Like a Love Story(70)

I can’t find an empty classroom, but I see the auditorium is open, so I rush in and take refuge in the costume room of the theater. No one will come in here this early in the morning. I can hear Art call my name. “Reza, stop!” he says as he catches up with me. He puts his arms around me. “They’re dicks,” he says. “You want me to beat them up for you?”

“No,” I say quietly. “You tried that once, and it was horrible.”

“But it felt so fucking good,” he says gleefully, like he’s already forgotten the pain of the blood and bruises on his face. “And it would feel even better doing it for you.”

“I don’t want hitting,” I say, looking into his glimmering eyes. “I want . . . kissing.”

“Well then, don’t just stand there,” he says, moving his lips closer. “Let’s get to it.” I shake my head, and smile, and kiss him. We’ve danced to “Vogue” so many times, always at Tara and Massimo’s place. That’s the only home we can be ourselves in. Massimo has all the remixes, and we all dance like lunatics. I’m a terrible dancer, but Art can move. He strikes poses like Linda Evangelista, his hand framing his head, his legs assuming frozen poses that look glamorous and athletic. We laugh. We sing along. We pretend we are Madonna, or her dancers, or Greta Garbo. I know everyone Madonna is singing about now. I know who Rita Hayworth is. I know how to give good face.

Art takes my hand. He holds it and kisses the tip of each finger. Then he takes my other hand, kisses each of its fingers. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say nervously. “We should go to class. We’ll be late.”

“I don’t think I do,” he says, ignoring me. “But I like the idea of it. Like what if we knew each other in a past life? What if we were Bonnie and Clyde? Or Cleopatra and Mark Antony? What if this isn’t the beginning of us, but just a continuation of something that started a long time ago?”

“You’re funny,” I say. “What if we weren’t extraordinarily famous people? What if we were just . . . normal?”

“Reza,” he says. He says my name with awe, like I truly am extraordinary. “If past lives exist, then we were epic people.”

“Okay, then I want to be Cleopatra,” I say, excited. He’s succeeded in getting me out of my head, into a fantasy.

He kisses the palm of my hand now. “And what would you wanna be in our next life?”

I don’t know what I would want to be, so I say the first thing that comes into my mind. “A fish maybe. It seems peaceful underwater.”

“As long as you’re somewhere far from sharks and oil spills,” he says. “But I like that idea. I’ll be a fish with you.” He sucks his cheeks in to make a fish face, and I follow suit. We mash our lips into each other, laughing. I briefly think of Judy, of those fish pins we wore.

“You want to practice putting condoms on each other tonight?” he asks with a mischievous smile.

“Where?” I whisper, as if there is anyone in here who can hear us.

“We could ask Stephen to use his place,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself that’s a rational idea. “Or your sister.”

“I am not asking my sister if she’ll let me have sex in her apartment!” I say, way too loud. “And let’s backtrack. I’m not ready to have sex at all.”

He makes a fish face again. “There’s no AIDS underwater, you know,” he says. “And even if there were, fish are immune.”

My heart beats fast. Everything seemed so right just a moment ago.

“I have a crazy idea,” Art says. “Let’s go get tested. Me and you, together.”

I look at him, confused. “Tested? For what?”

“What do you mean, for what? For HIV.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like he wants to sign us up for piano lessons.

“Why would we need to be tested?” I ask, incredulous. “We’ve never done anything! Have you ever done anything? I have never done anything!”

“No, I already told you,” Art says. “I’ve never had oral or anal . . .”

“And me neither,” I say. I hate those words. Oral. Anal. I hate how graphic they are, how hostile they feel. I sometimes wish sex could be like it is in old movies, a passionate black-and-white kiss and separate beds.

“Then we have nothing to worry about, Reza. We take the tests. They come back negative. And then we can do whatever we want. We could, you know, explore . . .” He trails off.

“Is the test 100 percent?” I ask.

“Reza, stop, just stop.”

“I don’t believe anything is 100 percent,” I say, my voice shaky. “The test may be wrong. Condoms could break. You heard Stephen. Even he said they can break. And even if neither of us has done anything with another man, maybe we got it some other way. Ryan White got it, and he was . . .”

“He was a hemophiliac,” Art says. “He had gallons of other people’s blood injected into his body. Have you had gallons of blood injected inside you?”

“No, of course not,” I say. “But the test is a blood test. What if the test itself gives you AIDS? What if they use an infected needle?”

“Reza, I’m trying to find a solution here,” he says, frustrated.