Like a Love Story(48)

“I thought we were friends,” Reza says.

“No, we were just saying that to make Judy feel better. But it’s obvious we’re not. You didn’t show up to my meeting. You’re too scared to come close to me right now. You stood there while your brother’s buddy tried to kill me.”

“He’s not my brother,” Reza says. “And I didn’t come to the meeting because I was . . .”

“Studying?” I ask.

He nods.

“You’re always studying when Judy hangs out with me. You’re always studying when we have movie nights. Not that I want you there. It’s our thing. It’s our tradition, like those fish pins are yours. You should never have been invited in the first place.”

“Art, come on,” Judy says.

“No, he’s scared of me. Of us. Look at him. He’s scared of getting too close.” I grab Judy’s hand and thrust it toward Reza. “Hey, your girlfriend has my blood on her fingers. You scared she has IT?”

“Art, stop!” Judy demands.

“Fine, I’ll stop,” I say. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving where?” she asks. “It’s the middle of the day. We have class.”

“What are they gonna do, expel me?” I know I sound like an ass, but I don’t care. My wrath knows no boundaries right now. I want to lash out at everyone and everything that doesn’t understand me, at everyone and everything that isn’t queer, and yeah, maybe that even includes Judy. I want to erupt, to explode, and then to be reborn in a new world where I don’t have to feel different every day, a world where our blood is immune to infection.

I exit the school into the cold air, and it hits my face like a slap. The pain is still there, and as I walk the streets, I can feel people’s eyes on me. I walk. And I walk. And I walk. To the only place where I might possibly feel at home right now.

When he opens the door, he’s wearing one of his kimonos and he looks like he’s been sleeping and sweating. The concern in his eyes softens my anger. His hand on my face makes me cry. “What happened?” he asks.

“I . . .” But I can’t seem to get a word out. I just cry. He pulls me into his arms and closes the door behind us, and I sob onto his silk kimono, probably destroying it.

“Shh,” he says. “It’s okay.” He strokes my hair. I can feel the clamminess of his hands on my skin—he has a fever. He smells metallic from all the medication he takes. “It’ll all be okay,” he says.

“How can you say that?” I ask. “José is dead. Everyone who’s good in this world is dead or dying. The world is ending. Our world.”

He doesn’t say anything. He leads me to the couch and sits me down. He leaves for a moment, then returns with a warm, wet cloth and an ice pack. He holds the cloth to my face, carefully wiping the dried blood from my lips and my cheeks. Then he holds the ice to my lips. “You’ll be okay,” he says.

“Why am I so angry?” I ask. “What do I do with all this anger?”

“Not whatever you just did,” he says. “What did you do?”

“I jumped a kid who called me a faggot at school,” I say.

Stephen nods. He moves the ice to the other side of my face. It chills me and makes me feel better. “We need to be better than them,” he says.

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Because we have no choice. We’re held to different standards.”

“He cracked my camera lens,” I say.

“I can buy you a new lens,” he says.

“No,” I say. “No.” I lift my camera. I point it at Stephen and manipulate it until his face is in focus. The crack in the lens shows up in the viewfinder, like a thunderbolt from above that cuts his face in half. It makes the image look like it was attacked. I snap a photo. “I’ll keep it for now. I want to photograph you and your friends if you’ll let me. I’ll make you beautiful. But there will be a crack in each image, so everyone knows. So everyone remembers that we’re under assault.”

He smiles. Nods. He gets me.

“On one condition,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“No more beating people up, not even the worst homophobes.”

“Deal,” I say.

We shake on it. Then we put on Cover Girl, an old Rita Hayworth and Gene Kelly musical. Stephen says he needs something candy colored and optimistic, but he falls asleep almost as soon as the movie starts. His breathing is labored when he sleeps, like he’s gasping for air. I watch the movie to the end. Rita plays a singer who performs in her boyfriend’s nightclub. She gets discovered and almost chooses fame and money over love, but in the end she chooses love. I decide there’s nothing optimistic about it. What’s optimistic about other people falling in love?





Judy


I know that dressing like Madonna won’t make me look like her, or allow me to magically turn men on the way she does, but I decide that the time has come for me to inspire Reza to do something more than kiss me. Art’s parents invited my parents to go see City of Angels tonight, which means Reza and I will have my place to ourselves. No mom offering him tea and talking to him about her fascination with Persian rug patterns. No dad asking him to play racquetball with him sometime, and telling him how proud he must be of his fellow Iranian Andre Agassi. No book club. Just a boyfriend and a girlfriend in an apartment free of parents. So that’s why I’m making myself lingerie, inspired by the slip and garter Madonna wears in the “Express Yourself” video. If Reza likes her, then I’ll turn into as close an approximation as I can manage. I can be sexy. I can writhe around the room wearing next to nothing, lick milk out a bowl like a kitty, do whatever it takes to turn him on. It’s been two months now, and I’m ready. I’m ready to feel his skin against mine. I’m ready to put all those lessons about how to use a condom to use. I mean, what’s the point of education if the knowledge is never implemented? I don’t even eat ice cream as I design. I don’t need it this time, since I’m basically copying an existing outfit in my size. All I need is skill, which I have, and a body, which I have. When I’m done, I try it on and stare at myself in the full-length mirror. I don’t look like Madonna, but I look hot. And if I love myself, then others will love me too. That’s what Uncle Stephen told me once.