Page 69 of Like a Love Story
“I know there’s a lot to be afraid of,” Stephen says. “But I want... I just want to communicate to you that... that...” Stephen’s voice shakes a little. Cracks.
“That sex is beautiful,” Jimmy says. “That intimacy is beautiful. That feeling like one with another human being is why we were put on this planet. It connects us to everything good that exists inside us and outside us. And you can’t be robbed of that. Stay safe, but don’t lock yourself in a prison. Live.”
Stephen nods and repeats the last word, “Live.”
Live. A marching order given to me by two men with little life left in them, their future a ticking clock with the alarm set to go off at any moment.Live.
Stephen grabs two packs of condoms and goes to the counter to pay for them. He hands one to me and one to Art. “You don’t need to tell me anything,” he says.“Promise you’ll keep these just in case.” After a pause, he says, “But don’t keep them in your pockets! Store them somewhere cool.”
Art walks me home, but he doesn’t come up. I don’t let him. “Art,” I whisper, taking the condoms out. “Please take this with you. I don’t think my mother could handle finding it.”
He laughs. “You think your mother snoops through your stuff?”
“I think all mothers probably snoop through their children’s stuff,” I say. I don’t know if I mean it. But I know that I took the first chance I had to look into Art’s backpack. I know that I invade Abbas’s pockets. I have to assume others are as duplicitous as I am.
He takes a condom from me and puts it playfully in his mouth, biting the edge of the wrapper. “I’ll keep it somewhere safe,” he says.
I shake my head, smiling. I’m not used to smiling this much. But I stop smiling when I go upstairs. My mom, Abbas, and Saadi are finishing dinner and ask me to join them. My mom asks me how my study group was. They think that’s where I was. I don’t have the energy to tell them the truth. My mom hasn’t mentioned my coming out since it happened. She hasn’t used the wordgayor asked about Art. She just pretends it never happened, and the rest of the family seems to back up this fiction.
She’s equally in denial about Tara, who moved out in early January, after finally telling her that she’s now abartender in love with a DJ. They argued for hours and my mom cried. But now it’s like nothing happened. Tara and I have a new saying. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, it runs through the whole Middle East.
At home, Saadi has become an expert at taking the cues and saying nothing about me. But at school, he and his friends are constantly taunting me. I’ve heard every possible word a homosexual could be called in the last few months, all spewed out of the hateful mouths of Darryl, Saadi, and their cronies. Faggot. Pansy. Mary. Butt pirate. Fruit. Turd burglar. Flamer. Nancy. Queen. Lately, they taunt us with lyrics from Madonna’s new song, which they know we love, and which celebrates the underground ball scene.
This morning, as I walk into school, I hear them cracking each other up as they call, “Reza, are you ready tostrike a pose?” I ignore them. Then, when Art approaches me, Darryl says to us, “Hey, ladies with an attitude, don’t just stand there, let’s get to it!”
Art looks up at them, with a defiance I wish I had in me. “Yeah, you fellas in the mood?” he asks lasciviously. “Because I’ve got some whips and chains in my backpack I’d love to try on you.”
“I bet you’d like that,” Darryl says in disgust.
Art approaches them slowly, methodically. “Don’t motherfuckin’ test me,” he says. “And leave Reza alone, you hear me? Save the abuse for me. He’s off-limits.”
“He’s got it easy here,” Saadi says, smiling. “If he went back to Iran, they’d kill him.”
That sends a jolt down my spine, because it’s true. I escape the situation, searching for an empty classroom. As I do, I walk straight past Judy, who looks away from me as I cross her. She’s standing with Annabel de la Roche and a group of popular girls I’ve never spoken to. They’re laughing, pretending I don’t exist.
I can’t find an empty classroom, but I see the auditorium is open, so I rush in and take refuge in the costume room of the theater. No one will come in here this early in the morning. I can hear Art call my name. “Reza, stop!” he says as he catches up with me. He puts his arms around me. “They’re dicks,” he says. “You want me to beat them up for you?”
“No,” I say quietly. “You tried that once, and it was horrible.”
“But it felt so fucking good,” he says gleefully, like he’s already forgotten the pain of the blood and bruises on his face. “And it would feel even better doing it for you.”
“I don’t want hitting,” I say, looking into his glimmering eyes. “I want... kissing.”
“Well then, don’t just stand there,” he says, moving his lips closer. “Let’s get to it.” I shake my head, and smile, and kiss him. We’ve danced to “Vogue” so many times, always at Tara and Massimo’s place. That’s the only home we can be ourselves in. Massimo has all the remixes, and we all dance like lunatics. I’m a terrible dancer, but Art can move. He strikes poses like Linda Evangelista, his hand framing his head, his legs assuming frozen posesthat look glamorous and athletic. We laugh. We sing along. We pretend we are Madonna, or her dancers, or Greta Garbo. I know everyone Madonna is singing about now. I know who Rita Hayworth is. I know how to give good face.
Art takes my hand. He holds it and kisses the tip of each finger. Then he takes my other hand, kisses each of its fingers. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say nervously. “We should go to class. We’ll be late.”
“I don’t think I do,” he says, ignoring me. “But I like the idea of it. Like what if we knew each other in a past life? What if we were Bonnie and Clyde? Or Cleopatra and Mark Antony? What if this isn’t the beginning of us, but just a continuation of something that started a long time ago?”
“You’re funny,” I say. “What if we weren’t extraordinarily famous people? What if we were just... normal?”
“Reza,” he says. He says my name with awe, like I truly am extraordinary. “If past lives exist, then we were epic people.”
“Okay, then I want to be Cleopatra,” I say, excited. He’s succeeded in getting me out of my head, into a fantasy.
He kisses the palm of my hand now. “And what would you wanna be in ournextlife?”
