Page 19 of Like a Love Story
I hear the stomping of his platform shoes getting closer and closer. I close my eyes and tell myself not to act as scared as I feel.
“Hey” is all he says when he comes in. His camera is, as always, dangling from his thin neck.
I say, “Hey.”
And then he sees the posters, and my shirt, and he says, “Whoa.”
“What?” I ask, wondering if we will only speak in one-word sentences.
He lifts his camera to his eye, adjusts the focus, and snaps a photo of my posters.
“Have you joined the fan club yet?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You should,” he says. “You get a magazine in themail. And you get dibs on concert tickets and stuff like that.”
“Cool,” I say, still trying desperately to sound normal.
“Since we’re both headed to movie night, I figured I’d swing by and get my backpack. Then we can go together.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, and I pull the book bag from my closet and hand it to him.
He unzips it and peeks inside. He pulls out the notecards and breathes a sigh of relief, then puts them back in. “Thanks for taking care of it,” he says. “There was actually something really important in here.”
“Oh,” I say, maintaining what I hope is a very innocent expression. “What?”
“Just, um, study cards,” he says. “But you know, they’re the only ones, so if I lose them, I fail.”
“At what subject?” I ask.
“Life,” he replies with a crooked smile.
I look down. I realize the number of sins I have committed since moving to New York is mounting. I snooped in his bag. I stole from my stepfather. And now I lied to Art. Though of course, I have lied to him before. I pretended it was a coincidence I was outside the protest, which was a ridiculous charade. I was drawn to it because I had heard him discuss it. I had to be there. I try to convince myself that the city made me steal and lie and snoop, but I know that’s not true. And I don’t feel bad either. What I feel right now is not guilt; it’s disappointment that I read only a few of those notecards. I should have read them all before he surprised me likethis. Well, all except the ones about AIDS. I want to know more, but I’m still too scared.
“So should we head?” he asks. “Stephen might pick some three-hour movie, so we don’t wanna be late.”
We say goodbye to my mom, who is watching the giant television with Abbas, wrapped in a cashmere blanket. She looks so relaxed, like she has aged backward. I wonder what she would be like if she had married a man like Abbas to begin with.
The air outside is still hot as we begin our walk. New York is very good at controlling the temperature inside, but once you are outside, you are battling the elements. The mugginess makes me sweat a little bit, which only makes my nerves worse, which then makes me sweat more. “See,” he tells me, “I told you to pack an extra shirt. How many Madonna shirts did you buy?”
“Just one,” I say.
He looks at me with interest. “You made a good choice,” he says. “And it fits you well.”
I don’t know what to say to this. I just smile.
“Come on, let’s get on the subway here,” he says. “He lives too far downtown for us to walk.”
He runs down the steps, so I do too, though I don’t skip the way he does, like he’s running on a trampoline. His jeans fit so well from behind that I find myself staring at him, wishing they would fall down. Maybe I can add sorcery to my list of sins and make that happen.
On the train, he asks, “So what has Judy told you about her uncle?”
“She said he has movie nights,” I say. “And that they are always old movies.”
“Did she say that he was gay?” he asks.
“She did mention that,” I say.
