Like a Love Story(6)
They never mention that conversation, not even when I wear eyeliner or tank tops or dye my hair or blast Madonna so loud that our place sounds like a pride parade. They’ve basically chosen to ignore me, and I’ve chosen to make that hard for them. “I guess I’m just saying that I think someone should protest parents. Or maybe not, like, all parents. But someone should protest my parents.”
I finally shut up. And then the man with the fuchsia hair turns to me and says, “Gimme their address, and we’ll handle them.”
I sit down, my face hot and my hands shaky. I’ve been to a few of these meetings with Judy, but this is the first time I’ve spoken. Thankfully, the conversation is steered back to their next action. Six men are going to dress as traders, use fake badges, and infiltrate the floor of the New York Stock Exchange to protest the pharmaceutical company that is making AZT prohibitively expensive. As I listen, it suddenly hits me how hard being eloquent is, how angry I am, and how I have no idea how to be an activist. That’s when I raise my hand and stand up again. All I say is “I want to help.”
Stephen glares at me, but I stare him down. This is when it comes in handy that he’s not really my dad. I don’t need his permission. And nothing’s more important to me than ending AIDS. Yeah, it’s because I want to help people, and I don’t want to die before my time, and I’m filled with love for Stephen, and I’m inspired and swept up in the electric energy of this room. But it’s more. I don’t know how I’ll ever begin to live while this disease is raging. Who will love me when all they’ll see when they look at me is the possibility that I may kill them? Judy will meet someone eventually. She’ll probably have kids, be a famous designer, live in a fancy Upper West Side condo overlooking the park with her hot architect husband. And me . . . I’ll either die or be eternally single because guys are too scared of me. So what choice do I have but to do something about this?
“Art,” Judy whispers to me. “These things are dangerous. There are always cops . . .”
I ignore her. “Yeah, I want to help,” I say, more firmly this time. “Just tell me where to be.”
I don’t know how, but I know that this decision will change my life. I’m a little psychic sometimes. I see colors. I can’t describe it, but I know that in this moment, it’s like a bright-pink light shines around me, and it just feels right. I hand my camera to Judy. “Hey, take a picture of me,” I whisper.
“Why?” she asks.
“Just because,” I say. “I want to remember this moment.”
Judy
At first, I see only his eyes. They’re staring at me from above his long blue locker door. Brown doesn’t do justice to the color of these eyes. My eyes are brown. His are something else entirely. Other eye colors conjure up so many beautiful images. Blue eyes bring to mind deep oceans and endless skies. Green eyes bring to mind rolling fields of grass or ancient emerald stones. But brown doesn’t conjure much, does it? Mud. Dirt. Excrement. Pretty much describes my eyes. But his, they are more like the richest caramel ever created. They look like a vast desert, endless, beautiful, romantic, like some gorgeous Saharan desert, not that I’ve ever seen those places outside of some old Marlene Dietrich movie my uncle chose as one of our Sunday-night films.
Once my dull brown eyes manage to glance away from his caramel ones, I look down and see his bare feet, also caramel colored, with a few stray black hairs on each toe. So basically, I see the top of his eyes, one long locker, and bare feet, and I can’t help but think that maybe this mystery man is naked, and that behind that locker, he’s mooning our whole high school. His index toe is bigger than his big toe. I notice that right away because Art once told me that guys with an index toe longer than the big toe are supposed to be phenomenal in bed, or are going to be really rich. I don’t remember anymore. Art has a lot of theories and superstitions, like people with gaps between their front teeth are supposed to be geniuses, which he obviously thinks is true because he and Madonna have huge gaps between their front teeth. If I were Art, I would start spreading a theory that fat girls with avant-garde fashion sense and severe black bangs are the chosen people.
“You’re Judy, right?” the mystery man asks in a shaky voice, his mouth still hidden by the locker.
Wait, he knows your name, Judy. Maybe he traveled from a distant land to find you. But what will you wear for your wedding? Not some boring wedding dress. Maybe like a slip with an absurdly long veil.
I look up to his eyes (still perfect) and down to his feet (still perfect). Eyes. Feet. Eyes. Feet. Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned his hair: black, thick, wavy. I let my mind wander, imagining he really is naked behind that locker, and that soon he will reveal himself to me: body, heart, and soul. Art always says I’ll be the first to meet my soul mate, and I always say he’s totally wrong. But maybe he’s not. Art says he sees auras around people and things. I think he makes that up to seem interesting, but maybe not.
“Um, yeah, I’m Judy,” I say. “And who are you, naked man?”
Shut up, Judy. That wasn’t an internal monologue. He can hear you.
“I’m sorry?” he asks with a laugh, and now I notice his sexy accent.
“Oh God, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “It’s just that you’re not wearing any shoes, so from where I’m standing, it kind of looks like you might be naked behind there.”