Like a Love Story(52)

Say something, Judy.

“Um, okay, bye,” he says, and hangs up, leaving me with nothing but silence.





#63 High School


There may be no harder place to be queer than high school, a place of bullies and slurs, a place steeped in rituals of heterosexuality. Who’s dating who? Who kissed who? Who will be homecoming king and queen? Who will be your prom date? And you have to play along, because if you don’t, your difference has a spotlight on it.

I tried to play along. I took a girl to the prom. I kept my eyes on the locker room floors when other boys were changing. I talked about my crushes on the girls with the biggest breasts. Still they called me a fairy. Still they beat me up. Still they left notes in my locker that read “die, faggot.” And still my dad asked me why I didn’t just fight back.

But high school ends. Remember that, even when it feels eternal. And when it ends, there are places to go. The Village, Provincetown, San Francisco. Pockets of cities and towns where boys take boys to dances and dance their nights away, writhing their bodies against each other in a primal effort to shed all the trauma of their past. Places where girls settle down with girls, places where boys can dress like girls on the street and get high-fives instead of fists against their gorgeous faces. Maybe someday high school will change. Maybe someday there can be two homecoming queens, maybe someday girls can ask other girls to the prom, gay boys can enter locker rooms without fear. But if it doesn’t, then just remember that high school ends. And that there is another life waiting for you, over the rainbow.





Reza


It’s Sunday morning. The Sunday morning I have heard Art talk about with so much anticipation and excitement. The day of the church protest. It’s freezing outside, so bitterly cold I think my eyelashes will freeze as Tara and I walk to meet DJ Starburst for an early breakfast.

Once we sit down, I can’t stop staring at DJ Starburst. He’s undeniably good-looking, and clearly enamored of my sister. But he doesn’t look like he should be named after bright, gooey candy, with his long black hair, brooding eyes, and all-black clothing. At some point in the conversation, I have an idea that he should change his name—perhaps he could be a dark chocolate instead. Something like DJ Skor. But I don’t suggest it. Instead, I listen as the two of them relive their courtship for me.

“I was on the dance floor when we met,” Tara says, talking way too fast, like she’s still drunk from the night before. She snuck out last night. She does that a lot, and no one but me notices. “The music was so good. I think it was a remix of Duran Duran singing “All She Wants Is” with some house beat behind it, and I was freaking out. I looked up at the DJ booth to see who the genius was.”

“And the genius was me,” Starburst says in his Italian accent. He speaks deliberately, each syllable oozing charm. I can see what she sees in him, but I wonder if what my mom says about women you have fun with and women you want to marry applies to men. I wonder if Starburst is a man you have fun with.

“I think I blew him a kiss,” Tara says. “Did I blow you a kiss?” She looks at him coyly.

“You did. And it was like the strobe lights created a spotlight on you,” Starburst says, oozing lust for her. Then, turning to me, he says, “Your sister’s eyes were like lasers to my heart.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s so sweet.” Also, a little weird, but I’m trying to keep an open mind.

“I knew right then I could love her,” he continues.

“And I knew I could love him,” Tara says.

He kisses her, she kisses back. Their tongues are sloppy and passionate, and they are probably tasting each other’s breakfasts: eggs Benedict for him, blueberry pancakes for her with loads of syrup to sate her sweet tooth. I never kissed Judy like this. She probably wanted me to. I wonder what I would do if Starburst did to my sister what I did to Judy. Would I be able to forgive him?

“Obviously, I made my way up to the DJ booth to make a request,” Tara continues.

“She requested New Order,” he says. “Which made me realize not only was she beautiful, but she also has taste.”

“Then we basically made out for the rest of his set,” Tara says, with no hint of shame.

I force a smile. “Great,” I say, trying hard to act like I want to hear about my sister making out with a DJ all night.

And they don’t stop there. He reminisces about their first dates, their shared dreams, her promise that she would move to New York to be with him. She shows me a ring he gave her on their second date, metal with a small skull on it. He shows me a tattoo on his lower back, her name written in Farsi script. She says she was going to get a tattoo of his name but chickened out, too afraid of the needles. I feel grateful for that. I can only imagine how our mother would react if she discovered a tattoo on Tara’s skin. They make out again. I can taste their passion. It all seems so unbelievably fast. How can two people just look at each other through the glare of strobe lights and know they are in love? How can they be so sure? And if this is possible, is it possible for me?

“So?” Tara says, picking a blueberry out of her pancake and flinging it at my face.

“Ow,” I say, but I pick the blueberry off the table and eat it. I have barely touched my own omelet, my appetite a distant memory since I broke Judy’s heart.