The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

Watching movies or TV shows that are about God, Jesus, or some kind of spiritual journey or lesson are approved. All other forms of entertainment are “the work of the devil, narcissistic, selfish, and only for girls and the gays.”

I should have buried it with the others outside the house. It’s been a while since she’s been on a search-and-destroy mission.

daydream that maybe, suddenly, everything in Kalakee, Illinois, starts to change. My hair goes straight and floppy. The flat landscape is suddenly circled by lush, flowering hills. I can walk into any room filled with people without sweating. Everywhere. No more Greek school on the weekends. Our house is quiet and safe and I am loved.

You’d think I’d be larger, but my theory is that the internal nervous energy I work so hard to conceal keeps my metabolism running on high.

“Dad, they think I have a demon inside me. Does that seem normal to you?” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. They were just praying for you. Nothing wrong with that.” I ask him again. “Do you think I have demons?” “Apparently not anymore.” He’s amused with himself. I still haven’t taken a bite of the doughnut. Does he not notice? No one loves doughnuts more than I do. “This isn’t funny. She’s making it harder and harder for me to have any kind of normal life.” When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “And I have nightmares. I don’t sleep fine.”

“Let’s drop this. It’ll pass.” “It won’t.” Under my breath: “She always gets away with it.” I’m mad at my father right now. Disappointed. It’s easy to be angry with her, but I expect more from him. “Your friend asked about you a lot when you were at Bible camp.” That’s out of left field. “Henry?” “He came by the house. I was outside working on the car.” “He knows we’re not allowed phones or—” “He just wanted to see how you were. If we had heard from you.” “I’ll see him today.” He nods. “Your mother thinks—we think—that Bible camp was a good change this year.”

“That’s no reason to do what she does. I’m getting too big to beat, so now she punishes me with mind games and this prayer shit. I don’t understand

Today when he came home between jobs, he found me in the corner of the living room. In a ball. Blood coming down my face from somewhere under my hair. It’s summer with a lot of midwestern humidity. We don’t have air-conditioning in the apartment, and the mixture of sweat and blood is such a weird, uncomfortable feeling. I’m too scared to get up and go anywhere else in the house. He calls to me but I don’t move. He walks over and places his hand on my head. He can feel the lumps. I know he can. At that moment, my mother walks into the living room from the bedroom. I hold my breath. It would be better if he hadn’t found me, because the fact that he has makes it into a “thing” with my mom. And once he leaves for his second shift, everything gets worse. He usually never says anything when this stuff happens. I want to believe that he secretly yells at her. But she’s usually the one yelling at him. Today is different. He lifts his hand off my head. My left eye must be swollen shut. I can’t see anything out of it. I turn slightly so I can see the action with my right eye. My shirt is drenched and sticking to my body. He walks toward her and grabs her upper left arm. I can tell the force of his grip on her bare skin by the way his fingers look—all red and white. They just look at each other. She starts to cry. Her crying no longer affects me. It stopped having an effect on me about a year ago.

“He’s not a good person. I don’t want him. I want him gone.” I can tell she believes it. I’ve heard it so many times that I believe it. Am I bad? Is there something wrong with me?

The thing he doesn’t know: I’m actually straddling multiple worlds.

The trails are old bike paths where there were once open fields. They go on forever. They start in our subdivision, which used to be nothing but farmland, and keep going. Most of the land is empty, with the occasional abandoned and in-shambles barn, but if you go for a while, like at least fifteen miles, the trails start to merge into existing working farms. The people who live and work there don’t like us, or anyone, coming through. If you aren’t careful, they’ll shoot right at you. I want to change the subject. I’ve become a bit of an expert at separating my worlds. I don’t want them merging. Especially now.

What must it be like to feel so comfortable in your own skin?

Maybe I want to be found out. Maybe it’s time to have something real to be in trouble for.

To not stand out.

I’ve spent my whole high school career cultivating an air of nothingness. I put my head down and keep walking.

Why is everyone trying to “save me”?

“No one can figure you out. Are you smart? Dumb? Gay? Are you even interested in anything? Even your clothes are, they’re just, I don’t know. Nothing.”

I want to fight back, but I don’t. I’m afraid of what I might do to him.

I notice too much. Every little thing in a room about a person, place, anything, feels like it’s giving off a signal, like everything is trying to communicate with me. That’s why I love neat, well-organized rooms. There’s less noise and my head feels calm.

Pleasing other people

In my art notebook is the only time I’m completely honest

I’m excellent with vibes. Not this kind….

You and this church are not the right approach. Even when you’re faced with the truth—when it’s right there in front of you in black and white—you pretend it’s something else. And I’m not doing that anymore.” And I walk out.