Like a Love Story(35)

I put my arm through the left sleeve first, and then the right. As I reach for the buttons, I realize they are gold. I was so focused on the colors and pattern that I did not even notice this detail. When I’m done, I look at myself in her mirror. I look like a new person, like a person who has a strong sense of self, like a person confident enough to stand out. The person in the mirror is who I want to be.

“You look like a rock star,” she says. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” I say. “Very much.”

She claps her hands together again, her excitement bursting out of her. She stands in front of me and takes my hands in hers. Her hands are so soft, and her nails are smooth and lacquered with her purple nail polish. She whispers, “I think you inspire me.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Maybe you’ll be the Marlene Dietrich to my Josef von Sternberg. I’ll surround you in beauty. I’ll design, and you’ll be my muse.”

“Maybe . . . ,” I say. She gets closer to me and I suddenly feel panicked. I know I’m supposed to kiss her. I’ve seen this in movies. She’s everything I want to want, and I hate that I don’t want her. I want magic powers that will turn her into Art. I want to kiss Art’s lips, smell his scent, see his bare chest again. I close my eyes and press my lips gently against hers.

She pulls her lips away from mine after a few seconds. “I’m excited to meet your family.”

“Me too,” I say. “Of course, you’ve already met Saadi.”

“Is he nicer at home than he is at school?” she asks skeptically.

“No,” I say.

She laughs, and the sound of it lifts me up. I love the life in her, the passion and the vision. I imagine this is what Madonna was like, back when she was our age. Bold and confident. Madonna would hate me, but she would love Judy.

Judy looks down at the pint of ice cream, melting into a soup. She picks it up and feeds me a spoon. “Finish it, please,” she says. “I don’t need it now that I’m done.”

“Maybe we can add some tahini dressing to it,” I suggest. “Tahini ice cream soup.”

“Stop,” she says playfully. “You’re driving my taste buds crazy.”

I slurp the ice cream like soup, which makes her smile. But there’s something melancholy in her gaze now, and taking her lead once again, I whisper, “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Like what if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m some unsophisticated American girl?”

“What?” I say. “Who would think that?”

“I would think that,” she says, revealing an insecurity I hadn’t known was there. “I do think that.”

“Judy,” I say softly. “You don’t think that. I know you don’t. You are . . . beautiful, and so cool, and so good.”

The capitalized words from Mrs. Bowman’s book cover seem to float above me and Judy like clouds, the word GOOD above Judy’s head, and the word BAD above mine. Maybe I do know who I am. Maybe I have found myself, as Americans like to say. I am BAD. I lie with every kiss. I lie with every touch and every gaze.

“Thanks for saying that,” Judy says.

“I’m not just saying it. I mean it.” I wish she understood how much I mean it, that despite all my lies to her, the most important truth is that I think she’s incredible, like sunshine in a dark world. And I wish she knew that her ability to even utter all these doubts out loud means she thinks highly enough of herself to respect the emotions inside her. I would never let my doubts leave the prison of my brain.

She takes my hand. “Hey,” she says. “Thanks for checking in.”

I have checked into her life, like a hotel room. I only wish that I could truly inhabit this room, untouched by my desires.





Art


We’re standing outside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, one of Andy Warhol’s favorite places in the city, and it’s as opulent, ornate, and glamorous as Warhol himself. It’s also a place of judgment and repression, and because of that, it makes no sense to me that Warhol loved it. It mystifies me that only two years ago, a memorial mass was held for him here, that its pews were filled not with gay haters and pro-lifers, but with Yoko Ono, Grace Jones, and Halston, with the freaks and goddesses from his Factory. Maybe this was Warhol’s personal fuck-you to the church, his way of telling them that he was so big and so powerful that his circus could invade their halls at will. Stephen was there for Warhol’s mass, not inside, but outside. He saw them all walk in, the fabulous people in their downtown twist on Sunday church couture. He thinks that despite his queerness and his celebration of those cast aside, what Andy wanted more than anything was acceptance by the God he still worshipped.

“Shall we go become one with God?” Stephen asks. Next to him are five activists, including many I recognize from the meetings and two I recognize from the New York Stock Exchange protest.

“Remember not to make a scene today,” a woman in a gray coat and jeans says. She has curly red hair and glasses. She’s not a member of ACT UP; she’s a part of another organization called WHAM!, Women’s Health Action and Mobilization, which is joining forces with ACT UP for this. “Today is just a chance to scope out the place, come up with ideas.”