Page 10 of Like a Love Story
“I can see the book,” he says, laughing. “You can put it down now.”
I put the book down on my lap, using it to hide my growing erection. A few seconds pass, but they feel eternal. Finally, I ask, “Is there, um, something you need? From me?”
He sits on the edge of my bed and begins to unpack hisbook bag, removing the mess of items inside and laying them down on my floor. First, a bright-yellow Discman. Then his own copy ofThe Odyssey. Then a purple folder, and a white binder with a pink triangle sticker on it. Then some jelly bracelets. As he keeps riffling through his things, he peeks up at me.
“I was just wondering, what’s the deal with you and Judy?”
He pulls a few pins out and lays them on the carpet. I cannot take my eyes off one that reads ACT UP, FIGHT AIDS in block letters. “Sorry, what?”
“You,” he says, pointing his finger at me and pressing it into my chest. “And Judy.”
“Oh,” I say, a little terrified of him.
He doesn’t take his finger off my chest, and I try to push it away. But when I do, he grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it tight. “Don’t evade,” he says. “Because Judy’s my best girl, and I’m not interested in seeing her heart broken. So, if you’re not into her, move on now, okay? And if you are into her, then she loves going to the movies, especially revival houses. She can’t get enough ice cream—her favorite is mint chocolate chip. She lives for avant-garde fashion. And her favorite flowers are yellow roses, the brighter the better.”
He still has a grip on my hand, and I find myself getting harder. Very, very hard. I try to reposition myself to hide the damning evidence, but he still won’t let go of me. “Can you release me please?” I ask. But he doesn’t, and we end up struggling, our bodies circling each otheruntil finally he lets go. I pull the covers over me, my breath heavy.
“Why are you so weird?” he asks. “You’re not like your brother, are you?”
“Brother?” I ask.
Art points his finger toward Saadi’s room. “Your brother. I call him and his friends ‘white hats’ ’cause they’re always wearing those dumb white baseball hats. It’s like code for ‘I’m a dick who’s afraid to sit too close to a fag.’”
“I do not, um, I don’t think you are supposed to use that word,” I say.
“What, fag? I’m allowed to use it,” he says defiantly. “Because I am one. Major fag. So major I’ve written a fan letter to Boy George and received a handwritten response. So major I’m joining the ACT UP protest of the New York Stock Exchange this month.” He rattles on and on before catching his breath and turning his attention back to his book bag. He pulls out a crumpled T-shirt. “There she is,” he exclaims. And in an instant, he takes his sweaty tank top off and he isn’t wearing a shirt. I try to look away, but I don’t. I’m too interested in his lean body, in the wisps of hair on his lower back, in the freckles on his shoulders. Then he throws the crumpled T-shirt on. “My advice for New York heat waves. Always carry a change of T-shirt and underwear in your bag.”
I imagine the extra pair of underwear in his bag and try my hardest to think of anything else. I think of mydad’s drunk rages. I think of my sister sneaking in late at night, of my mom crying. I think of my mom getting the phone call that my dad died, and of her sitting me and my sister down and telling us the news with glassy detachment. But in between all these thoughts is the same nagging question: what kind of underwear does he wear?
“I guess I’m gonna take off,” Art says. He puts his headphones on and stands up. “Hey, what do you think of the new Madonna album? It’s the shit, right?” Before I can answer, he says, “And don’t say you hate Madonna, because I don’t trust people who hate Madonna.”
“Oh, I, uh, I don’t know her music very well,” I say, suddenly wishing I did. “My mom mostly listens to Persian music. I like that holiday song. What is it called?”
“‘Holiday,’” he says curtly.
“Oh, right,” I say. “My sister always played that.”
“And what do you listen to?” he asks, in a way that makes me feel he will hate whatever the answer is.
“Whatever is on, I suppose.”
He puts his headphones on my ears. “This is what’s on,” he whispers to me, his breath hitting my face just above my eyes. Then he presses play, and I hear an aggressive guitar followed by Madonna’s voice telling me that life is a mystery, and that everyone must stand alone, like I didn’t know that already. But soon, the music transports me to some other magical land. Art lets the whole song play. When it ends, he pulls the headphones off me and says, “The second song’s even better.”
“It is, um, really great,” I say, unable to find the rightwords to describe the transcendent experience of hearing that song.
“Yeah, I know, she’s the queen of the world.” He sits next to me again, speaking faster, his hands moving quickly. His passion for the subject spills out of him. “You know about the Pepsi commercial, right?”
“Um...” My stammering must make it obvious that I don’t.
“Sorry, but were you living in Tehran and Toronto, or were you living under a giant rock? Madonna did a Pepsi commercial to that song, and a few days later she released the video to the song, where she dances in front of burning crosses and kisses a black saint. Pepsi told her to pull the video. She said fuck you. So... they pulled the commercial, and she kept the five million. That’s what you call a badass bitch move. Do what you want and keep the money.”
I stare at him as he talks, mesmerized by his confidence. “You might be allowed to use thefword,” I say, “but I don’t think you’re allowed to use thebword.”
“What, bitch?” he asks.
I nod and smile. “You are not a woman.”
“Honorary,” he says. “Just like Judy’s an honorary queer. Speaking of, you never answered my question. Do you like Judy?”
