My mouth is off and running. “Have you seen Arek and Vache yet? They’re sitting right behind us. My grandma started telling Vache about how she fell in love with a writer back in Anjar but wasn’t allowed to marry him and had to be shipped off to the city to marry my grandpa. Not awkward at all. I mean, just kidding, my Nene can say anything and somehow it’s not weird. Like an old person superpower.”
She touches my arm. “Are you nervous?”
I pretend to be offended, though I’m borderline shaking. The music’s subdued, but there’s a thick film of noise—chatter, voices high and low, forks scraping against plates, clinks and shrieking laughs—that is threatening to overwhelm me. “What would give you that impression? My ability to talk endlessly about nothing?I’m good at that. I think years of pieces like ‘Too Spooky for Trick-or-Treaters? Local Man’s Halloween Decorations Send Children Screaming to Their Parents’ have given me a nonstop arsenal of cotton candy dialogue I can spit up at any time. Anyway, I guess I am a little nervous.”
I’m trying to shepherd her toward Arek and Vache’s table, but she will not be steered. She takes the turn right toward my mom. She must have seen where I was sitting when she was making her way over.
“Don’t be, it’s me.” She whispers in my ear, and for a moment the cacophony of the hall dies away. I have to fight with everything I’ve got to keep my eyes from lolling back into my head and allowing the shiver to pass all over my body. I am stoic, a statue. My mom’s eyes flick up from Tantig Sona and Emma’s conversation that she’s half listening to.
“Hi, Mom. This is Erebuni. Amazing job, right?”
That was good, Nar.Simple and satisfying to both Erebuni and Mom. My mom extends her hand and gives a plastic smile. “Parev, Erebuni, nice to meet you. Nareh is right, you were excellent up there. You work for the Armenian Advancement Committee?”
Erebuni answers with her usual slick coolness. “Thank you. No, I work for the Genocide Education Foundation, not affiliated with the AAC.”
My mom nods. “That is good.” In a surprisingly uncharacteristic move, my mom is super not into the Armenian political organizations because she feels like they’re too extreme and one-track. Like they don’t allow for nuance. It gives me hope that she might understand the complexity of my situation. But it’s also awkward that she straight up dissed the AAC, since most Armenians don’t share her view and Erebuni could be one of them.
“I agree.” Erebuni smirks, and it is so charming, how can my mom not love her, too? And lucky for my mom, her provocative opinion landed just fine with Erebuni.
“Erebuni helped get me an interview with Congresswoman Grove. It’s going to be a great segment.”
God, I sound as stiff as I feel. My mom actually reaches over and pats Erebuni’s hand. “I’m glad you two met. This is what Explore Armenia is about. Armenians coming together. I always tell Nareh that. We treat each other like family right away.”
The conversation is going well, but Mom’s well-tuned intuition radar (I don’t know if it extends to gaydar) worries me. I pray to the Armenian God (that I’m only partially sure exists) that our conversation keeps happening in this vague, openly interpretable space. Or that it ends soon.
And I guess the being upstairs listens, because the lights turn low and the music picks up, causing everyone to turn toward the speakers, where a DJ stands over his equipment.Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Should we dance? Let’s get Arek and Vache. Janette, too. I haven’t seen her yet,” I tell Erebuni.
“Ahnshoushd,” Erebuni says, meaning “Of course.” “Tantig, would you like to come, too?”
She’s calling my mom Tantig, and it’s so cute I wish I could tell her how sweet it is, but obviously I can’t openly say that. My mom kindly waves Erebuni off. “Oh no, I do not dance anymore. I don’t want to interrupt your young people’s fun.”
Then Tantig Sona perks up. “I want to dance. Anahid, don’t act like you’re too old to go up there with me. Maybe we can meet a nice pair of widowers.” She cackles and yanks my mom up withher. Seeing that, Tantig Emma and her husband rise. Diana and her crew are already making their way toward the dance floor.
Erebuni waves over Arek and Vache. Arek bounds up, but Vache rolls his eyes, takes a massive gulp of his drink, and then joins us.
Okay, we’re all doing this. Nene is still engaged in conversation, listening to Garen and spitting with disgust. I tap her on the shoulder and bend down since it’s loud in here.
“Nene, do you want to come dance?” I ask her.
She looks straight ahead at Garen. “No, darling, I want to sit here and wash this boy head to toe of his frivolous opinions.”
He scoffs, and the two go at it again. “Nene wants to stay and fight,” I say to my mother, who’s by my left side (Erebuni is on my right, and I don’t know if I can handle this).
Our group and others like ours move like a tidal wave to our destination. We step onto the slightly raised white-tiled dance floor, which is brimming with people. I recognize the song but don’t know the name, a classic Armenian electro track with a gregarious singer. My family groups themselves together, and I’m halfway between them and Erebuni, Vache, Arek, and Janette, who has now joined us. This is perfectly fine, dancing one hundred percent sober with my secret girlfriend, my new friends, and, like, my entire family.
But as song after song goes on, itisfine. I’m going to make it through tonight, then at some point I’ll tell Mom, and it’ll all be okay.
I’m starting to relax, and Erebuni must notice, because she gives me a playful shoulder bump, and then the best thing happens. A new song starts, and it’s “Hey Jan Ghapama,” which is one of my absolute favorite Armenian songs. It’s a folk song (thoughthis version has all the electro-eighties treatment) about how excited the whole village is about this one pumpkin dish that’s about to be served. Everyone’s in attendance—your parents and cousins and aunties and in-laws—and goddamn, here it comes, a huge heaping plate of sweet-smelling roasted pumpkin stuffed with rice and walnuts and honey and cinnamon, ready to feed the masses. The title and chorus are a group reverie that translates to “Hey, bro, the pumpkin dish!” Basically, it’s a total banger, and right now I am feeling it.
Because that’s sort of what’s happening now, minus the delicious pumpkin snack. Everyone’s here, and we’re dancing, and everything’s okay. My mom is out and actually having a good time, and Nene is over there by the table, laughing now, a genuine hearty laugh. Diana is shrieking with joy as her fiancé does the airplane move around her. Erebuni is so damn sexy, and she crushed it today, and I got an exclusive interview with a congresswoman, and everything’s more than okay, I realize. It’s awesome. I start to really dance, and Erebuni answers that by flirtatiously facing me and picking up the pace of her moves. I’m moving my feet, which I rarely do because that requires actual skill, but I feel like I’m nailing that, and Erebuni looks impressed. I lean over to her and bury my face into her ear. “I’m so happy I met you.”
She turns, pulling away from me slightly so we don’t accidentally kiss. “Me, too,” she says, her voice tangling with the music. I wish I could sweep her up then, take her in for an actual kiss, but we can’t, not here. My eye catches the photo booth in the corner of the room. That... could work.
I tap Erebuni and pitch my chin toward it, shouting to be heard over the music, “Why don’t we check out the photo booth?” I try—hard—not to sound flirtatious because of the potentialoverhearing audience, basically my entire family. I may have only half succeeded; I can practically feel the lust dripping off me.
Her eyes light with mischief, and this is where we should be holding hands, joyfully slinking away. Instead we briskly (and chastely) trot toward it, like we can’t get behind closed doors—or a curtain in this case—fast enough. Since the dancing started not too long ago, there’s no line. It’s all ours.
