Like a Love Story(23)

I’m staring at my new purchases as I get ready for Judy’s movie night. Two posters of Madonna now hang on my wall. In one, she’s in a wedding dress, the words “Boy Toy” on her belt. In the other, she has her arm raised suggestively, a cross dangles from her neck, and her cutoff shirt reads “HEALTHY” in block letters. I decided on this one because that’s what I want to be. Healthy. Forever. There’s one more purchase, and I am wearing it. It’s a T-shirt with a decal of Madonna’s face on it. I love it.

A knock on the door startles me as I assess my new look and the posters I just hung on the wall. My mother enters. “Wow,” she says. “Did you go shopping?”

“It is, uh, just . . . I’m not used to having an allowance, so I used it.” I feel myself trying to sound relaxed and failing.

My mother gets very close to the HEALTHY poster. “Why does she have to show her armpit?” she asks. “A bit vulgar, no?”

“I like it,” I say.

She looks at me with a smile, then runs a hand through my hair. “My first crush was Alain Delon. He was a French actor. Gorgeous. I would rip his photos from magazines my aunt brought back from France and put them on my wall.” She smiles again, lost in memory. “I just hope the woman you marry will not be showing her armpits and her belly button all the time. You will discover all this soon enough, but there are women you have fun with and women you marry. Madonna is a woman you have fun with.”

What I want to say is . . . and there are women you want to be.

The doorbell rings. “Who is that?”

“Oh, right, that’s why I came in,” she says. “The doorman called and said your photographer friend is here.”

“Is he studying with Saadi?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. The doorman said he was here to see you.”

My heart. It seems to be bouncing inside my body, hitting the edges of me in different locations, until it sinks into my stomach and stays there. I don’t move.

“I can answer it,” my mom says. And she’s gone. To open the door. For Art. Who is here to see . . . me?

I can hear them from within my room, saying their obligatory hellos, and my mother giving Art a kiss on each cheek. Last time, it was a handshake. “Reza is in his room,” she says.

I hear the stomping of his platform shoes getting closer and closer. I close my eyes and tell myself not to act as scared as I feel.

“Hey” is all he says when he comes in. His camera is, as always, dangling from his thin neck.

I say, “Hey.”

And then he sees the posters, and my shirt, and he says, “Whoa.”

“What?” I ask, wondering if we will only speak in one-word sentences.

He lifts his camera to his eye, adjusts the focus, and snaps a photo of my posters.

“Have you joined the fan club yet?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“You should,” he says. “You get a magazine in the mail. And you get dibs on concert tickets and stuff like that.”

“Cool,” I say, still trying desperately to sound normal.

“Since we’re both headed to movie night, I figured I’d swing by and get my backpack. Then we can go together.”

“Oh, of course,” I say, and I pull the book bag from my closet and hand it to him.

He unzips it and peeks inside. He pulls out the notecards and breathes a sigh of relief, then puts them back in. “Thanks for taking care of it,” he says. “There was actually something really important in here.”

“Oh,” I say, maintaining what I hope is a very innocent expression. “What?”

“Just, um, study cards,” he says. “But you know, they’re the only ones, so if I lose them, I fail.”

“At what subject?” I ask.

“Life,” he replies with a crooked smile.

I look down. I realize the number of sins I have committed since moving to New York is mounting. I snooped in his bag. I stole from my stepfather. And now I lied to Art. Though of course, I have lied to him before. I pretended it was a coincidence I was outside the protest, which was a ridiculous charade. I was drawn to it because I had heard him discuss it. I had to be there. I try to convince myself that the city made me steal and lie and snoop, but I know that’s not true. And I don’t feel bad either. What I feel right now is not guilt; it’s disappointment that I read only a few of those notecards. I should have read them all before he surprised me like this. Well, all except the ones about AIDS. I want to know more, but I’m still too scared.

“So should we head?” he asks. “Stephen might pick some three-hour movie, so we don’t wanna be late.”

We say goodbye to my mom, who is watching the giant television with Abbas, wrapped in a cashmere blanket. She looks so relaxed, like she has aged backward. I wonder what she would be like if she had married a man like Abbas to begin with.

The air outside is still hot as we begin our walk. New York is very good at controlling the temperature inside, but once you are outside, you are battling the elements. The mugginess makes me sweat a little bit, which only makes my nerves worse, which then makes me sweat more. “See,” he tells me, “I told you to pack an extra shirt. How many Madonna shirts did you buy?”

“Just one,” I say.