Page 43 of Like a Love Story
“Are we?” she asks. “Did you think the Art was cute? I think maybe you did.”
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. I just nod and stare at the ceiling, thinking there’s room for more Madonna posters up there, then imagining that Art will crash through the ceiling like an angel, a messenger from a place where only he knows my name.
Art
I put flyers all over the school but not a single person shows up. They have the pink triangle on them, advertising the first lunchtime meeting of a new school club, our very own ACT UP affinity group. I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t expect crowds of lacrosse players to swarm through the doors, but a stray theater geek would’ve been nice, or a fashionista or two, or maybe even a supportive teacher. At least a few freshmen, sophomores, and juniors looking for something on their college applications that would make them appear more compassionate than they are. For our class, college applications are already in, so there’s no reason for anyone to take on a new extracurricular activity unless they actually care about it, and I guess no one in the senior class other than me and Judy, who should be here by now, cares about the countless people dying in our very own city. But they’re all just strolling down the hallway,acting all carefree and happy like there isn’t a war raging outside these halls.
Jimmy once told me that AIDS is like war. Governments and powerful people don’t give a shit because it’s not their kids being sent to the war. It’s not their kids dying. But I’m their kid, and I’m in this war. My classmates, however, are definitely not. They’ve all applied to colleges, and now they can relax, throw parties, experiment with drugs and alcohol, make out with random classmates they likely won’t see again for the rest of their lives. They’ve probably all applied to a handful of top schools, a handful of mid-tier schools, and one or two safety schools. I didn’t. I applied to two schools, Yale and Berkeley. One because I wanted to get my dad off my back. The other because it’s in the city I dream of living in: San Francisco.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught in a conversation with Mr. Horney about my Jane Austen paper,” Judy says, rushing in. She’s wearing a metallic silver trench coat she designed herself over her uniform, with that stupid dead fish pin on it. Judy and Reza have worn those ridiculous pins ever since their first date, like some weird symbol of their union. As if they want to remind me that I’m not a part of their private little heterosexual world, in which they’re blessed with Debbie Harry sightings and hand-holding and good-night kisses. “Is it over?” she asks.
“It never began,” I say bitterly. “No one showed up.”
“Seriously? I told Reza to show up.” She looksdisappointed, but I can’t tell if it’s because nobody gives a shit about AIDS activism or because her boyfriend doesn’t give a shit. Her BOYFRIEND. She’s started calling him that.
“Well, he didn’t,” I say. “You don’t need to turn him into one of us, you know. He can, like, not care about the things we care about.”
Judy sits next to me. She places a hand on my knee and squeezes. “Do you think the school thought twice before hiring a teacher named Mr. Horney?”
I laugh. We’ve made fun of his name before, but it never stops being funny.
“Speaking of horniness,” I say, “are you getting some?”
Judy blushes a little but doesn’t take the bait. She tells me close to nothing about her and Reza. I don’t know if he’s a good kisser. Or if he’s felt her up. Has she seen him naked? Because if she has, I want a description. “Okay, we’re changing the subject,” she says. “Tell me what you’re taking pictures of lately.”
I tell Judy about my photo project, how I want to photograph activists but make them look like old movie stars.
“I love it,” Judy says, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Can I design clothes for them?”
“Obviously. Maybe it can be the first project of our school’s ACT UP affinity group, which, as you can see, is a group of two.”
“I’m in,” Judy says, and we start planning the shoots. For a moment it’s just me and Judy against the world again, and it feels great.
Then Darryl Lorde peeks his head into our room as he’s walking by with some friends, including Saadi. Every single one of them wears a white baseball hat and a sneer, but Darryl’s sneer seems extra cruel today. He’s a sadistic asshole and he’ll run the world someday, unless the rules of the world change. “Is this the fag meeting?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “But don’t worry, closeted fags are welcome too.”
“Oh, cool,” he says. “I’ll let your dad know if he hasn’t moved to San Francisco yet.”
“Wow,” Judy says. “So much wit.”
“You guys should be quarantined,” Darryl says.
“Move along, Darryl,” Judy says. “We’re having an official meeting.”
“You know you can’t start an official school group without a faculty sponsor and at least five students,” he says. “So stop plastering your propaganda all over the hallways, or the Young Republicans Club will have something to say about it. We have twelve members, you know.”
“Ooh,” I say. “You’re bigger than a football team and just as dumb.”
“We’re not the ones who’ll be dead next year.”
He says this so coolly, so matter-of-fact, that it feelslike I’ve been punched in the gut. The fact that I could be dead next year doesn’t even register as shocking to him in any way. It’s just another insult to throw my way. If I were dying on the street, he’d make some popcorn, kick his feet up, and enjoy the show.
His friends all chuckle their deep-throated straight-dude chuckles. Like my death is a sitcom and they’re its laugh track. Like the death of my mentors and fathers is funny. Saadi’s laughter makes me feel sick, knowing that Reza has to share a home with him.
“Hey, here’s an idea,” Darryl says. “Maybe you should just kill yourself now, save your parents the hell of watching you grow lesions all over your face.”
My blood boils. My fingers tense into a fist. Before I know it, I leap out of my seat and tackle Darryl to the ground, taking him down like I’m one of the gorgeous ladies of wrestling. “Go to hell, you fucking ASSHOLE!” I scream as he writhes below me, his scared, beefy body stronger than mine but unable to overpower the force of my rage.
