You in Five Acts(31)

“So how do you two know each other?” Dad asked. I’d been so preoccupied with his pants situation that I’d failed to notice his scraggly five-day beard growth or the shirt he was wearing, a souvenir from the Jewish Museum in San Francisco, printed with the words YO, SEMITE under a picture of trees.

“We’re in Showcase together,” you said.

“The play,” I practically screamed.

“See, he doesn’t tell us anything,” Nana said. “Do you two play friends, or . . .” Her eyes twinkled.

“Strangers,” I said, before she could finish. It was like I could only speak in two-syllable barks designed to stop conversation in its tracks.

“We meet on a bridge under cover of darkness,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow. “At the turn of the century.”

“Interesting,” Pop-Pop said. “Do I know this play?”

“Nope, it’s an original,” you said. “This guy, Ethan, wrote it—” You kept talking, but I stopped listening. This guy. You didn’t call your boyfriend this guy. I floated silently to the ceiling.

You held court, with Dad and my grandparents in the palm of your hand. I remember watching them fall for you, all of them leaning in, warming themselves on your glow like you were a fire in the middle of winter. You told them all about growing up in the city—you lived just a few blocks from where Nana and Pop-Pop met at the Village Vanguard, which made them like you, and ID’d Thelonious Monk on the radio, which made them love you. You even handled awkward questions—“Are you Jewish?” Nana asked bluntly at one point, as if she could actually see the chuppah in the distance—with ease.

“Jew . . . ish,” you said wobbling your hand. The gold polish was gone, replaced with a dark, mossy green. Still bitten, though. For some reason that detail always stood out. It meant you had . . . I don’t know. Appetites, I guess. “My mom’s Puerto Rican,” you went on—hopefully not noticing my flop sweat—“so we eat pasteles at Pesach.”

“We’ll have to try that,” Pop-Pop chuckled. The conversation kept going like that until Dad gave me a super conspicuous nod of approval and I finally decided to call the game.

“So, do you, uh . . . want to run some lines?” I asked, standing up so fast I almost toppled the coffee table.

“Yeah, we should probably get to it,” you said. “It’s past two.” You held up your palm, which had D, Sun, 2pm written on it in purple ink. I must have looked confused, because you laughed and said, “Good thing one of us remembered.”

“We might need to get your head checked,” Dad laughed.

That’s not me, I should have said. I knew I would never forget a date with you. I knew it and I said nothing. All I wanted was to get you alone. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve the luck of you showing up on my doorstep out of the blue, but I wasn’t about to question it.

That was my first real mistake.

? ? ?


“Sorry about the mess.”

We were sitting on opposite ends of my air mattress, which made squeaky little farting noises every time we moved, giving me great motivation for my character being moved to swift and unexpected suicide.

“It’s really fine,” you said.

“We’re getting our own place soon,” I heard myself lie. “This one’s kind of small.”

“I like it. It feels like people really live here, you know?” You leaned back on your elbows, a loose tendril of hair grazing my pillow. “My house is like a museum.” You ran your fingers over Pop-Pop’s line of presidential figurines, standing guard at the headboard like a chorus line of historical chaperones.

“I remember it being more like a zoo,” I said, trying to find a casual place to put my hands.

You laughed. “That only happens when my parents go out of town. Like once a month.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Lucky.”

“I guess,” you said. “. . . It’s kind of lonely.” You looked at me sheepishly, the hint of a smile in your eyes. “I had like five imaginary friends.”

“So you’ve always been popular, then.”

“I wasn’t creative, though,” you said. “Their names were all Fifi. Fifi I, Fifi II, Fifi III . . .” You laughed and shook your head. “I had a harem of clones.”

“Mine’s worse,” I said. “I had an epileptic dog named She-Bo.”

“No!” You cracked up.

“Yup. And he was real.”

“She-Bo was a he?” You had to put down Millard Fillmore to wipe tears from your eyes.

“Genetically he was a he,” I said, grinning. “I don’t know how he self-identified.”

“Stop it, I’m dying.” You took a deep breath, but it failed to control your giggles. I’d never seen you so uncomposed. It was f*cking amazing.

“You’re—” You’re beautiful, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I was actually trying to keep friends.

“Hey.” You sat up straight, and your sweater slipped down over one golden shoulder. Your face was still flushed from laughing, your eyes warm, dark pools that I gladly would have drowned in if you’d asked me. Did you mean “hey,” or “heyyyyyy”? My heart beat wildly against my ribs.