Like a Love Story(20)

This, in case anyone in the room missed it, is my mother telling me not to open the freezer because that’s where my comfort resides. I open the fridge. I unlatch the Tupperware. I stare at the beet salad. The beets do look beautiful. That color would make a nice fabric. Then I remember I need to get into a creative zone. And only one thing helps with that. I take the pint of ice cream, pull a spoon out of a drawer, and head back to the room. “Have a great book club, everyone.” My mom gives me a miffed look. Maybe it’s about the ice cream. But just in case, I say, “I’m sorry about what I said, Mrs. Wood. I would never laugh about what you went through. And thank you for sharing that experience with me.”

My mom smiles, impressed.

“Apology very much accepted, sweetie,” pink pastel says. “I’m happy this was a learning experience for you.”

I force a smile and squeeze the ice cream container hard as I head into my room. It’s frozen, but I manage to dent it a little with the force of my grip. They go back to discussing habit number five. Except they made no effort to understand me at all. They just shamed me into apologizing and learning.

The ice cream works. It does every time. I don’t know what I’ll do if ice cream ever stops working. I guess I’ll have to experiment with other desserts to fuel creativity. Eclairs, maybe. Or plain whipped cream. Joey Baker brought an empty can of whipped cream to school once to suck the air out of the can. Sadly, that is indicative of the male population at our school. And believe it or not, I once had a crush on Joey because he was weird and different and really good at science, and because next to homophobes like Darryl Lorde and Saadi Hashemi, he was a prize. But Reza seems so different. It’s almost like this country has just lost it when it comes to raising decent guys. They’re either homophobic or self-involved or they suck on cans.

I spend the afternoon at the sewing machine. I’m inspired, and in some kind of zone. I put the latest Madonna in the CD player. Art’s obsessed with her. I love her too, though sometimes I wish she’d remained kinda pudgy like she was in the beginning. Overall, I think I prefer Debbie Harry, ’cause she’s stayed true to her downtown roots, whereas Madonna seems all about conquering the mainstream. I won’t care about the mainstream when I design. I’ll be happy just designing for the freaks. But no concerns about Madonna’s thinness or mainstream cred is gonna stop me from listening to Like a Prayer ad nauseam, because it’s undeniably brilliant. That song she sings with Prince comes on. It’s called “Love Song.” As I sew, I think that this would be my dream. To someday have a guy like Reza who loves me, and supports me, and dances to love songs with me. And to be a wildly successful fashion designer who makes clothes that people like Prince and Madonna wear.

My mother enters right after I put the outfit on. It’s turned into a bright-yellow dress, which I pair with black-and-white striped leggings and a chunky black necklace Art got me for my birthday last year. “You were hard at work,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was a good day.” I would ask her opinion, except I know that if she’s in an honest mood, she’ll say I look like a circus clown, and if she’s in a conflict-averse mood, she’ll tell me I look great! in a fake voice indicating that she’s lying.

“Maybe you’ll design something for me someday,” she says brightly.

“Maybe . . . ,” I say. “It’s just . . . I don’t think you’d wear anything I design.”

“It would be like a commission,” she says, annoyed I’m not playing along. “You would have to design something that fits the client. In this case, me.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, I have a style. A look.”

My mom sighs. I exhaust her. “You know, even some of the biggest designers do custom orders. What if Jackie O. called you tomorrow? Would you tell her she has to dress just like you, or would you make her something classic and beautiful?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “Can I answer that question when Jackie O. actually calls?”

My mom shrugs and smiles. “Sweetie,” she says, as she sits on my bed. Uh-oh—when she begins a sentence with Sweetie, something is up. “You do understand why I don’t tell people what Stephen has.”

“It’s so stupid,” I say. “I’m sure they all know. He’s been on the news protesting. Twice.”

“They’ve never met him,” she says. “They don’t know what he looks like.”

“There are pictures of him all over the living room!” I argue.

Then we both just look at each other with the kind of sadness that makes me want to bury myself somewhere, because we both know that the Stephen in the picture frames and the Stephen on the news look nothing like each other.

“It’s just . . . it’s just easier this way,” she says. “And he does have cancer. Kaposi’s sarcoma is cancer.”

“I know that,” I say. “It’s just . . . if no one dies of AIDS, then how will the shame ever go away?”

“But so many people die of AIDS,” she says. “Rock Hudson died of AIDS!”

“And he was outed because of it,” I say. “Not exactly a poster child for gay pride.”

“Stephen is sick,” she says. “I don’t understand why we have to politicize it.”