You Can't Tell by Looking Page 4

  “Well, I certainly know that’s not the case. I will never believe that all Muslims are terrorists. But I guess I have a lot to learn about how they appear and how they act. It’s high time I got my baking done so I can meet the neighbors and find out how they really are.” She gets a stricken look on her face. “Oh, I just remembered. Dad says there’s a family named Chen at the end of the block. What will I bake for them?”

  I laugh at her. “Cookies, Mom, cookies. Everybody likes cookies. Especially your cookies.” I lean over and kiss her forehead. Then I grab my sandwich, wondering if I will be able to get my mouth around it to take a bite, and head up to my room.

  I am finishing my feast and deciding that I really need to go down for a glass of milk, when my phone chimes. I look and see it’s Shaun.

  “Shaun, my man. Whuzzup?”

  “Nuttin’. Jus’ tryin’ to keep it real.”

  “Missed you today, guy. You weren’t playing helicopter coz like yesterday.”

  “I figured you knew the lay of the land by now and didn’t need me anymore. I’m like an old sock with a hole. You can throw me away, no more use possible.” I hear a fake pout.

  “Shaun, I’ll never toss you away. You weigh too much for me to lift.”

  He laughs. I’m glad. Despite the fact that he’s rough around the edges, Shaun has been a big help to me. And he is my cousin. Like the old song goes, “We are famileee.”

  “Where were you at lunch? I looked for you. There were some guys I wanted you to meet.”

  “Guys?”

  “I hear ya. No, not guys as in date material, just guys I hang with that I think you’d like.”

  “Oh, I get it. ’Cept for Lou yesterday, you don’t know any nancy boys. Or maybe you think your cousin isn’t good enough for your gay friends.” I’m ragging him, and his reaction tells me he knows it.

  “Stop it, Gabe. Truth be told, I don’t know many gay guys. Hell, I don’t even know if Kramer is gay, but I figured you’d know—gaydar and all.”

  “Gaydar is not all it’s cracked up to be, Shaun. You can’t always tell.”

  “Well, I’ll keep a look out. There’s bound to be a bunch of guys who’d like your skinny butt, and I might uncover ’em if I try.”

  “Thank you so much, dear cousin. I don’t know how I’d get a date without your help.” I laugh.

  “So where were you at lunch?”

  “I was in the library.”

  “The library? You got a research paper assigned this soon?”

  “No, Kerem invited me.”

  I hear a slight, almost inaudible huff.

  “What? You two plotting the overthrow of the school already? Why were you talking to him?” Disgust pours into my ear. “He may have a lot of the other seniors fooled, but not me. I didn’t vote for him. The last thing Compton needs is a reputation that Muslims are taking it over.”

  “You’re wrong, Shaun. First of all, Kerem is the only Muslim, so Muslims, plural, can’t be taking over the school. And taking over is the last thing he would want to do. He’s a good person, coz.”

  “So you’ve known him only a day, and you’re defending him already? You’ve barely had time to say hello and shake his hand—”

  Without thinking, I say, “From what he told me, Muslims don’t shake hands.”

  “See! I told you. My dad says a man who won’t shake your hand has something to hide.”

  “Shaun, get over it. Ker is a really good person. I know because I’ve talked to him. And apparently a majority of our classmates think so too, or he wouldn’t have been elected class president.”

  “So you two’re so tight now you call him Ker? I’ve never, ever, heard anyone call him that. You guys must be real close now.” He picked up on the nickname I invented, I guess, and now he’s really worked up, wound up tighter than a yo-yo.

  “What’s next? You gonna sleep with him?”

  That’s a low blow.

  “Cut it out, Shaun. You’re my cousin and I love you, but you’ve crossed the line. It’s none of your business who I sleep with, but to answer your question, sleeping with Kerem’s not likely. He’s very religious, and I don’t know if Islam even permits homosexuality. And what’s more, I doubt that Kerem’s gay. I just find him very nice, he’s teaching me a lot about Islam, and he lives across the street from me, so I’ll be seeing him a lot.”

  “Across the street? Well, isn’t that nice.”

  “Tone it down, Shaun, or I’m hangin’ up. Change the subject.”

  There is a long pause. I hear breaths. Finally he says, “A couple of guys on the football team are giving a party after the game Friday night. The guy whose house it’s at—his parents’re going out of town. Should be a blast. I hear they’re gettin’ a keg, and a bunch of people are bringin’ bottles. You game?”

  The thought of a drunken party was not on my radar, but I don’t want to set him off again. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t just think, do. We’ll book it to the game together, then head to the par-tay.”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know what Mom and Dad say.”

  “Well, that means you won’t be going. I know your folks, and Mr. Goody-Goody, the guy to whom I’m speaking, will probably spill the beer beans.”

  “Shaun, I’m new. I don’t know if a booze bash is the best way for me to meet people.” I’m trying to let him down easy.

  “Can’t think of a better way. You convince Mary and Ken of that.” I hate that he calls my parents by their first names without using aunt and uncle. The family upbringing my dad and my mom gave me wasn’t the same as Dad’s sister and my uncle gave Shaun. Or, as often happens, they taught and taught and taught, but he refused to learn. “Tell ’em it’s a pizza party. That sounds innocent enough.”

  “Like I said, we’ll see. I gotta go now. Homework.” And I end the call before he can say anything more. After that, I really need that glass of milk. I might even sneak a little Amaretto in it to rev me up a bit. I deserve it.

  Mom and Dad keep all sorts of liqueurs in the house. Mom has them mostly for cooking, but Dad indulges sometimes after dinner. A tiny glass of Bailey’s is a far cry from a keg of beer.

  But the sneaking of liquor is not to be. Mom has a couple of globs of batter dripping off her apron when I get to the kitchen. Great cook, but a bit of a loose cannon when it comes to keeping the kitchen—and herself—spotless during the process.

  “Let’s see.” She points to each item on the counter. “I have the almond cookies for the Chens—”

  I cut her off. “Hold it a minute. Almond cookies for the neighbors with the Chinese names?”

  “Yeah. They have almond cookies in Chinese restaurants all the time.”

  “Mo-om.” I roll my eyes at her. “Don’t you think that might come across as a racist thing? You’re trying to make friends, not show your deep-seated prejudice.”

  “You know I don’t have a racist bone in my body.”

  “I know that. But do the Chens know that?”

  I see the light bulb go on over her head.

  “Okay, my little pop-culture scholar. I’ll box up the almond cookies for the Martins, and the red velvet cupcakes for the Chens, the Dillingers, and the Uzuns.” Looking stricken, she asks, “Did I say it right?”

  “Yeah, it’s red, rhymes with head, and velvet, rhymes with, well, pet,” I deadpan.

  “You are so, so funny.” She narrows her eyes. “The neighbors’ name, smartass.” Mom calls it as she sees it. “I don’t know how to speak Muslim.”

  I laugh at her. “You can’t speak Muslim, Mom. It’s not a language; it’s a religion. People’s names come from whatever country their families came from. Ker’s last name is Turkish. His dad immigrated from there. And yes, you said his last name right, or as right as you’ll probably ever get it. I’ve only heard it once, and you sounded pretty much like Ker did.”

  “Ker? You’re already shortening his name? In my book, that means ‘close friendship.’” A sly look.<
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  “Whatever. Yeah, I like him. His friends at school always call him Kerem but you know me. That’s too much work. So I shortened it, and I guess he’s okay with that. He hasn’t told me otherwise.”

  “Don’t kill me for asking this.” Uh-oh, it’s never good when she starts that way. She either has a criticism or a probing question. Either is never fun. “Are you interested in this boy?”

  “Interested? I like him. I said that. I like that he’s nice. I like that he’s different. I like that he’s teaching me about Islam. I like that I found a friend on my second day in town. I like that he’s my neighbor.” I pile it all on to shut her up. But it doesn’t work.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Gabriel Franklin Dillon.” Why do moms always reference the birth certificate when they get serious? “On the grave of my grandfather Solomon Franklin, I promise I don’t want to hear any bullshit right now. I asked you a question.” Woo! She’s really worked up. She only swears on her grandfather’s grave when I’ve truly irritated her. Normally she’s a pussycat.

  I hold up my hands defensively. “Okay, okay. If he were interested in me, I could be interested in him. But like I told Shaun on the phone a few minutes ago, I don’t even know if that’s possible. Two guys together might be totally forbidden in his religion, you know? I’m just gonna take it nice and slow and see what happens. Right now, I’m probably only interested because he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever come into contact with.” It’s nice when you don’t have to pussyfoot around your parents. They made it perfectly clear when I came out to them they were totally okay with it. “Lust is not the same thing as a relationship. You know as well as I do that I’m looking for a mate. Maybe not a lifetime mate, but someone I can cuddle up to, tell my secrets to, and really feel connected to. And that sort of thing takes time. If getting to know Ker leads to that, and he’s willing to be open and honest—I won’t love a guy who’s in the closet—then I’ll be happy. Meanwhile, I’m going to take it one step at a time.”

  Mom rushes to me and grabs me into a hug that’s claustrophobic and comforting, all at the same time. “I raised a wonderful man, I tell you what.”

  “Uh,” I say, trying to talk with very little air coming into my lungs, “didn’t Dad have something to do with that, also?”

  She breaks away. “Maybe. A mother’s love trumps a dad’s love any day.” Suddenly she shouts, “My scones!” and she leaps to the stove, grabs a hot pad off the stove top, opens the oven door, and pulls out a perfectly baked pan of what I can only assume are bacon maple scones. Thrusting them in my direction, she says, “Are these not the most gorgeous things you’ve ever seen? When they cool a little, you and I are going to eat ’em all. Don’t tell your dad.”

  I just look at her, waiting for what I know will come.

  “All right, we’ll save him one, maybe two. And yes, he was a big factor in the man you’ve become.” I smile. “You knew I’d cave, didn’t you?”

  The scones are fantasmagorical. It’s like the bacon in them is having sex with the sweet maple flavor, producing a gushing orgasm in my mouth. Mom’s found a winner. I beg her to make them again and again. I don’t know how she remembers which recipe is in which cookbook, but she remembers everything, and these will be put into regular rotation in the Mary Dillon kitchen.

  I haven’t done my homework, but I give up. I’ll get to it later. All this talk has given me a powerful urge. I look at the time on my phone. It’s long before sunset, so I text.

  Free? Meet you. Sidewalk my side of the street. OK?

  I had barely sent the text before Ker answers back.

  Two seconds.

  I head outside and he’s already waiting.

  “Salaam Alaykum.”

  “Huh?” I look at him, wonder in my eyes, I suppose.

  “It’s a greeting. It means ‘peace be upon you.’ You respond, ‘Wa-Alaykum,’ ‘and on you.’ We use this for hello and goodbye.”

  “Wahleekum,” I try.

  “Wa—” He motions for me to try it.

  “Wa,” I say.

  “Ah—”

  “Ah.”

  “Lay—”

  “Lay.”

  “Kum.”

  “Kum.”

  “Now, all together: Wa-Alaykum.”

  I say it, perfectly this time.

  “Wonderful,” Ker says. Now I say, ‘Salaam Alaykum,’ and you say?”

  “Wa-Alaykum.”

  He smiles so big that if it were a shout, you could hear it clear across town. Before I know it, he hugs me tight and says, “You are a good student, my friend.” His warm breath in my ear turns me on. I pray that he doesn’t notice.

  When he breaks away, he says, “Now you try greeting me.”

  Hesitantly I say, “Sa-la-am Alaykum.”

  “Wa-Alaykum.” He spouts it out with such joy that for a moment, I love him. “Now, you teach me something Methodist,” he says.

  I have to think. What is “something Methodist”? I’m racking my brain when something comes to me. I hope he doesn’t think I’m making fun of him. He may have to get used to my twisted sense of humor. “Okay, repeat after me: puh.”

  “Puh.”

  “Ee.”

  He looks at me like he thinks I’m crazy. “Ee.”

  “Suh.”

  “Suh.”

  “Now.” I look him straight in the eye. “Put it together.”

  Haltingly, he says, “Puheesuh.” Then he adds, “Are you putting me on? That doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard.”

  “Now, say this very quickly: buhwitya.”

  “Buh wit ya?” He says it like a question, like I’m teaching him Greek, and he is totally confounded.

  “Now, we put it all together. Puheesuh buh witya.”

  “Puh ee suh buh witya.” He stops. Takes a breath. “Puh ee suh buh witya.”

  “Say it faster. All together this time.”

  “Puheesuhbuhwitya.” And then he stops and stares. He’s trying to mask a smile with fake anger. “Peace be with you?”

  “You got it! An old Methodist saying. Or at least I’ve heard it said in church. Sometimes.”

  He shoves me with his hand. Not hard. Not angrily. To me, it feels like love. I say, “You see? We’re not so different after all.”

  He begins to laugh. It is joyful. I’ve made him happy, and he’s made me happy by just being here.

  “You wanna walk?” I ask, not wanting to break the spell. But we can’t just stand here on the sidewalk and stare at each other.

  “Sure. There’s a pond with benches a couple of streets over. Have you been there yet?”

  “I’ve been nowhere. If it wasn’t on my route into town or on the way to school, then it’s been off my radar.”

  “So let me introduce you to a new pleasure. I will love doing that.” The way he says that sounds affectionate, but I chalk it up to his being from a very different kind of family than I’m used to. Maybe they talk that way.

  We walk and talk. I’m determined not to invite any more lectures. That last tutoring session brought out something I was not expecting. I have to be careful. But I’m fascinated by Islam and all it entails—especially him, so I do want to keep learning. Just not right now.

  “It’s so beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?”

  “If you like hot and dry,” he says.

  “I do. When you spend three-fourths of your life in water, you enjoy dry sometimes. Besides, this is a beautiful neighborhood. Look around. Flowers’re in bloom despite the heat, and these’re some nice houses. I don’t have a clue as to how big the raise was my dad got, but it must be enormous if he can afford to move us here.”

  Ker laughs. “It’s not like these are mansions and everybody has maids and drivers.”

  “I know, but your folks are both doctors. Mom says it’s not right to talk money, but they must make a lot to afford this.”

  “We are very lucky. Baba and Mama work hard, and their income is plentiful, p
raise Allah. Pride is sinful, so I should not be saying this. I will anyway because it’s just between two friends.” He looks toward heaven. “Forgive me, Allah, if I offend.” Then he cuts his eyes back at me. “I have no idea the extent of my parent’s income, but I suspect we could live in a much grander house than the perfectly lovely one we have now. But Baba and Mama give far more to the poor than the prophet, PBUH, advises. They are generous souls.” I wonder what PBUH means, but I figure it will come up eventually.

  “They must be good people. But, of course, I know that because they have such a good son. I’m looking forward to meeting them.” I also love how his speech pattern changes a bit when he talks of his family. Like they deserve a formal delivery.

  “And you will. Soon, I hope. Perhaps you can join us for dinner sometime.”

  “And you at my house. I’ve already warned Mom that ham is off-limits. She’s an amazing cook. She collects cookbooks, and she not only finds the best recipes in each one, but she adds her own touches. You’ll love her cooking.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  We turn a corner, and at the end of the street, I see the park area he’d spoken of.

  “Race you to the pond?” he challenges. And I love a good challenge.

  I start running, and he yells from behind, “No fair. You didn’t say ready, set, go.”

  Despite my head start, we arrive at a park bench right at the same time, both of us huffing for breath. I collapse onto the bench, and he follows suit.

  For a moment there is total silence, except for the sound of our breathing going back to normal.

  Finally I notice. “You didn’t tell me there were swans.” A pair of magnificent snow-white birds glide on the water.

  “Oh, yes.” He chuckles. “If they come toward us, run. They can be mean motherfuckers.”

  I gasp. Is this the same kid who was so Queen’s English just seconds before?

  “What? I’m a red-blooded American teenage guy. We sometimes say stuff like that.”

  I laugh at him, and he joins in. But as he laughs, his eyes roll to heaven and “Forgive me, Allah” comes forth. That makes me laugh even harder.

  I want to take his hand in mine. It’s so peaceful here, hearing the ripples of the water and watching the swans, laughing with my newest friend, this beautiful man beside me. If only.