Page 32 of Like a Love Story
“Not at all,” I say. I mean it, too. I have much more monumental things to be upset about than the assumption that I know a lot about tea, which is true anyway.
“Okay,” she says. “She’s just not that culturally sensitive, I know, but she means well, which I guess is worth something.”
“I like her,” I say. “And I like your father too.”
“Cool,” she says, her head down, assessing her work. After a few more seconds, she pulls the fabric out of the machine and reveals it to me. “Ta-da,” she says.
I could see pieces of the shirt as she was working on it,but I was not prepared for the explosion of colors, deep orange and royal blue and gold. The sleeves are blue, and there is the illusion of an orange vest laid atop the shirt. On the back are two thick stripes, outlined in gold, and inside the gold stripes are tiny figures of plants and goats and flowers. The level of detail is so intricate that I find myself studying the shirt like a piece of art. “Wow,” I say.
“Does wow mean you like it?” she asks. “Or does wow mean it’s too much and you would never wear it and you think I’m a freak for making it for you?”
“No, it’s just...” I search for the right words. “It belongs on David Bowie, not on me. I am not worthy of it.”
“At least try it on before saying that.”
She hands me the shirt. The fabric is softer than I imagined. It feels luxurious. It’s not until I’m holding it in my hand that I realize the colors are reminiscent of ancient Persian clothing, and that the tiny figures running down those stripes look like miniatures. It hits me how much time and care Judy has put into this one shirt, for me. I am not unworthy of the shirt. I’m unworthy of her.
“Is it... Persian?” I ask her.
She smiles. “I didn’t want it to be too obvious,” she says. “I went down a total rabbit hole of research at the library about Persian style. Oh my God, Reza, honestly, it’s beyond. The robes. The shawls. The vibrant colors and the vests and the level of detail. I mean, you guyscome from the epicenter of everything gorgeous.”
“Wow,” I say.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” She claps her hands together. “Come on, try it on. I want to see how it fits.”
I unbutton the black cardigan I’m wearing. The fish pin Judy and I bought together is on it. We have worn those pins every day since we bought them on Saint Mark’s Place. When I place the cardigan down on Judy’s bed, the eyeball of the fish seems to be staring at me, judging me. Then I put my hands at the base of my favorite T-shirt and pull it off. When I lay it down on the bed, Madonna’s eyes seem to be judging me as well. I love Madonna so much, but I know she would hate me. All she tells me to do is express myself, and here I am hiding. I don’t like having my shirt off. I hate how thin I am, and I hate the thick hairs growing on my chest, and I hate the birthmark on the bottom of my back. It’s the first time I have taken my shirt off in front of Judy. Even when she took my measurements, I kept a T-shirt on. I can feel her looking at me, then looking away, then looking back at me. Is she thinking I look better with clothes on? I think about Art taking his shirt off in front of me, of how beautiful he was.
I put my arm through the left sleeve first, and then the right. As I reach for the buttons, I realize they are gold. I was so focused on the colors and pattern that I did not even notice this detail. When I’m done, I look at myself in her mirror. I look like a new person, like a person whohas a strong sense of self, like a person confident enough to stand out. The person in the mirror is who I want to be.
“You look like a rock star,” she says. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I say. “Very much.”
She claps her hands together again, her excitement bursting out of her. She stands in front of me and takes my hands in hers. Her hands are so soft, and her nails are smooth and lacquered with her purple nail polish. She whispers, “I think you inspire me.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Maybe you’ll be the Marlene Dietrich to my Josef von Sternberg. I’ll surround you in beauty. I’ll design, and you’ll be my muse.”
“Maybe... ,” I say. She gets closer to me and I suddenly feel panicked. I know I’m supposed to kiss her. I’ve seen this in movies. She’s everything Iwantto want, and I hate that I don’t want her. I want magic powers that will turn her into Art. I want to kiss Art’s lips, smell his scent, see his bare chest again. I close my eyes and press my lips gently against hers.
She pulls her lips away from mine after a few seconds. “I’m excited to meet your family.”
“Me too,” I say. “Of course, you’ve already met Saadi.”
“Is he nicer at home than he is at school?” she asks skeptically.
“No,” I say.
She laughs, and the sound of it lifts me up. I love thelife in her, the passion and the vision. I imagine this is what Madonna was like, back when she was our age. Bold and confident. Madonna would hate me, but she would love Judy.
Judy looks down at the pint of ice cream, melting into a soup. She picks it up and feeds me a spoon. “Finish it, please,” she says. “I don’t need it now that I’m done.”
“Maybe we can add some tahini dressing to it,” I suggest. “Tahini ice cream soup.”
“Stop,” she says playfully. “You’re driving my taste buds crazy.”
I slurp the ice cream like soup, which makes her smile. But there’s something melancholy in her gaze now, and taking her lead once again, I whisper, “Hey, you okay?”
