The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

All I wanted was a sundae. Just a normal outing. I don’t get these opportunities often. Suddenly, I’ve been pulled into this universe where people are flirting and not flirting and wigging out and talking in circles and just showing up from California.

I’ve worked so hard to keep everything down. To not feel pain. Not react. Blend in. But it’s not working anymore. I hurt. I feel it.

“Okay.” I attempt to pull myself together even though the level of anger I’m feeling accelerates my breathing. “I know how to do this. I do this all the time. Actually, this is what I do. I make everything okay. I make it all normal when it’s not at all.” I take longer, slower breaths. “Prayer can be very powerful.” “I’m going to be eighteen in less than two months. I can handle it.” The pastor sighs. “That isn’t the right approach.” Now I’m back to mad. “No. This”—I gesture with my hand around the room—“isn’t the right approach. 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.

“Henry’s a nice boy and they’re a good family. His sister is going to a very fancy school, right, Evan?” “What church do they go to again?” “His sister is going to Brown University. It’s a very good school and they’re Presbyterian. They go to Kalakee First Presbyterian, I think.” I answer like a machine. “That’s not a real church. They believe in the gays and other sins. It’s just for people to feel good. Feel-good church is not a church.” She believes you should feel 100 percent persecuted at all times in order to be a child of God.

The person who was supposed to love me the hardest—the most unconditionally—has always wanted me gone. No matter how hard I tried to be perfect. Now, this boy—who knows all my imperfections and has seen all my hurt laid bare—wants me to stay.