Like a Love Story(12)

“Of course,” my mom says.

Before leaving the room, I give my mom and Abbas a kiss on each cheek and thank them for dinner.

I’m in my room reading The Odyssey, and I can hear the faint voices of Saadi and Art in the room next door. I can’t tell what they’re talking about, and although the subject matter of their conversation is probably restricted to the mundane details of their homework, I still want to hear everything. I try to refocus on the book, but I’m on page one of over two hundred, and I’m not exactly feeling focused. I think about my own odyssey, from Iran to Canada to New York. I find myself turning the page without even remembering a thing I have just read. I used to be a reliably good student, always capable of getting the straight As that my mother desired from me. But now, finding myself unable to read a single page, I wonder if maybe I was only good because I was compensating for my sister’s perpetual problems. If she hadn’t been around to scare me into behaving, would I have studied as hard, or tried as desperately to please my mom? I turn another page. I’m still not paying attention, even though I highlight a sentence or two in an effort to convince myself I’m still diligent.

Then the door opens. No knock. I assume it’s Saadi, but Art walks in, and I jump back in surprise.

“Whoa,” he says. “I’m not Freddy Krueger. You weren’t jerking off, were you?”

“Um . . . no,” I say. I hold up The Odyssey and push it toward him, just in case he has bad eyesight or something. “I was reading. For school.”

“I can see the book,” he says, laughing. “You can put it down now.”

I put the book down on my lap, using it to hide my growing erection. A few seconds pass, but they feel eternal. Finally, I ask, “Is there, um, something you need? From me?”

He sits on the edge of my bed and begins to unpack his book bag, removing the mess of items inside and laying them down on my floor. First, a bright-yellow Discman. Then his own copy of The Odyssey. Then a purple folder, and a white binder with a pink triangle sticker on it. Then some jelly bracelets. As he keeps riffling through his things, he peeks up at me.

“I was just wondering, what’s the deal with you and Judy?”

He pulls a few pins out and lays them on the carpet. I cannot take my eyes off one that reads ACT UP, FIGHT AIDS in block letters. “Sorry, what?”

“You,” he says, pointing his finger at me and pressing it into my chest. “And Judy.”

“Oh,” I say, a little terrified of him.

He doesn’t take his finger off my chest, and I try to push it away. But when I do, he grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it tight. “Don’t evade,” he says. “Because Judy’s my best girl, and I’m not interested in seeing her heart broken. So, if you’re not into her, move on now, okay? And if you are into her, then she loves going to the movies, especially revival houses. She can’t get enough ice cream—her favorite is mint chocolate chip. She lives for avant-garde fashion. And her favorite flowers are yellow roses, the brighter the better.”

He still has a grip on my hand, and I find myself getting harder. Very, very hard. I try to reposition myself to hide the damning evidence, but he still won’t let go of me. “Can you release me please?” I ask. But he doesn’t, and we end up struggling, our bodies circling each other until finally he lets go. I pull the covers over me, my breath heavy.

“Why are you so weird?” he asks. “You’re not like your brother, are you?”

“Brother?” I ask.

Art points his finger toward Saadi’s room. “Your brother. I call him and his friends ‘white hats’ ’cause they’re always wearing those dumb white baseball hats. It’s like code for ‘I’m a dick who’s afraid to sit too close to a fag.’”

“I do not, um, I don’t think you are supposed to use that word,” I say.

“What, fag? I’m allowed to use it,” he says defiantly. “Because I am one. Major fag. So major I’ve written a fan letter to Boy George and received a handwritten response. So major I’m joining the ACT UP protest of the New York Stock Exchange this month.” He rattles on and on before catching his breath and turning his attention back to his book bag. He pulls out a crumpled T-shirt. “There she is,” he exclaims. And in an instant, he takes his sweaty tank top off and he isn’t wearing a shirt. I try to look away, but I don’t. I’m too interested in his lean body, in the wisps of hair on his lower back, in the freckles on his shoulders. Then he throws the crumpled T-shirt on. “My advice for New York heat waves. Always carry a change of T-shirt and underwear in your bag.”

I imagine the extra pair of underwear in his bag and try my hardest to think of anything else. I think of my dad’s drunk rages. I think of my sister sneaking in late at night, of my mom crying. I think of my mom getting the phone call that my dad died, and of her sitting me and my sister down and telling us the news with glassy detachment. But in between all these thoughts is the same nagging question: what kind of underwear does he wear?

“I guess I’m gonna take off,” Art says. He puts his headphones on and stands up. “Hey, what do you think of the new Madonna album? It’s the shit, right?” Before I can answer, he says, “And don’t say you hate Madonna, because I don’t trust people who hate Madonna.”