Page 6 of Like a Love Story
He awkwardly gives me a kiss on each cheek, and as he does, he rests his hands on my love handles for amoment, like they’re a hand pillow. I wish I hadn’t eaten that bagel for breakfast.
Finally, Reza lets go of me and walks down the hallway. Once he’s safely out of hearing distance, I turn to Art. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, irritated.
“Um, hello,” he says, lifting his hat once more to reveal his hair.
“Art,” I say, “I was having a moment with that guy.”
“Oh,” he says. “You mean, like a sexual-healing, super-freak, touched-for-the-very-first-time moment.”
I blush and nod. “I don’t know. I think so. He’s new, and cute, and seems, I don’t know, different. Maybe they like girls like me in Tehran and Toronto.”
“Or Taipei,” Art jokes, and I smile, because I love that our brains sometimes work the exact same way.
“Or Türkmenabat,” I say.
“How long have you been waiting to throw Türkmenabat into casual conversation?” Art asks.
“I mean, since I was born.” I’m smiling now. This is me and Art. This is what we’re like when we’re at our best. Like two puzzle pieces that decided to escape the rest of the puzzle because we fit so good.
“Look, I’m an asswipe and I’m sorry,” Art says. “I promise you that my number one goal from now on, other than pissing my parents off by dyeing my hair the gayest color that’s not rainbow, will be to aid your mission of romancing that stone-cold hottie. You got that, Frances?”
Oh yeah, Art sometimes calls me Frances, usually when he’s said or done something stupid and needs my forgiveness. My uncle named me Judy for his “favoriteHomo sapiensof all time,” and Judy Garland’s real name was Frances Gumm. Art likes to think he’s the only person who knows the real me. His real name’s Bartholomew, by the way. Bartholomew Emerson Grant VI. He comes from a long line of men who would probably be horrified to share a name with him.
“I got it.” I sigh. “Do you think this is the year I’ll finally get a boyfriend?”
“I hope so,” Art says. “And if it’s him, more power to you. His ass isBeyond the Valley of the Dolls.” That’s a movie my uncle made us watch. “So does this mean your crush on Ben Stark is over?”
“Yeah, that ended when he misspelledfabricationin his editor’s letter for the school paper,” I say. I shake my head, wondering how I could ever have had a crush on anyone but Reza, and say, “Come on, My Little Pony, let’s get to class before the bell rings.”
“You wench, you lied. I do look awful.” He groans. “I’m going to burn you at the stake.”
“WeloveMy Little Pony,” I counter.
“Iron-i-cal-ly,” he says, stretching out every syllable. “The way we love Stacey Q, scrunchies, andMommie Dearest.”
I hold Art’s hand before he can bolt out of school, and we walk toward English class together. On our way in,we run into Darryl Lorde, who takes his white baseball hat off and greets Art with “Hey, faggot, you know hats aren’t allowed.” Then, when Art takes his hat off, Darryl leaps back. “Whoa, I didn’t think you could get any gayer.”
Art just smiles. He’s used to Darryl by now, the ringleader of our school’s homophobes, who is so good at sports that he can pretty much get away with anything. “I did it just for you, Darryl,” Art says, then winks.
Darryl shakes his head in disgust, then heads into class. I can hear him fake sneeze when he passes Reza, but instead of saying “Aaaa-choo,” he says, “Aaaa-yatollah!” And his dumb cronies laugh. I shoot him a dirty look and glance over at Reza, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore what is happening.
Art and I are the last ones to arrive. As we walk in, Art fake sneezes himself, blurting out, “Aaaa-ssholes.” But no one laughs this time. A few people stare at us like we’re aliens, including Annabel de la Roche and her gaggle of girlfriends, who all look like they subsist on multivitamins and iceberg lettuce.
There are only two empty seats left. One is next to Reza. “Take that seat,” Art whispers to me. I hesitate, and when I do, Art practically pushes me into it.
Reza whispers to me, “Why is your friend so aggressive?”
Before I can respond, Art leans in close to Reza. “Because life is short and I’m not going to let it be boringtoo.” He catches himself, then backs off. “Sorry, I’ll go sit up front and leave you two lovebirds alone.”
Oh God, Art,lovebirds? Seriously?
“I’m sorry about Darryl,” I say to Reza.
“Who?” he asks.
“The idiot who was making fun of you,” I say.
Reza shrugs. “I’m good at tuning things out,” he says. “Denial is even more Iranian than ayatollahs.”
