Page 11 of You Started It

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“What’re you doing tonight?” Mom asks. We’re in the kitchen, piecing together lunch. Amo Eli is at work with Axel. My stomach has been doing flips all day, worrying about having to share a meal with Axel’s big Arab family. I know it’s just pretend, but I’m for-real nervous.

What if I don’t like the food they serve? What if I don’t have the right answers to their questions? What if they want to talk politics? What if they discover I’m a horrible Arab? What if they tell Axel I’m not good enough for him? Will that change how he feels about me?

I’ve never really had another guy confess to liking me before. With Ben, we sort of just fit together like two puzzle pieces. We made sense. Axel, who apparently has his pick of anyone in our school, has a crush on me. But why?

As for me, liking Axel back, even just a little bit, pulls me away from my endgame. It’s like Ben is the right answer to the math problem but solving the equation is difficult. Axel may not be on the other end of the equal sign, but everything leading up to the response is a lot more fun. And for some reason, makes me happier.

Mom cuts my salami sandwich in half and I wash a bowl of strawberries for us to share. We sit across from one another at the table.

“I’m having dinner at Axel’s and then we’re going to the Blue Rodeo concert.”

Mom sits up straight, her face slightly scrunched. “Blue Rodeo? I didn’t think you were into that kind of music.”

“You mean old music?” I smile.

She smiles back. “Yeah. I guess I mean old music.”

“I’m not, but Axel is helping me check some items off my bucket list. And one of those items was to watch a concert at Budweiser Stage. This is the last one of the season, so we’re taking what we can get.”

“I see.” She bites into her sandwich and washes it down with water. “Well, just be careful down there. Driving in that part of the city can be kind of tricky.”

“I will.” Although, I’m not even certain how we’re getting there, and oddly, I’m not that worried. Maybe because I have other things occupying my brain.

“So.” She pauses. “Dinner with his parents?”

Here we go. I bite into my sandwich and wait for Mom’s cynical flood of words to come at me.

“Things must be getting pretty serious,” she says, her tone lukewarm. She doesn’t want me to be able to read her, except she doesn’t seem to know I can read her better than anyone else. We may not share the same viewpoints on a lot of things, but we do share DNA.

“It’s nothing formal. I had to turn down their first invite so when his mother asked me again, I said yes because I didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, I ate at Ben’s all the time.”

“That’s different. Everything is formal with Arabs.” Mom takes another bite while her brown eyes peer into mine, all judgmental like.

Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait.

“So what if it is?” I ask, taking the bait. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Would it be such a bad thing if you tried being single for once in your teen years? I thought your generation had moved past all of this.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Mix white feminism with selective Gen Z rhetoric to try to shame me for wanting to experience…to want to have…to…never mind.” I hate that she stumped me.

“Let’s drop it, okay? I’m the bitter old lady and you’re the young, beautiful girl full of potential.”

Oh great. The passive-aggressive guilt trip. Been a while since I’ve been on this ride.

“I’m never going to be good enough for you, am I?” I ask. “I’ll always be the reason you didn’t get the life you wanted. I could do everything right, and you’ll still find something to criticize.”

“Jamie.”

“It’s fine.” I rise from the table. “I’m actually not that hungry.”

“You’re right,” Mom says as I walk out of the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, my hands gripping the frame as I wait for her to continue. “Your life is full of so much promise. And I’m afraid you’re going to let it all go because of a boy. Like I did.”

I turn to face her. “And a baby.”

Her face falls. “I don’t regret having you. Would I recommend people follow in my footsteps? No. Do I want more for you? Yes.”

“Why do you dislike Axel so much?”

Mom stands and brings our plates to the counter. Her thin arms look so delicate in her short-sleeved shirt. Her curls are gathered at the top of her head, out of her face for another full day of work.

“It’s not that I dislike him,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s just when I see Axel, I see everything my parents wanted for me. I’ve spent half my life running away from all of that only for my daughter to be running toward it.”

I walk back into the kitchen and stop so we’re almost toe to toe. “Or maybe you’re just afraid I might find out the truth: that your parents weren’t so bad. That Dad isn’t the villain you paint him to be and that the one person in my life, the one who is supposed to want the best for me, is actually the one getting in the way of me having everything I want.” I pause and wait for her to look up at me, but she doesn’t. “You can get in your own way, but I won’t let you get in mine.”

Mom keeps her eyes down and eventually just says, “I hope you have fun tonight.” She walks past me and opens the door to the basement. Anxiety hums under my skin as Mom heads down the steps to her salon. When music bounces below my feet a moment later—a familiar, sad ballad from Phil Collins—I climb up the stairs to my bedroom and fall to the bed, releasing tears of frustration while lying in fetal position to fend off yet another stomach cramp.

By the time I arrive at Axel’s, I’m starving. I’ve lost track of how many meals have been sacrificed because I was too upset to continue eating after an argument with my mother.

Axel answers the door wearing shorts and a plain white T-shirt. He invites me in and I step inside. His home smells like someone dropped an entire package of allspice on the carpet and rubbed it in. With a couple hundred garlic cloves.

A TV from the family room is seemingly on at full volume, even though no one is sitting in there, while his mother and sisters engage in an intense conversation in the kitchen—intense enough that I can hear them from the foyer. There’s a lot going on in terms of decor. A carved wooden statue of Jesus rests on a console table in the foyer, surrounded by two smaller crucifixes and a few wooden camels. Above it, an elaborate tapestry hangs on the wall. It looks similar to one I remember seeing in my maternal grandparents’ home. Axel’s living room is adorned with photos. Mostly portraits. I walk through, examining the pictures, the happy smiles, the still-intact family.

We enter the kitchen and I ask his mother if she needs any help but she shoos me away. Not rudely, but because I’m a guest and therefore I’m not “allowed to lift a finger.” Axel’s father is out back cleaning up his vegetable garden and his sisters, who are here without their husbands, are now setting the dining room table. It’s all very traditional. Mom would hate it.

“Can I see your room?” I ask Axel once we’re back in the foyer.

He looks past me into the kitchen. “Sure,” he says quietly before basically tiptoeing up the stairs.

When we arrive, he closes the door gently.

“Are you not allowed to have girls in your room?” I tease.

“Of course not, but they won’t say anything. At least while you’re here.”

“Were your sisters allowed to have boys in their rooms?” I ask while taking in the sight of his meticulous bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him to be such a neat freak.

He laughs. “Definitely not.”

I sit on his bed, the sheets so smooth I worry about leaving an imprint of my butt. “Do your parents have a different set of rules for you because you’re a boy?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, sitting next to me. “It’s because I’m the youngest and they’re older and tired.” He grins while elbowing my side. “Helps me get away with more.”

“Like what?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Like having pretty girls in my room.”

My cheeks flush. I suck them in as I get up, inspecting the books on his shelves. “Speaking of, does your mother still make your bed and clean your room for you?”

“No. I do.”

“You’re the reason this room is so sterile?” I ask, looking back at him.

“Yeah. What’s the big deal?” He shrugs.

“My room must have made you cringe,” I say, looking away.

“I don’t judge how other people choose to live. It’s your space. But for me, it’s important to have a clean room. For a couple of reasons.”

I pull out his desk chair and sit like I’m his therapist. “Go on.”

He smiles. “One, if you hadn’t already noticed, my house is kind of chaotic. It’s sensory overload. This is my safe haven to escape all that. Also, I need room to practice my dances. Which means, no clothes on the floor.”

“Fair enough,” I say, both respecting and understanding his answer. Except for me, the chaos I keep buried inside comes out in my room.

“Why did you think my mom was still cleaning my room?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“Because my mom seems to think Arab sons are treated like kings.”

He huffs out a laugh. “That’s definitely not the case with me. I’ve been doing chores since the first grade. And I have to earn an allowance. In some ways, my parents were a lot easier with my sisters than they are with me. Although, I’m sure my sisters would beg to differ.”

“I think people sometimes only notice what they want to notice. The things that usually affect them,” I say, my eyes meeting with Axel’s. “Your dad is kind of tough on you, isn’t he?”

Axel exhales as he runs his hands up and down his thighs. “He just expects a lot.”

I glance around his room. There’s a shelf above his desk lined with soccer trophies and ribbons from swimming classes. I stand again and inspect the gold plaque positioned in the middle of his sports awards. “You were valedictorian of your elementary school?”

“Yeah. Is that so surprising?”

“Yes!” I laugh. “I thought you were…well, I didn’t think grades were that important to you.”

“Why? Because I like to dance?”

“Pretty much.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re pretty judgmental?”

I raise my shoulders. “All the time.” Axel shakes his head and laughs. “Maybe it’s because I saw you as this rising social media star. And that takes time and effort. Plus, you work with my uncle. I didn’t think it left you with the kind of desire or energy to be good at much else. Clearly, I was wrong.”

He leans back on his bed, resting his head on his bent arms. “Yeah, it’s not easy being perfect.”

I grab the pillow out from underneath his head and smack him in the face with it.

“Hey now,” he says, securing the pillow safely away from me. He points to his face. “This is a moneymaker. Please treat it with respect.”

I roll my eyes and lie next to him. He smells like pine trees and apricots. A weird combination, but on Axel, it works. I like being close to Axel. Even if it makes my heart race sometimes, it’s a good racing. A feeling I can’t seem to stop chasing. “So, what should I expect from your family at dinner?”

He shifts on his side, propping his head up with his hand. His smile is sweet and the gold chain around his neck falls to the side, drawing my eyes to his bronze skin. “Dad will be mostly silent. Observing. Mom will smile a lot. Chrissy, she’s the middle sister, will ask you a lot of questions. Susannah, the oldest, will find any opportunity to either drag me or talk me up. Depends on what day of her cycle she’s on.”

“Axel!” I say, matching his pose. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“I would never say that to you, my pretend girlfriend, but my sisters are fair game. They had me buying them pads and tampons as soon as I was allowed to ride my bike to the store.”

“Sounds like you guys are tight.”

“We are,” Axel says. “They’ll love you. I think my mom already does.”

“They love pretend Jamie. The real me, probably not so much.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks, his thick brows knitted together.

“Because I come from a broken family. Because my mom raised me without any ties to my culture. Because my uncle is gay.”

“Hey.” Axel shakes his head. “My parents are accepting of all people.”

“I’m sorry. My mom’s gotten it in my head over the years that Arabs have prehistoric mindsets when it comes to women and the LGBTQIA+ community. I only recently started pushing back on her own self-hating ways and it’s caused a lot of tension between us.”

“Is that because of me?” he asks.

“You may have been the catalyst, but the issues have always been there, simmering.”

“It’s not too late, you know.”

“What isn’t?” I ask.

Axel sits up and I follow. “To learn about where you come from. To interact with the community. To speak on Palestine. I’ve been to a couple protests myself. The energy is electric. Everyone makes it out to be like the world is against Arabs, but when we come together, for a cause, like Palestine or Syria, we’re fierce. We’re strong. We’re unstoppable.”

“You’re amazing,” I say aloud, without realizing. I half expect Axel to grin while running his fingers through his hair in an obnoxious way. Instead, he blushes.

“You’re not so bad yourself, James.”

My mind flashes to his porch when we almost kissed. I think about what would have happened if we had. In a way I’m grateful it didn’t happen, because then it might have made things weird and put a stop to all our plans, and to be honest, I’m really looking forward to our plans. It’s been a while since I felt excited about non-academic things.

“Come on,” he says, patting my thigh. “I can tell by the sound of the dishes hitting the table and the smells infiltrating my room that dinner is just about ready. And don’t worry. If there are any awkward silences, I’ll fill them. I’m good at taking up space.” He winks, and instead of it making me want to roll my eyes or retort sarcastically, it fills me with warmth.

Dinner with Axel’s family is perfect. The food is delicious. His mother prepared a spread of homemade falafel, hummus, tahini (which I avoid), baba ghanoush, tabouli, and warm pita. Axel’s dad is really sweet, especially with his daughters. His mom can’t stop grinning at us. Chrissy does interrogate me, but she seems to be okay with my answers. Susannah teases Axel about his failed attempt to play hockey (finally found something he’s not good at), and Axel keeps his promise by filling in the few awkward gaps of silence. There are no questions about if I’m Arab “enough,” and nothing to make me feel like I’m not welcome at their table with their family, next to their son.

After dinner, Axel’s mom and sisters turn down my attempts to help them clean up. Once we head out, I begin asking Axel questions again about the how-tos behind getting into a sold-out concert, but he refuses to answer.

“You only need to know what you need to know,” he says on our bus ride into the city. We’re at a bus shelter now, holding onto our transfers. “Here it comes,” he says as the streetcar arrives.

“Can you at least tell me where it’s taking us?”

“Read the sign.” He points.

I look up to see “Harbourfront” on the digital screen.

“Why Harbourfront?” I ask, taking a seat near the back of the streetcar. Axel slides in next to me. It’s like he walks around with a constant soundtrack playing in his head. All his movements are lyrical.

“Remember what I said about tonight’s plans being on a need-to-know basis?”

I unlock my phone and begin typing into it. “Okay, but Budweiser Stage is still another ten minutes away from Harbourfront and that’s not accounting for traffic or construction.”

Axel looks down at the phone in my hand, opened to Google Maps.

“Jamie,” he says. “Are you mapping this trip?”

“You’re not telling me anything.”

“So?”

“So, I need to know what I’m getting myself into,” I say, clenching my jaw and trying (but failing) to relax.

“Why?”

“So I can prepare myself. I like to be in control of my life and my surroundings. As much as possible, anyway.”

“Why do you think that is?” he asks with a smirk.

“For real?” I ask, sitting up. “I have anxiety. I mean, we all have anxiety, but some of us don’t know how to manage it.” I exhale, looking down at my tight fists. “I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder in ninth grade. My mom made me see a therapist because I wasn’t handling my dad’s…” Clearing my throat, I exhale and try again. “I had a hard time after my father left.”

“But that’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, if my dad walked out on us, I’d probably be a mess too. Not that I’m saying you’re a mess,” he quickly backtracks.

“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head and let out a small puff of laughter. “It is normal. But I was developing some unhealthy habits and the panic attacks became a bit more frequent, so we needed to try to find ways to deal with it.”

“What kind of unhealthy habits?”

I turn away from him and look out the window. Axel is asking some pretty personal questions, and I can’t really fault him because if I were him, I’d want to know too. But I’ve never really spoken to anyone about this outside of Mom, Amo Eli, and Ben. Ben was the one who was there after every appointment with the therapist. He was the one who took me out for ice cream. Assured me there wasn’t a vise around my lungs and that I could breathe. He became my security blanket, and he was a really good one…until he wasn’t.

Last year, he started to downplay my anxiety. Said I was in control of the way I felt and that I just had to stop listening to the negative voices in my head. Ben thought going for a walk would solve ninety percent of my problems. He said I needed to learn how to cope because life was only going to get harder and if I fed into the anxiety, it would become a monster that would take over my life.

The shared Kill-It Lists were not only a way to keep us focused on our goals, but they were also supposed to keep my anxiety at bay. If I had a plan, if I had goals, if I created a clear path for myself and my future, there’d be less room for the anxiety monster to take over.

And sometimes he was right. But on the days he wasn’t, it felt like I couldn’t turn to him and that was hard. It’s hard feeling like your safe person isn’t your safe person anymore.

“A lot of it is just stimming but sometimes in non-healthy ways,” I say to Axel. “I used to pick at the skin around my fingernails to the point of bleeding. I wear a mouthguard at night because apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep. I either eat too much or not enough, depending on what kind of stress I’m experiencing. The good news is, I rarely have panic attacks anymore. I’ve learned the signs and am able to stop them from happening by doing my breathing exercises. However, I haven’t been able to gain control over the other thing.”

“The other thing?” Axel asks.

I suck in my lips, embarrassment flushing my neck. “Sometimes when I overthink, catastrophize, or get triggered by something upsetting—like fighting with my mom or seeing Ben with Olivia—my stomach starts to hurt a lot and it becomes urgent,” I say quickly.

“What becomes urgent?” he asks, looking a little puzzled.

“Like, you know.” I expand my eyes, hoping he’ll catch on so I don’t have to say it.

“No. I don’t.”

“The bathroom, Axel. My need to go to the bathroom becomes urgent.”

“Oh,” he responds, his eyes almost as wide as mine, but only for a moment before his face returns to status quo.

“It’s why I follow strict routines and try to have my life laid out for me, because if I veer off that path, then I’d have to deal with the side effects that come with my anxiety, and sometimes there isn’t an accessible toilet when you need one. Which makes me more anxious and makes the stomach cramps worse and that’s why…”

“That’s why you’re asking me so many questions about how tonight is going to pan out.”

“Exactly,” I say, feeling a mix between embarrassed and vulnerable and relieved. Relieved that he seems to get it.

“Would it help if I asked you to trust me?”

Okay. Maybe he doesn’t get it.

“Look,” Axel says, turning his body slightly so he’s closing in on me. “I have a plan. A really well-thought-out plan. But if at any point you don’t feel safe or you feel like one of your stomachaches might come on, I’ll stop everything and find you a toilet. We can even come up with a code word for it. How’s ‘green apple’?”

I look down at my scraped-up knees with old scars I am sometimes tempted to pick at again and laugh. “It’s terrible.”

He smiles and takes my hand, rubbing my palms to smooth out the nail indentations. “What you said before about how all people experience anxiety, it’s true. Even me. One of my coping mechanisms for stress is dancing, and the other is music.” Axel pulls earbuds out of a tiny case. “Here,” he says, passing me one.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I mean, it’s supposed to go in your ear, but if you’d like, I could suggest other places to stick it in.”

“Watch it,” I say, before placing the earbud in my left ear. Axel does the same with his. He opens the music app on his phone and hits Play.

“What do you think?” he asks, as the song begins.

“Sounds like country music,” I quip.

“Listen to the lyrics,” he says, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Most songs tell a story. It’s not only the music that’s making you feel things. It’s the emotion in the singer’s voice.”

“Who is this?” I ask, resisting the urge to tap my toes in sync with his.

“Blue Rodeo. I listened to their greatest hits last night to prepare for the concert. This one is called ‘Til I Am Myself Again.’ It reminds me of you,” he says, stealing a sideways glance at me.

“Why?” I ask, sitting up straight in my seat.

“Just close your eyes and listen,” he says, remaining mostly still, aside from the tapping toes and the strumming of his fingers along his knees.

I slump in my seat, trying to decipher the lyrics. After a couple of verses, my back straightens again and I turn to Axel. “This song is clearly about some lost soul who doesn’t know who they are. I know who I am,” I say, pointing a finger at my chest before leaning back in my seat. “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t tell me to listen to some cheesy love song and say it reminded you of me.”

“Because then you’d just laugh in my face, right?” he asks, his expression and body language stiffening.

I open my mouth to say something but can’t quite find the right words. Hard to know what to say when you’ve clearly offended someone but you don’t know why.

“We’re next,” he says, holding out his hand. I place the earbud in his palm and he tucks it away in the case before bolting up. I follow him out of the streetcar.

After we walk for a bit, he points to a sign. Harbourfront Water Taxi .

“We’re taking a water taxi?” I ask.

“I wanted to go by paddleboat, put those leg muscles of yours to work. I don’t need it,” he says, running a hand over his muscular thigh. “But apparently the water is too dangerous to go by paddleboat there.”

“Careful,” I say. “You keep making me roll my eyes, they might end up getting stuck in the back of my head.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He smiles. “No one else manages to look at me with such adoration and shock at the same time. I’d miss it.”

“Whatever.” Am I that obvious? Amo Eli does say he can read my face like a book. I’ve got to get better at hiding my emotions. I wouldn’t want Ben to be able to tell I’m faking it with Axel. Although, lately it’s been harder to distinguish the moments I am faking it with Axel from the ones I’m not.

It’s kind of difficult being fake around someone who brings out the truth in you.

“So, we’re taking a water taxi to the amphitheater? Then what?” I ask.

“Is this a green apple moment or do you think you can trust me, at least until the boat ride is over?”

“It’s not a green apple moment.”

“Good. And I’ll ask the captain how long the ride is.” Axel smiles. We walk up the dock and Axel chats with the captain for a moment, paying our fare. He extends his hand and helps me on board.

“He says it will take about ten minutes. Once we get to the venue, we’ll locate all the bathrooms. Okay?” he says as he takes a seat. I sit across from him and nod.

A boat ride on Lake Ontario wasn’t part of any plans I had (it definitely wasn’t on the bucket list), but as I take in the fresh lake water, watching how the almost-setting sun glistens while giving the most spectacular view of the quiet Toronto Island on one side, juxtaposed with the bustling city on the other, I think to myself how maybe this should have been on my list. Or maybe going off-plan once in a while is good. Helps me learn to be more spontaneous, like Ben wanted. Deal with the anxiety head-on. Exposure therapy, like my therapist repeatedly mentioned in our sessions.

“How did you know to do this?” I ask, but the breeze and roar of the boat engine drown out my voice. Axel moves closer, placing his arm behind me and leaning his head to mine as I repeat the question.

“I did my research. Not just a pretty face after all.” He winks, then glances down at his phone. “The opening act should be finishing their set soon, which means we’ll make it in time for the main event.”

“Really? You’re excited to watch—what did you call them—Red Rodeo?” I ask as the captain revs up the engine. The boat rocks and my body slides closer to Axel. Instead of adjusting myself, I leave my leg pressed up against his.

“Yeah. They’ve got some good bops.”

“What’s a bop?” I ask, furrowing my brows.

“Were you born this century or nah?” he asks as the boat heads west. “It means a good song.”

“Well, technically it doesn’t,” I begin. Axel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “The word ‘bop’ derives from ‘bebop,’ which is a specific kind of music, early modern jazz. But it’s also slang for ‘move,’ ‘go,’ or ‘proceed.’?”

“The Queen of Homographs strikes again.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking away and studying the water. “Why do I always do that? Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s a cute quirk. And I like it.”

“Okay. Then I’m not sorry. Speaking of the word ‘quirk,’ I can think of at least five different homographs for it.”

“Fill my brain with your knowledge,” he says, scooting himself closer, arm still draped behind me. This time, I lean against it.

“Challenge accepted.”