his room and down the stairs into the kitchen.
“How’d the job interview go?” Alek asked carefully.
“Well, I thought it went well, but since I haven’t heard by now…” his father trailed off.
Since his dad had gotten fired from the architectural firm last year, Alek had probably spent more time with him than he had during the rest of his life. It’s not that his father was entirely absent from those earlier memories. Just that his presence had been peripheral, more like a half-cropped figure in the background of a photograph.
Alek followed his father into the kitchen, the pride of every Armenian household. The shiny stainless steel refrigerator and matching dishwasher had been installed just weeks before Alek’s father had been fired, and Alek knew that as soon as they could afford it, his mother was planning on upgrading the cabinets to cherrywood and the counter to granite.
Alek’s father began assembling the sarma ingredients while Alek sat at the kitchen table.
“Alek, do you want to talk to me about anything?”
Alek’s stomach sank, like he’d been lured into a trap that had just sprung open around him. “What do you mean?”
“I just want you to feel like you can tell me anything.”
“I do.”
“And if there’s anything wrong, like with girls or even drugs or sex—”
“Oh my God, Dad, there’s nothing wrong, okay?” Alek felt his face turn beet red. “I thought you were going to show me how you make sarma, not have a heart-to-heart, because even my algebra homework would be more enjoyable than that.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” his father said, equally relieved to change the subject. He joined Alek at the table and began making the Armenian delicacy. “Let me show you how to take these out without ripping them.” He carefully finessed a wad of leaves from the glass jar, unfolded it, then removed one leaf at a time. Each one was dark and thin, with veins running down its length, like a human hand. “You want to make sure you use the California leaves, because they’re sturdier than the Greek ones. Even still, the trick is to handle them very carefully. Like if you say the wrong thing, they might go running back to their room,” his father joked.
Alek smiled in spite of himself. Other fathers might throw a softball around with their sons, or take them to hit at the tennis courts. But his quality time with his father involved being gently mocked while learning how to make Armenian dishes.
“Now, I use the scissors to cut off the little stub of stem at the bottom.”
Alek’s dad showed him how to make the stuffing for the leaves, a mixture of rice, lamb, spices, tomatoes, red peppers, chopped parsley, and olive oil. Then he spooned the stuffing onto the flat leaf and demonstrated how to fold and roll the leaf, creating a perfect little bundle of yumminess.
“Now I lay it gently in the pot.”
“How come you always use the same pot whenever you make sarma?”
“This was the pot my mother always used to make sarma, and when I got married, she gave it to us. See how wide it is? Because of how the sarma cooks, you need a pot that’s wide, not deep.”
After a few minutes of working in silence, Alek’s dad tried a new tactic. “I know your mother hasn’t been around a lot lately, but try to be understanding with her.”
“I am, Dad. She’s the one who … As far as I’m concerned, she’s the one who’s messing everything up.”
“Now, Alek, the way you’re talking now—is that the kind of man you want to be?”
Alek knew there was only one right answer to this question. “No, Dad.”
“Just remember—this is the first time she’s worked full-time since before Nik was born. And most of the people at the UN have left since she was there, so she’s working with new colleagues, and she’s worried that no one is going to take her seriously. So whenever someone at the office has to stay late or pick up weekend hours, she volunteers so that they can see she’s committed.”
Alek didn’t say anything. He just continued watching his father unwrap, snip, stuff, and roll.
“But more than her work, family is the most important thing for her. Like it is for me. And now it’s time for us to support her the way she’s supported us, okay?”
Alek didn’t know why his dad’s talking to him this way made him want to die. “Okay, Dad,” he mumbled.
“And maybe we can all go to the city sometime soon. There’s a Rodin exhibit at the Met. Does that sound good to you?”
Alek mumbled again, “Yes, Dad.”
His father continued rolling in grateful silence. Finally, when all of the grapevine leaves were stuffed, rolled, and packed into the big pot, they filled it up halfway with hot water and brought it to a boil.
“Now we let it cook until it’s done. Sometimes we add some tomato paste for extra flavor halfway through.”
“That’s how I like it.”
“I know. So fifteen minutes before it’s done cooking, you can add it today.” Alek nodded his head, gratefully acknowledging even this small step in the journey of learning how to make sarma by himself.
“Dad, how long do you let it cook?”
“Just enough time.”
“And how much tomato paste should I put in?”
“Not too much.”
Alek rolled his eyes. He wondered if there were any Armenian cookbooks in the world, or if all of the recipes had to be learned this way.
6
Four days later, Alek peeled his gaze away from the chalkboard and back into his algebra textbook. His lips were inexplicably dry, and he wished he had some lip balm so he wouldn’t have to lick them every few seconds like a thirsty baby.
Mr. Weedin decided to end class by having a few Algebra II students work out a series of problems at the chalkboard. The Algebra I students were supposed to be working on their homework, but all Alek could do was try not to stare at Ethan.
The other students had finished solving their problems, but Ethan was still struggling with his. Alek copied Ethan’s equation into his notebook and began working it through. But each time he tried, something didn’t add up. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Alek raised his hand.
“Mr. Khederian, is this a question regarding your Algebra I assignment?” Mr. Weedin asked him. “As you know, this is the Algebra II segment of the class, and I’d like to focus my attention on those students.”
“Actually, Mr. Weedin, I couldn’t help noticing the problem that Eth—all the way on the left side of the board. As it’s written, it’s impossible to solve.”
“Is that so, Alek?”
“Yes, Mr. Weedin. But if you switch the second variable from a negative to a positive, which is what I think it’s supposed to be, then the problem makes sense.”
The Algebra I students looked up from their homework, and the upperclassmen in Algebra II redirected their attention from the chalkboard to Alek. This was the first time that Alek had spoken in class. Also, Mr. Weedin had a reputation for being meticulous, denying every extension request, and never making mistakes. Challenging him was momentous.
Mr. Weedin looked at Alek for a moment, then at the problem on the chalkboard, and then at his notes. The silence slowed time. As if in a trance, the class sat while Mr. Weedin checked his notes, making an arrhythmic clucking sound.
A few interminable moments later, Mr. Weedin cleared his throat. “You seem to be correct, Mr. Khederian.”
The class gave a collective exhale.
“Don’t worry, teach, I’m sure you’ll get it right next time.” Ethan smiled.
Mr. Weedin sheepishly walked to the board, made the necessary change, and Ethan solved the problem with a flourish.
Alek intentionally averted his eyes while Ethan walked back to his seat. Alek thought he saw Ethan lean toward him after sitting down as if he were going to say something, but the bell rang and Alek grabbed his bag and ran out of the classroom.
After his algebra triumph, Alek walked home with a swagger he hadn’t felt that entire year. He wanted to share his victory with someone. But he couldn’t tell his parents because they would’ve accused him of disrespecting his teacher. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell Nik, who’d just find a way to use the story to belittle him.
Alek saw Orchard Street in the distance. He hadn’t spoken to Becky since that awkward night last Friday when he tried to ask her advice about Ethan. He reached the intersection and paused, deliberating what to do. Sometimes, he decided, the easiest way to get over something was just to move forward. He made the turn and walked down the two blocks to Becky’s house.
After ringing the doorbell twice, Alek heard Becky’s footsteps scampering inside the house. A moment later, she opened the door.
“Um, Alek? You, uh, didn’t call—I didn’t know that you were, well, that you were coming.” She avoided eye contact with Alek, nervously shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. “Did we have plans?”
“Since when do I call before I come over?” Alek asked. “I want to tell you something.”
“What is it?” Becky stood in the doorway, examining the doorknob as if it were an ancient artifact.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“What’re you, a vampire?” Becky shot back.
Alek took her joke as a good sign. He walked in and dropped his book bag. Becky’s parents had met working at the same pharmaceutical laboratory outside of Princeton. Now their work took them all over the world, and they decorated their home with objects they collected from the international conventions they attended. A handwoven tablecloth from Ivory Coast depicting animals grazing at an oasis hung on the wall, over a modern Dutch sofa with no back. A Russian samovar, which Becky explained was an old-fashioned teapot, sat inside a Japanese tansu, next to a classic silver cup-and-saucer set that her parents had told Alek was from the Arts and Crafts period.