Like a Love Story(85)

Mrs. Bowman looks over at the sign. “Of course,” she says. “Dead from Homo . . . sexuality?”

Judy and I freeze.

“It was a joke!” Mrs. Bowman says. “Am I not allowed to engage in some dark humor to get through all this?”

Judy gives her mom a hug. “You’re full of surprises, Bonnie Bowman,” she says.

“You haven’t seen the half of it,” Mrs. Bowman says. “Wait until you leave the house and I have a midlife crisis. I plan on wearing cone bras to work and—”

“Bye, Mom,” Judy says with a kiss on Mrs. Bowman’s cheek.

“See you in the lobby.” Mrs. Bowman sits down and gets to work completing the sign.

Judy and I head out toward the elevator. We enter the lobby in silence. “Wanna grab a croissant and walk for a bit?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Speaking of croissants, I can’t believe you went to Paris and I wasn’t there.”

“I know,” she says.

“And I don’t even know where you went, what you ate, what you wore . . .” I look over at Judy, and she’s smiling.

“I went everywhere. I ate everything. I wore nothing but Givenchy, darling.” She laughs. “Seriously, Art, it was magical. It was more than a trip—it was like, I don’t know . . .” She searches for the words. “It was like knowing that everything would be okay. That there are other cities, other communities, that there’s just so much beauty in the world. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “It makes total sense.”

“We went to the Moulin Rouge,” she says. “And we saw this crazy, bawdy show, and it made me think of you.”

“Of course it did,” he says. “I love me a courtesan.”

“Their costumes were beyond. As was the top of the Eiffel Tower. And I love eating snails now. And I might like macarons even more than ice cream.”

“Maybe you’ll live there someday.”

“Maybe,” she says. “I don’t know.” She pauses, thinking. “Oh my God, wait, I have to tell you. There’s ACT UP Paris. It’s amazing. We went to a meeting.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s so cool,” she says. “It’s just like the meetings here, but in French. They asked Uncle Stephen to speak, and they treated him like the star that we know he is. I made a photo album of everything. I’ll show it to you when we’re back home if you promise not to mock my photography skills.”

“Moi? Mock toi? Never!”

She laughs, and that sound heals something in me.

We get almond croissants at the hotel coffee shop, and then we head outside. Maryland isn’t Manhattan. No crowds fight for space here; there’s no crush of people, no skyscrapers hide the clouds above. It feels open, and foreign. Judy chooses a direction and starts to walk. “How are you and Reza doing?” she asks.

I don’t answer immediately. I’m playing different answers in my head, wondering how they might be received, afraid of upsetting her.

“You can be honest,” she says. “I’m a big girl.”

“We love each other,” I say finally.

“That’s great, Art.” Judy puts an arm around me, maybe to let me know she really means it. “I know this is awkward and I definitely wish I didn’t date him before you, but you deserve to be loved.”

“Thanks, Frances,” I say, feeling unworthy of her. I know how major this is for her. I love her so much I want to hug and squeeze her, so I do.

She pushes me away with a laugh and says, “Okay, let’s not be sticky about it.”

I laugh, because she’s quoting a line from Mildred Pierce, and no other teenager but us would probably get the reference. “You deserve to be loved, too,” I say. “And unless you already fell in love with a Frenchman who you’re hiding from us, I know you will.”

“No Frenchman for me,” she says. “The trip wasn’t really about that. It was more about experiencing the city with Stephen, and weirdly enough, bonding with my parents. I don’t know why I didn’t realize this sooner, but I have really rad parents.”

“Yes, you do,” I say, trying hard to hide any trace of envy in my voice. “You’re lucky.”

“I know that now,” she says. “I think, I don’t know, that it’s easy to take things for granted when you’re young.”

“Wait, are we old now?” I ask, and she laughs again.

“You know what I mean,” she says, swatting my shoulder. “Anyway, we’re older.” She’s right, we are definitely older. “So . . . ,” she says, her voice dropping an octave. “Have you lost your virginity? Whatever that means to you. I know gay virginity is different.”

I stop for a moment, not sure I’m ready to discuss all this with her. I don’t want to alienate her. I don’t want to betray Reza. But then I remember she’s my best friend. She’s the person I’m supposed to talk through this stuff with. “He’s still afraid,” I say sadly. “So we mostly kiss. He won’t even let me take his pants off.”

She looks over at me with real empathy. “I hate AIDS,” she says.