Like a Love Story(83)

“Well, go ahead, Reza,” Mrs. Bowman says. “You’d think my brother would know that surprises just give me knots in my stomach.”

I tear open the envelope and tickets fall out onto the floor. Six of them. I pick them up and stare at them, and my eyes zero in on a single word: Madonna. And then: Blond Ambition Tour. Capital Centre. Landover, Maryland. My heart races.

“Oh. My. God,” I say in disbelief.

“And by God, you mean Madonna,” Art says, wrapping his arms around me with excitement. “Holy shit, holy shit!” he adds for emphasis.

“Bartholomew, language,” Mrs. Bowman scolds him.

“I can’t believe it,” Judy says, beaming. I can see her fighting against her excitement, not wanting to seem too happy in front of us. “We’re going to see Madonna. Live. In person. Like, she’ll be in front of us.”

“Breathing the same air,” Art adds.

For a moment, we’re united in our joy. Then Mrs. Bowman looks over to Jimmy. “Is the show appropriate for children? Wasn’t she just arrested in Canada for . . .”

“Mom,” Judy says, annoyed. “She masturbates onstage, big deal.”

Mrs. Bowman flinches. And then, with a shrug, she says, “Well, at least masturbation is safe sex.” I could not agree more.

“Guess that means we’re all going to see Madonna!” Judy squeals.

Art hugs me, jumping up and down with excitement. “We’re. Going. To. See. Madonna.” He says each word like it deserves its very own punctuation mark.

Art, Judy, and I start singing, We’re going to see Madonna, we’re going to see Madonna . . .

Jimmy, amused, takes the tickets back and hands one to each of us. We realize that the sixth ticket won’t be used. It’s Stephen’s ticket, and Jimmy suggests that we find a nice queen to give the ticket to outside the show.

The venue is mobbed when we get there. So many people, mostly women and gay men. Madonna T-shirts everywhere. Jelly bracelets. Girls with their bras on over their T-shirts. Boys in blond wigs with a long ponytail reaching down their spines. Desperate fans asking anyone if they have an extra ticket. As we try to decide who to give the ticket to, Art says, “Imagine playing Count the Fags here. The game would never end.”

“What did you say, Bartholomew?” Mrs. Bowman asks.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just a game that we . . .”

“There’s nothing funny about using a word like that,” she snaps back before Art can finish. The edge in her voice reminds me that Mrs. Bowman is as angry at me and Art as Judy is. She is Judy’s mother, her protector.

“I’m reclaiming the . . .”

Again, she doesn’t let him finish. “You know what, Art? I heard that word hissed at my brother like a dagger throughout his childhood, and I don’t want to hear it ever again. So if you’re going to reclaim it, wait until I’m not around.”

I await Art’s know-it-all response, but to my surprise, he simply says, “Deal.”

“That’s the one,” Jimmy says. “Look at him.” Jimmy points to a teenage boy, probably my age, wearing a white mohair sweater that swims on him like a dress. The sweater has a pink and yellow geometric design on it, and he pairs it with tight white pants and white platform boots. His black hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and a crucifix dangles from his headband. I wish I had the confidence to dress like him. He clomps around, asking anyone if they have a ticket.

“I approve of his fashion sense,” Judy says. “That sweater is like Saint Laurent meets a suburban Christmas party. It’s fabulous.”

“Then you do the honors,” Jimmy says, handing Judy the extra ticket.

We approach the boy together, and Judy puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I’m Judy,” she says. “First of all, I’m obsessed with your style. But more importantly, would you like a ticket to the show?”

“Yeah, but I only have fifty bucks,” he says.

“It’s free,” Judy says.

The boy’s eyes open wide in disbelief. He hugs Judy and practically yells out, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Just what she needs,” Jimmy says drolly. “Another queen in love with her.”

We head in with our new sixth, whose name is Mario, and who was born in Mexico, and who has not spoken to his parents since they found him in his mother’s heels. He left home and moved to Washington, DC, where he lives with a cousin of his who works at a newspaper there. Before he left home, he packed all his mom’s best clothes to take with him.

We awkwardly circle around each other as we decide who will sit where. Jimmy goes in first, and then Mrs. Bowman enters, and then Mario enters. Judy goes in next, and then me, and then Art. I’m in between the two of them, feeling the tension.

“Hey,” I say to Mario, leaning over. “What’s your favorite Madonna song?”

“‘Gambler,’” he says. “It’s so underrated.”

“Mine is the one that’s named after me,” Jimmy says.

“Yeah, but ‘Jimmy, Jimmy’ is, like, her worst song,” Art says, with love.

“Which still makes it better than everyone else’s best song,” Mario says.

“Fair point,” Art concedes.