Like a Love Story(31)

“Those aren’t people,” I say. “Those are downtown legends. I love downtown legends. I hate everyone we go to school with, except for you and Art.”

“I don’t know if I blame you,” he says. “They are mostly not very nice.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically, thinking of the terrible things I’ve heard said to him in the halls. “And usually Darryl Lorde is the ringleader.”

He nods in agreement. There’s a short silence, and then he says. “Judy, I’m sorry about your uncle.”

I tense up a little bit. I haven’t touched my salad, but now I start to nervously devour it. “Thanks,” I say, my mouth full.

“I don’t know if Art told you, but my father died.” His salad is still sitting there, wilting as he speaks. “It was strange because I hadn’t seen him in years. When he died, at first, I felt nothing. I just went about my day like nothing happened. My sister raged and screamed and threw things. I thought something was wrong with me. But it hit me much later. Like, a year later. And in some ways, I don’t know, maybe I still haven’t accepted it.” He waits a beat. I say nothing. Then he says, “That’s the most I have ever told someone about him. I . . . You make me feel like I can say anything to you.”

Uncle Stephen once told me that nobody can make you feel anything. If you feel it, it originates from you. “God, I’m sorry,” I say. “How did he . . . ”

“He just drank too much,” he says. “His liver . . .”

I’m filled with a sudden appreciation for my boring father, his accounting job, and his once-a-week glass of whiskey.

“I just wanted you to know,” he says. “I understand what it feels like to lose somebody important to you.”

I nod. Why is he so sensitive and cute? Who is this perfect? “Stephen’s lost so many friends. And then we lost his partner, José. That was hard. But I don’t think I’ll cope at all if Stephen goes. I just . . . I pretend it won’t happen, you know. I pretend he’s invincible.” I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. I think of the sweat pouring down his face earlier today. I gotta change the subject before I cry. “So what else did Art tell you about me?” I ask.

“Oh, he told me about the yellow roses,” he says. “And that you like ice cream.”

“And you remembered!” I say. “I mean, that’s just so . . . thoughtful.”

“I’m always thinking,” he says, and the way he says it makes me feel a little like he’s talking about something else, something that has nothing to do with me, or salad, or ice cream.

“What do you like?” I ask.

“I don’t even know,” he says. “I just . . . This is what scares me so much about you and Art. You remind me that I have no idea who I am.”

“You like Madonna,” I say.

He nods.

“Favorite song?” I ask.

He doesn’t even think. He immediately says, “‘Oh, Father.’”

“Mine is ‘Borderline,’” I say. “I know it’s an old one, but it just gets me. Like it’s about so many things. Borderlines are everywhere, between lovers, between straight and gay people, between countries.

“And by the way,” I continue, “I’m not one of those stereotype peddlers who think liking Madonna makes you gay. She’s an equalizer. Not to mention that men from other countries are so different. Art went to Italy and France with his parents, and he said that every man there seems gay. I’ve never left the country, but when I’m a designer, I’ll go everywhere. Maybe I’ll even move to Paris when Saint Mark’s Place is so gentrified that it sucks. I’d like to be in a place where all the men seem gay. A world of men who act gay, but who like women, and with delicious croissants everywhere!”

Shut up, Judy. You sound like a freak. Avoid culinary and homosexual topics immediately.

“Not that you seem gay at all, by the way,” I say quickly. “It’s just the Madonna thing.”

“I suppose I like what she has to say,” he says haltingly.

“Your dad died, so you were raised by a strong woman, and it sounds like your sister is intense, so two strong women in your home. It’s obvious why you’d like a strong woman like . . . Madonna.” I was about to say a strong woman like me, but what kind of conceited thing to say is that?

Change the subject, Judy.

“It was so nice of Art to tell you what I like,” I say. “He’s a really great friend.”

“Yes, he is,” he says. “A great friend, to you.”

The way he says to you has a sting to it. Maybe something did happen between the two of them. Maybe they just don’t like each other. But that can’t be a deal breaker. I can’t give this guy up because he and Art don’t like each other.

We talk for an hour, about his sister, who sounds badass and hilarious. She would often come home from clubs when Reza was waking up. About his mother, who must be tough as steel. It’s so obvious how much he loves her and wants to make her happy. I tell him about my parents, about how typical they are, and how they’ve sacrificed their lives to give me a life that I don’t even want. How fashion means so much to me. And Uncle Stephen—how without him, I wouldn’t even be me. I’d be someone named Ernestine Carol, or Carol Ernestine.