Like a Love Story(7)
I sound like an idiot, but what else is new? This is why I limit my conversation partners mostly to Art and Uncle Stephen. I know they’re not going to judge me no matter what lunacy comes out of my mouth. And yeah, I have parents. And yeah, they judge me, usually silently or through annoyingly supportive suggestions about how I could slim down. For the record, my parents have female baldness and cancer all over their family trees, so a little extra weight is the least of my problems.
He closes the locker door and reveals he’s very much not naked. Oh well, that fantasy is over. But he’s also definitely not wearing our school uniform. His khaki shorts and white polo shirt are appropriate for the September heat wave, but most definitely inappropriate for this prisonlike school my parents choose to send me to, even though it’s killing them financially.
“My stepbrother told me this was the uniform,” he says. “Luckily, I brought tennis shoes for gym class, so I was just putting my sandals away.”
That’s when I notice that in addition to the aforementioned, and very hot, Middle Eastern accent, he also has a weird choice of words. “We call sandals flip-flops here,” I say. “And we call tennis shoes sneakers.”
He nods as he ties the laces of his white sneakers. “Thank you, Judy.”
I let myself imagine bending over and tying his shoelaces for him, massaging his legs in the process. God, I’m a perv. Art always says that straight people are ultimately much pervier than gay people, and if we were the only variables in the sample set, he’d probably be right. Art has a dirtier mouth, but I have dirtier thoughts. I have to—there’s no way other people’s brains are this gross. I mean, I’m seriously picturing myself rubbing this guy’s thighs right now.
“Hey, so how do you know my name, mystery man?” I ask, attempting flirtation, but the minute the words escape my lips, I realize I probably sound pathetic bordering on creepy.
“Oh,” he says. “They sent me this.” He pulls out a yearbook from his locker.
“And you actually studied it?” I ask. I haven’t looked at our yearbook since sophomore year, when me and Art went through and rated all the guys together, hating ourselves for giving tens to all the biggest assholes, like there was an actual correlation between a guy’s dickishness and hotness.
He nods. I don’t mean to make him feel bad. I hope I didn’t.
“I don’t remember everyone, but you stood out.”
Of course you did. You’re the only fat girl in there.
“So, um . . . ,” I stammer, trying to make scintillating conversation and failing. “What’s your name? I haven’t studied the book like you.”
“I’m Reza,” he says. “I’m not in the book yet. There wasn’t time to include me. I just moved here from Toronto, by way of Tehran.”
“You didn’t wanna move to Tokyo next?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem to get the joke. “You know, cities that start with T.”
“Oh,” he says. “I understand.”
If this were Art, we’d be riffing by now, listing off every T city we knew. I search for something else to say. “Well, I wish my picture was cuter. I look like a girl who cut her own bangs in a sad attempt to look like Louise Brooks but achieved Cousin Itt instead.”
“Judy?” Reza says quietly, and when I look up, he asks, “What are bangs? And who is Louise Brooks? And Cousin Itt?”
I laugh. “Bangs,” I say, pointing to my forehead, “are this ugly shape my hair makes on my forehead, which was both an attempt to cover up my forehead acne and an effort to look like Louise Brooks, a silent-film star of the 1920s who never made it in talkies. And Cousin Itt is a hairy creature from the television show The Addams Family.”
I can tell he wants to ask me what talkies are. That’s definitely a question I asked my uncle a while ago, but he just says, “You look good.”
I don’t say anything, because I’m freaking out inside. A beautiful boy just told me I look good. I need to seal this deal before some skinny girl scoops him up from under me.
Other kids are zipping past us, going to class, gossiping about their summers, and yet it’s like Reza and I are all alone. He has a weird quality about him. A calmness. He speaks softly, chooses his words carefully. It’s disconcerting and exciting, maybe because I’m so used to being around Art, who spews words from his mouth like an active volcano.
“Perhaps you can cut my hair someday,” he says.
“First of all, I won’t touch your hair ’cause it’s perfect,” I respond. “If Rob Lowe’s hair follicles and a perfect ocean wave had a baby, they would birth your hair.”
What the hell is wrong with you, Judy? Why are you talking like this?
“And second of all, my attempt at cutting my hair was disastrous, so my uncle fixed it. If I look halfway normal, it’s because of him. Okay, what’s your first class?” I ask Reza. He takes his schedule out of his pocket and hands it to me. “We both have English with Tompkins first,” I say. “Follow me.”
But before we can start down the hallway, Art rushes toward me frantically, his face obscured by a winter hat, which is an odd choice for a sweltering September heat wave. When he’s uncomfortably close to me, he takes the hat off, revealing hair dyed a strange shade of lavender that wouldn’t look out of place on the mane of a My Little Pony. “How bad is it?” he demands.