Like a Love Story(45)

“Oh,” I say. Judy hasn’t mentioned it. She doesn’t talk about Art a lot when she’s with me. And then, repeating the response everybody at school says to any question, I say, “Cool.”

“Then my parents are taking me skiing in Aspen, which’ll suck, but whatever. My real holiday is going to be that protest. What about you?”

“We are going to Miami,” I say, wishing Miami was closer to Aspen.

“Miami!” Art repeats with excitement. “There’s a nightclub there that Madonna goes to all the time. I’ll get the name of it. You have to go look for her.”

Art thinks I’m the kind of person who goes to nightclubs, the kind of person who looks for Madonna at places other than newsstands and record stores and MTV.

“Um, yeah, we’re totally going to that nightclub,” Tara says. She’s standing a few feet away from us now. She approaches me and puts an arm around me. “I love our room. Who knew my little brother was a Madonna fanatic?”

“I like her,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Like her?” Tara parrots. “You have her plastered all over your room. You have every record she’s ever released in there, including some European and Japanese editions of singles.”

A moment passes between Tara and Art, a glance, a wordless conversation.

“I should go,” Art says. “But it was nice to meet you, Tara. And in case you don’t already sense it, your new stepbrother wants to bone you, so be careful.”

“No shit,” Tara says. “But thanks for the warning.”

“I’m brutally honest,” Art says.

“Oh my God, me too,” Tara says.

They hug each other goodbye, and I can hear Tara whisper something in Art’s ear before he leaves, but I don’t know what. I wish I knew, but I’m too afraid to ask.

When Art is gone, I can feel his absence. I am at once deflated and relieved. Tara pulls me in close and leads me toward our room. We collapse on the bed together, lie next to each other just like we used to when we were little. She would talk, I would listen. “Hey, I want to tell you something,” she says.

“Okay.” I look away from her, at my wall, at that poster of Madonna and the HEALTHY shirt.

“I wasn’t on that flight today. I’ve actually been in New York for a few days already. I drove here with my new boyfriend. He’s a DJ. He spins house music at this club in Toronto, and he wants to make it in New York. There’s no music scene there.”

“Tara, what are you talking about?” I ask. “Aren’t you going back for college in January?”

“Hell, no!” she says. “Are you kidding? When you meet Starburst, you’ll understand.”

“His name is Starburst?” I ask. I’m trying not to sound like my mom would.

“It’s a DJ name. His real name is Massimo, which is the hottest name ever. He’s Sicilian and unbelievably sexy. And he got himself a one-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen that I plan on moving into as soon as I tell Mom about him. So you won’t have me as a roommate for long.” She takes a breath. “I really want you to meet him.”

“Tara, are you sure . . .” I don’t finish the question.

She turns me so we are facing each other. “Listen to me, baby brother. When you’re in love, you’ll do anything for it. You’ll see. That’s why people write songs about how mountains aren’t high enough and rivers aren’t deep enough to keep them from the person they love. It’s so powerful.”

“I know. I have a girlfriend,” I say.

“Mom told me,” she says. “Are you in love with her?”

The way she asks the question, I know that she knows the answer. Tara sees me, and maybe she always did. I let the question linger in the air. I lie next to my sister, thinking that I don’t love Art either. If I did, I would do anything to be with him. I would climb mountains, swim rivers, risk disappointing my mother, jeopardize her new marriage, accept the possibility of catching a deadly disease. Maybe I’m not brave enough for love.

When I open my eyes, my sister sits cross-legged next to me, staring down at me. “So,” she says, “the art in this house was cute.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“There’s one piece of art in particular that I thought was adorable,” she says. She looks at me with bulging eyes, her neck craning toward me like a chicken.

“Oh, I get it,” I say. “We’re speaking in code.”

“Are we?” she asks. “Did you think the Art was cute? I think maybe you did.”

I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. I just nod and stare at the ceiling, thinking there’s room for more Madonna posters up there, then imagining that Art will crash through the ceiling like an angel, a messenger from a place where only he knows my name.





Art


I put flyers all over the school but not a single person shows up. They have the pink triangle on them, advertising the first lunchtime meeting of a new school club, our very own ACT UP affinity group. I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t expect crowds of lacrosse players to swarm through the doors, but a stray theater geek would’ve been nice, or a fashionista or two, or maybe even a supportive teacher. At least a few freshmen, sophomores, and juniors looking for something on their college applications that would make them appear more compassionate than they are. For our class, college applications are already in, so there’s no reason for anyone to take on a new extracurricular activity unless they actually care about it, and I guess no one in the senior class other than me and Judy, who should be here by now, cares about the countless people dying in our very own city. But they’re all just strolling down the hallway, acting all carefree and happy like there isn’t a war raging outside these halls.