Page 6 of Exquisite Things
“Me?” I mouth in disbelief, and he nods. So I wave back. He smiles. My heart leaps through my chest.
Just when I’m about to approach him, Brendan pulls me into a bear hug from behind. I keep my eyes glued to him as Brendan pulls me away. “Goodbye,” I mouth silently to the mystery boy.
“Hello,” mystery boy mouths back, his smile mischievous.
His peculiar eyes seem to glow like two fireflies in the darkness. “Who are you?” I mouth. “And how did you become so magical?”
Shahriar. London. February to April. 1895.
I hate so much. The idiotic people who create the rules we must obey. This damp February morning. This wretched boarding school. These two carefree boys walking toward me as I rest on the stair tower of the imposing stock brick building. This is where we learn science’s—and society’s—secret codes. Most of all I hate the loathing inside me. It reminds me of the father I despise.
James—one of the wealthiest boys in our class—puts an arm around his tedious friend Theodore as they approach the stair tower. “Come on, just say yes.”
“I wish I could, but speed skating.”
“To hell with skating. It’s opening night of Oscar Wilde’s new play.” Now I’m interested in what James has to say.
“Perhaps you should ask Alfie.”
“Alfie has that cold that’s going around. If I don’t find a friend, my parents will invite my horrible uncle who smells like a sewer.”
“I’m free to go!” I’ve never dared insert myself into the conversation between two classmates. They don’t know I’m braver than any of them.
James is so tall he seems to be on stilts. His round blue eyes appear bewildered as they look down at me. The dark-skinned classmate he’s never spoken to. Perhaps he believes I’m shy. That’s not why I haven’t spoken to him or his friends. It’s because I’ve yet to hear one of them express an original thought.
“I invited Theodore, not you.” A half note of cruelty in James’s voice. His eyes are on Theodore’s bright red cheeks. His plump pink lips. His golden hair. I’ve walked the city streets alone enough times to recognize illicit longing when I see it. James longs for Theodore. James is—in a vital way—like me. Perhaps I’ve been wrong about him. Perhaps convention is just his disguise. This excites me.
There is so much I love. Walking. Observing. Discovering. I realized years ago that no one was paying attention to us boys during our free hours. I began leaving the confines of school. A block or two at first. And then farther and farther. It’s been seven years. I’ve seen clean streets and grimy ones. I love the rebels. Gamblers and prostitutes. Musicians and street poets. Men with illicit longing in their eyes. I’ve never been bold enough to speak to one of them. But I stop each time I see a nonconformist. Take a deep breath. Imagine myself inhaling a bit of them into my bones. Willing myself to transform into something else entirely.
“It’s up to you. But I promise to be more fun than your fragrant cousin.” A mischievous smile on my face. I want him to understand about me what I understand about him.
“Funny.” He’s not laughing. A shrug. “Valentine’s Day. Be ready by six.”
James seems to be searching his memory for my name. “Shahriar.” I’ve been at the school since I was ten. Recently turned seventeen. But I’ve kept to myself. These other boys don’t evenregister me. Perhaps it’s because I come from a different country. Look and sound different in a sea of sameness. Too foreign to be understood.
“Tough name to remember. You have a nickname?”
“Perhaps you can invent one for me.” I hold his gaze.
James laughs uncomfortably. Turns back to his friend. “We should get to class.”
I feel triumphant as they leave. I’ve studied the city and its rebels. I know that Oscar Wilde is London’s Rebel King. I’ve gained entry to his grand opening. On Valentine’s Day of all days. The day of love. I sense something momentous coming. Life beginning anew.
It’s a snowy evening as James and I head to the St. James in a carriage alongside his sharply dressed but dreary mother and father. His parents attend more out of obligation than passion. This is a business engagement to them. But it’s much more to the throngs of people pushing to gain entry as we arrive at the theater. Wilde’s devoted following is desperate. Theywantsomething they can’t have. The evening is sold out. Need is what makes a person interesting. Those who have what they want care only about keeping it. There’s nothing more boring than that. Need frightens me. Excites me.
“Follow me.” James’s father hands his tickets to one of the handsome ushers. We’re escorted inside. Past some kind of commotion involving a man holding the strangest thing: a bouquet of vegetables. They look like congratulatory flowers from afar. But they’re vegetables. Hard. Cold. Raw. Stalks and roots of asparagus. Eggplant. Carrots. Many of them visibly rotting. The man’s eyes are mad. His hair a mess. He mumbles something unintelligible about Wilde corrupting his son. He’s pulled away. His voice becomes one with the gusts of wind that underscore the stormy night.
Our seats are front and center. I learn that James’s father is a solicitor who does work for the publishing house that has published Wilde to scandal and acclaim. He despises Wilde. Finds his work immoral. Yet he has no trouble profiting from depravity. Hypocrisy is a virus that has long infected the world.
The performance ofThe Importance of Being Earnestis magnificent. Underneath what appears to be a comedy is a seething rage for society. Disdain for the same things I disdain. And yet Wilde has somehow metamorphosed revulsion into humor. Pain into laughter. I wish I had that talent.
I feel James’s long leg press against mine as Algernon says: “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
Does James mean to do this? Is it simply that his body is too long for these small seats? I find out by moving my leg even closer to his. An innocuous act. Too subtle to be noticed by anyone but him. He doesn’t pull away. He pushes the full weight of his thigh against mine. There are layers of fabric between us. Yet it feels like our skin is touching. An undeniable heat. People lie. Temperature doesn’t.
There are jokes only we seem to laugh at. Moments that appear lost on his parents during which we both lean in.
His fingers brush against mine when Lady Bracknell says: “To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune.” I imagine my mother. I have no idea what she looked like. All I know is she is my great misfortune. “To lose both looks like carelessness.”A charge within me. My brain stimulated by the words. My body by his touch. I take my thick scarf off my neck and place it on my lap. Hide the firm evidence of my lust.
