Dimitris

September 7
For someone whose main goal in life is to stay alive, I’ve been thinking way too much about a person whose main motivation is to challenge death.
Why can't I get Dimitris Makris out of my mind?
I might be the worst irresponsible jerk. At twenty-one, I’m nowhere near finishing college and I continuously fail classes due to my excessive absences. That’s when I’m not kicked out for being blatantly drunk or high.
But I have two days a week when I commit to being a more respectable human being – at least during the day, not so much at night. I made a promise to my sister Iris to pick her up and drop her off at school and dance on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She also has dance classes on Saturdays, but I leave that to our private driver on those days, as Friday nights at the arena are usually too intense. I generally don’t come home on weekends and only show up the following Tuesday.
I really want to be a better and more present brother. But that’s my best, and it’s already much more than our mother was willing to do – which was absolutely nothing.
That Thursday, two hours after dropping Iris off at dance class, I returned to pick her up. The reception was crowded with the parents of the students in her class and others that shared the same time slot.
And, as usual, I immediately felt all eyes on me. What could I do? I’m a sort of negative celebrity in this town.
I usually didn’t care about people’s reactions. However, I hated that my image was associated with my sister’s, so I always made sure she left the room after all the other students had gone.
Since the reception was crowded, I went to a side corridor where a half-wall of glass provided a view into the classrooms and stopped in front of the one where my sister had her lessons. The teacher used to be the owner of the establishment, but recently that girl had taken her place.
And there she was, standing before the children, holding a position I didn’t know the name of but that kept her body upright with one leg extended back and the opposite arm stretched forward. The children mimicked the position, and Iris lost her balance. The teacher went over to help her gently regain her balance.
That sight completely captivated me.
If there were a manual for perfection, that girl would probably check every box. Even in her posture, the lightness and grace of her movements, and the sincerity of her smile.

I thought I should just nod and end the conversation so she would move away. However, for some stupid reason, I found myself asking:
“Aren’t you hot?” I pointed to the shirt she was wearing, which, despite seeming to be made of a fabric suitable for physical activities, had a collar that went up to the base of her neck.
It seemed to be a pattern for her to always wear shirts like that. I had thought it was just a trait of a more reserved personality, but I had seen her wearing shorts and bermudas, without much modesty regarding her legs.
“There’s air conditioning in the room,” she replied.
“You always wear shirts like this.”
“Besides noticing my green juice, you’re also paying attention to my clothing?”
Okay, I had been caught in the act. I was really paying too much attention to details about her.
But I tried to justify it:
“Some things attract attention because they’re striking. Like someone drinking questionable-tasting things and wearing nun-like clothes in the middle of summer.”
“They’re not ‘nun clothes.’ I just...” She paused. “I had surgery a few years ago and have a scar.”
“Seriously, are you embarrassed by something like that?”
“It’s not embarrassment. I just prefer to avoid questions about it or people looking at me with pity. It’s enough that they do when they find out I’m a Syrian refugee orphan.”
Anyway, I noticed something we had in common: the fact that we were both orphans. She had lost her parents, and I had lost my father and a brother.

I didn’t want to make comparisons between our lives, but I thought at least she had been lucky enough to find a good family to take her in afterward.
While I, as a child, had to become responsible for my sister and a mother who almost went completely mad.
At that moment, Iris came out of the room, taking my hand.
Before leaving, I decided to play the nice guy for once and give Aris some advice:
“You shouldn’t care about what people think. The scar is part of your body and your life story.”
“For a delinquent, you have wise advice.”
“It’s just that it’s too distressing to see someone wearing something so suffocating in this heat. Besides...” I lowered my voice, leaning my face close to her ear so only she could hear. “You know what they say about beauty needing to be shown, right? You in a low-cut top would be quite a sight.”
It was almost imperceptible, but I noticed a slight shiver on her skin when I said that.
Then, I stepped back, hand in hand with Iris, and headed to my car, which I had parked on the opposite side of the street.

“Can I sit in the front?” Iris asked.
“I don’t know why you keep insisting if you already know the answer. Kids sit in the back.”
“But I’m almost eleven.”
“And still the size of a nine-year-old. When you’re at least as tall as a ten-year-old, we can talk about it again.”
Sighing, she went to the back seat.
Iris had a knack for turning me into a different person over the time we’d been together. With her, I not only switched from a motorcycle to a car, but I also respected speed limits and used the seatbelt, trying to set a good example.
“Did you see my new teacher?” she asked on the way home.
“Didn’t you see me see?” I replied.
“She’s way cooler than Mrs. Odília. She has more patience with us.”
“That’s good.”
“And she’s really pretty. Don’t you think?”
“...Let’s just say she’s not ugly.”
Who was I kidding? Aris’s beauty affected me in countless ways.
Iris continued talking about the class until we finally arrived home. As soon as we walked in, I told her to go take a shower and do her homework. She hugged me, knowing I’d probably be leaving again soon.
Despite still officially living there, I barely spent time in that house. Its walls seemed to suffocate me, bringing back memories of everything I wanted to forget.
At that moment, the housekeeper entered the room, asking her usual question, even though she already knew the answer:
“Will you be staying for dinner, sir?”
“No, I’m going out.” I paused, preparing for the next question. “Is my mother at home?”
“In the office.”
“Has she eaten anything today?”
“I brought her breakfast, as I always do. But she didn’t go out for lunch.”
“Could you ask them to prepare another snack for her, please?”
“Yes, sir.”

She went to the kitchen, and I stood there for a few seconds, wondering if I should really do this.
Risking regret, I decided to go to the home office. I knocked twice on the door, and even without a response, I entered.
The scene I found was familiar. In front of the computer screen, my mother typed frenetically and didn’t seem to notice my presence.
She looked at least fifteen years older than her forty-eight, especially because she was getting thinner by the day. I could barely remember the last time I saw her smile. Iris probably had never seen it happen at any point.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, approaching the desk.
She glanced up from the computer briefly to look at me, then returned her attention to her work.
“Do you need anything?” she asked.
“No, I just came to see how you were.”
“I’m fine. ...Does Iris need anything?”
Like ‘a mother’?
Yes, she certainly did.
“No,” I replied.
She stopped typing for a moment, just long enough to light a cigarette. The office reeked of alcohol, caffeine, and nicotine, to an uncomfortable degree. Even for someone like me, who frequented places where those smells were constantly present.
“How’s college?” she asked, probably feeling obligated to ask something more personal.
And that was practically the extent of our personal interaction.
“I’m managing. I’m in no rush to graduate.”
“Just don’t take too long. Your father would want you to take over the family business.”