Like a Love Story(46)
Jimmy once told me that AIDS is like war. Governments and powerful people don’t give a shit because it’s not their kids being sent to the war. It’s not their kids dying. But I’m their kid, and I’m in this war. My classmates, however, are definitely not. They’ve all applied to colleges, and now they can relax, throw parties, experiment with drugs and alcohol, make out with random classmates they likely won’t see again for the rest of their lives. They’ve probably all applied to a handful of top schools, a handful of mid-tier schools, and one or two safety schools. I didn’t. I applied to two schools, Yale and Berkeley. One because I wanted to get my dad off my back. The other because it’s in the city I dream of living in: San Francisco.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught in a conversation with Mr. Horney about my Jane Austen paper,” Judy says, rushing in. She’s wearing a metallic silver trench coat she designed herself over her uniform, with that stupid dead fish pin on it. Judy and Reza have worn those ridiculous pins ever since their first date, like some weird symbol of their union. As if they want to remind me that I’m not a part of their private little heterosexual world, in which they’re blessed with Debbie Harry sightings and hand-holding and good-night kisses. “Is it over?” she asks.
“It never began,” I say bitterly. “No one showed up.”
“Seriously? I told Reza to show up.” She looks disappointed, but I can’t tell if it’s because nobody gives a shit about AIDS activism or because her boyfriend doesn’t give a shit. Her BOYFRIEND. She’s started calling him that.
“Well, he didn’t,” I say. “You don’t need to turn him into one of us, you know. He can, like, not care about the things we care about.”
Judy sits next to me. She places a hand on my knee and squeezes. “Do you think the school thought twice before hiring a teacher named Mr. Horney?”
I laugh. We’ve made fun of his name before, but it never stops being funny.
“Speaking of horniness,” I say, “are you getting some?”
Judy blushes a little but doesn’t take the bait. She tells me close to nothing about her and Reza. I don’t know if he’s a good kisser. Or if he’s felt her up. Has she seen him naked? Because if she has, I want a description. “Okay, we’re changing the subject,” she says. “Tell me what you’re taking pictures of lately.”
I tell Judy about my photo project, how I want to photograph activists but make them look like old movie stars.
“I love it,” Judy says, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Can I design clothes for them?”
“Obviously. Maybe it can be the first project of our school’s ACT UP affinity group, which, as you can see, is a group of two.”
“I’m in,” Judy says, and we start planning the shoots. For a moment it’s just me and Judy against the world again, and it feels great.
Then Darryl Lorde peeks his head into our room as he’s walking by with some friends, including Saadi. Every single one of them wears a white baseball hat and a sneer, but Darryl’s sneer seems extra cruel today. He’s a sadistic asshole and he’ll run the world someday, unless the rules of the world change. “Is this the fag meeting?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “But don’t worry, closeted fags are welcome too.”
“Oh, cool,” he says. “I’ll let your dad know if he hasn’t moved to San Francisco yet.”
“Wow,” Judy says. “So much wit.”
“You guys should be quarantined,” Darryl says.
“Move along, Darryl,” Judy says. “We’re having an official meeting.”
“You know you can’t start an official school group without a faculty sponsor and at least five students,” he says. “So stop plastering your propaganda all over the hallways, or the Young Republicans Club will have something to say about it. We have twelve members, you know.”
“Ooh,” I say. “You’re bigger than a football team and just as dumb.”
“We’re not the ones who’ll be dead next year.”
He says this so coolly, so matter-of-fact, that it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. The fact that I could be dead next year doesn’t even register as shocking to him in any way. It’s just another insult to throw my way. If I were dying on the street, he’d make some popcorn, kick his feet up, and enjoy the show.
His friends all chuckle their deep-throated straight-dude chuckles. Like my death is a sitcom and they’re its laugh track. Like the death of my mentors and fathers is funny. Saadi’s laughter makes me feel sick, knowing that Reza has to share a home with him.
“Hey, here’s an idea,” Darryl says. “Maybe you should just kill yourself now, save your parents the hell of watching you grow lesions all over your face.”
My blood boils. My fingers tense into a fist. Before I know it, I leap out of my seat and tackle Darryl to the ground, taking him down like I’m one of the gorgeous ladies of wrestling. “Go to hell, you fucking ASSHOLE!” I scream as he writhes below me, his scared, beefy body stronger than mine but unable to overpower the force of my rage.
“Get off me, fag!” he yells.
“Not until I give you AIDS,” I say, and I spit on his face. I don’t know why I say or do that. I know I don’t have AIDS. I know that if I did, I couldn’t give it to him by spitting on him. But right now, I want nothing more than to be able to give this prick and every homophobe out there this disease. They deserve it. THEY should be quarantined. Judy screams for me to stop, but I ignore her. I scream that I’ll give him AIDS at least five more times.