Like a Love Story(59)

“Yeah, he’s given me a community,” I say.

My dad shakes his head. “You’re too young to have a community. At your age, all you have is a family.”

“QUEERS!” I yell at him. “We’re queers, Dad, and we have a community. We’re there for each other.”

“Is this because I didn’t love you enough?” my mom asks, approaching me. She clutches onto my arm and whispers urgently. “Because I could love you more. I did my best, but I could do better. I could help you.”

“Don’t you get it, Mom? Loving me more won’t make this go away. Loving me more would mean accepting me.” My voice cracks. I hate that I still want their approval, will probably always want it. “That’s the only way for you to love me more, Mom.”

“We are doing this because we love you,” my dad says. “I understand you don’t see that now. But someday you will. And you’ll thank us. And it’s okay for you to think of us as the enemy right now. That’s the job of parents sometimes.”

“I have to get out of here,” I say. “I feel so suffocated.”

“You’re grounded,” my dad says sternly.

I laugh in his face. “I can’t be grounded, Dad, because you don’t control me. Life is short, and I’m going to live mine.”

“Life is not short,” my dad says. “It’s longer than you think, and the things you do at your age have consequences. Getting arrested, not going to a great college, you’ll see, all these decisions and moments add up.”

I know they do. That’s what I’m counting on.

And I also know about consequences of my actions. I don’t regret the protests, or the arrest, and I don’t regret being with Reza now. But I regret having lied to Judy. Today was, in a way, as close to perfection as I’ve ever had, but one thing was missing: Judy. I don’t even know who I am without her friendship, and I need to go see her, to make her understand, to earn her forgiveness.

“I’ll see you later,” I say to my parents.

“Art,” my mom yells out to me as I’m halfway out the door.

I turn around, exasperated, giving her my best what is it? look.

“Don’t forget your scarf and hat,” she says. “It’ll be freezing out there at night.”

“Let him freeze,” my dad says. “Let him see there are consequences to his choices.”

My dad walks into their bedroom and slams the door. My mom grabs my scarf and hat from the couch. She gently places the hat on my head, then folds the scarf in half and loops it in the front the way she likes to. I suddenly feel like her little boy again, the one she would dress in cashmere scarfs. I remember the wonder she had back then, how often she would tell me how lucky we were. She was raised with so little, and now she had everything. She had me.

“Mom,” I say, my voice barely audible.

“It’s okay,” she whispers haltingly. “You don’t need to say anything. You and your father are both stubborn men.”

“Mom, I think . . . I . . . I think I like a boy.” I let out a sigh. I don’t know why I open up to her, but I’m caught up in the moment. “And I think he likes me, too.”

“Oh, Art,” she says, backing away from me like I just slapped her in the face. I want her to hold me, ask me about him, something. Instead, she says, “I can’t hear about this. Please. I can’t.”

I turn from her and leave. Why do I try? Why do I leave myself vulnerable to feeling this deep hurt? And is that exactly what I’m setting myself up for by walking to Judy’s house now?

I could close my eyes and walk the path to Judy’s house. I know every store on the way, every trash can, every flaw in the concrete of the sidewalks, every doorman. I’ve walked this path countless times, each time knowing that at the end of the yellow brick road, Judy would be waiting for me with open arms. This time, each step is tentative, filled with unease, my feet taking a few extra seconds with each ascent and descent.

I knock on the door. She must recognize my knock by now. I recognize hers. She knocks in twos, a firm tap-tap each time. I always know when it’s her. I can smell her when she’s near me in the hallway. I swear I always know when it’s her on the phone, like even the ring sounds different.

The door opens. Stephen answers it. “Art,” he says. He looks me in the eye, and just that small gesture makes me feel a little better. Maybe he doesn’t despise me. “It’s good you came.”

Judy stands behind him, in the arms of her parents.

“Hey,” I say.

She shakes her head at me in disbelief, with the same look of disappointment that Cardinal O’Connor had when the protesters started screaming today, the same look my mom gave me when I told her I liked a boy. Except this time, I deserve the contempt. I deserve every single dagger her eyes throw at me. I didn’t feel like a criminal when I was arrested, but I do now.





Judy


I hate the way my body is shaking. I wish I could stop it. My mom and dad each have an arm around me, and I can feel their hands squeezing me, steadying me. I try to pinpoint what exactly I’m feeling. Is it anger, fear, sadness, or as is often the case on an SAT question, “all of the above”?

“Hey” is all he can think of to say.