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 withT.”
“Oh,” he says. “I understand.”
If this were Art, we’d be riffing by now, listing off everyTcity 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 andan 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 showThe 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 handsit 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.
“It looks fine,” I lie, because Art is my best friend, and as his best friend I know that if I tell him he looks like a My Little Pony, he’ll go apeshit. Art says he’s a little histrionic because both of his parents are so rigid and rarely show emotion, so he overcompensates.
“Okay, you’re clearly lying,” Art says. With his hat back on, he shifts to the right and eyes Reza. “Who are you?” he asks. “And what do you think? Honestly?”
Reza stares at Art with what I can only read as either fear or disgust, and my heart sinks a little. It suddenly hits me that if and when I finally fall in love, the chance that my heterosexual lover is a homophobe is high. And I can’t love a homophobe. Definite deal breaker, right alongside dirty fingernails and guys who don’t wash their hands after they pee, which Art tells me is another important epidemic that women are unaware of due to bathroom segregation.
“Hello!” Art says to Reza. “Do you speak?”
Reza clearly doesn’t know what to do with Art’ssuper-intense energy.
“What do I think about...” Reza trails off. He’s still staring at Art like he’s studying him, and it’s starting to piss me off a little. My best friend isn’t a circus freak. But then I tell myself that maybe Reza is staring because he’s curious. I try not to jump to a negative conclusion. I know I can be defensive, protective, judgmental. Take your pick.
“About my sherbet hair!” Art whisper-yells. “Is it the worst tress trauma since Pepsi burned Michael Jackson’s scalp to a crisp?”
I turn to Reza and explain, “Michael Jackson is a pop star. He started out as part of the Jackson Five before releasing what I still consider to be his masterpiece,Off the Wall, then...”
“I know who Michael Jackson is,” Reza says.
“Thrilleris his masterpiece, and don’t change the subject please. I need an honest opinion.” Oh, that’s another thing about Art. When he’s in the room, it’s all about him. Don’t even try to divert attention away from him.
Reza doesn’t give an honest opinion. He doesn’t say anything. And this makes Art crazy. “Okay, whatever, you can’t even be bothered to answer a simple question. I’m done here,” Art says. But Art doesn’t leave. He hovers around us.
Reza has a far-off look. He shrugs. “I should, um, get to class.”