Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  “Hey, so how do you know my name, mystery man?” I ask, attempting flirtation, but the minute the words escape my lips, I realize I probably sound pathetic bordering on creepy.

  “Oh,” he says. “They sent me this.” He pulls out a yearbook from his locker.

  “And you actually studied it?” I ask. I haven’t looked at our yearbook since sophomore year, when me and Art went through and rated all the guys together, hating ourselves for giving tens to all the biggest assholes, like there was an actual correlation between a guy’s dickishness and hotness.

  He nods. I don’t mean to make him feel bad. I hope I didn’t.

  “I don’t remember everyone, but you stood out.”

  Of course you did. You’re the only fat girl in there.

  “So, um . . . ,” I stammer, trying to make scintillating conversation and failing. “What’s your name? I haven’t studied the book like you.”

  “I’m Reza,” he says. “I’m not in the book yet. There wasn’t time to include me. I just moved here from Toronto, by way of Tehran.”

  “You didn’t wanna move to Tokyo next?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem to get the joke. “You know, cities that start with T.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I understand.”

  If this were Art, we’d be riffing by now, listing off every T city we knew. I search for something else to say. “Well, I wish my picture was cuter. I look like a girl who cut her own bangs in a sad attempt to look like Louise Brooks but achieved Cousin Itt instead.”

  “Judy?” Reza says quietly, and when I look up, he asks, “What are bangs? And who is Louise Brooks? And Cousin Itt?”

  I laugh. “Bangs,” I say, pointing to my forehead, “are this ugly shape my hair makes on my forehead, which was both an attempt to cover up my forehead acne and an effort to look like Louise Brooks, a silent-film star of the 1920s who never made it in talkies. And Cousin Itt is a hairy creature from the television show The Addams Family.”

  I can tell he wants to ask me what talkies are. That’s definitely a question I asked my uncle a while ago, but he just says, “You look good.”

  I don’t say anything, because I’m freaking out inside. A beautiful boy just told me I look good. I need to seal this deal before some skinny girl scoops him up from under me.

  Other kids are zipping past us, going to class, gossiping about their summers, and yet it’s like Reza and I are all alone. He has a weird quality about him. A calmness. He speaks softly, chooses his words carefully. It’s disconcerting and exciting, maybe because I’m so used to being around Art, who spews words from his mouth like an active volcano.

  “Perhaps you can cut my hair someday,” he says.

  “First of all, I won’t touch your hair ’cause it’s perfect,” I respond. “If Rob Lowe’s hair follicles and a perfect ocean wave had a baby, they would birth your hair.”

  What the hell is wrong with you, Judy? Why are you talking like this?

  “And second of all, my attempt at cutting my hair was disastrous, so my uncle fixed it. If I look halfway normal, it’s because of him. Okay, what’s your first class?” I ask Reza. He takes his schedule out of his pocket and hands it to me. “We both have English with Tompkins first,” I say. “Follow me.”

  But before we can start down the hallway, Art rushes toward me frantically, his face obscured by a winter hat, which is an odd choice for a sweltering September heat wave. When he’s uncomfortably close to me, he takes the hat off, revealing hair dyed a strange shade of lavender that wouldn’t look out of place on the mane of a My Little Pony. “How bad is it?” he demands.

  “It looks fine,” I lie, because Art is my best friend, and as his best friend I know that if I tell him he looks like a My Little Pony, he’ll go apeshit. Art says he’s a little histrionic because both of his parents are so rigid and rarely show emotion, so he overcompensates.

  “Okay, you’re clearly lying,” Art says. With his hat back on, he shifts to the right and eyes Reza. “Who are you?” he asks. “And what do you think? Honestly?”

  Reza stares at Art with what I can only read as either fear or disgust, and my heart sinks a little. It suddenly hits me that if and when I finally fall in love, the chance that my heterosexual lover is a homophobe is high. And I can’t love a homophobe. Definite deal breaker, right alongside dirty fingernails and guys who don’t wash their hands after they pee, which Art tells me is another important epidemic that women are unaware of due to bathroom segregation.

  “Hello!” Art says to Reza. “Do you speak?”

  Reza clearly doesn’t know what to do with Art’s super-intense energy.

  “What do I think about . . .” Reza trails off. He’s still staring at Art like he’s studying him, and it’s starting to piss me off a little. My best friend isn’t a circus freak. But then I tell myself that maybe Reza is staring because he’s curious. I try not to jump to a negative conclusion. I know I can be defensive, protective, judgmental. Take your pick.

  “About my sherbet hair!” Art whisper-yells. “Is it the worst tress trauma since Pepsi burned Michael Jackson’s scalp to a crisp?”

  I turn to Reza and explain, “Michael Jackson is a pop star. He started out as part of the Jackson Five before releasing what I still consider to be his masterpiece, Off the Wall, then . . .”

  “I know who Michael Jackson is,” Reza says.

  “Thriller is his masterpiece, and don’t change the subject please. I need an honest opinion.” Oh, that’s another thing about Art. When he’s in the room, it’s all about him. Don’t even try to divert attention away from him.

  Reza doesn’t give an honest opinion. He doesn’t say anything. And this makes Art crazy. “Okay, whatever, you can’t even be bothered to answer a simple question. I’m done here,” Art says. But Art doesn’t leave. He hovers around us.

  Reza has a far-off look. He shrugs. “I should, um, get to class.”

  He awkwardly gives me a kiss on each cheek, and as he does, he rests his hands on my love handles for a moment, 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 “favorite Homo sapiens of 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 is Beyond 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 misspelled fabrication in 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.”

  “We love My Little Pony,” I counter.

  “Iron-i-cal-ly,” he says, stretching out every syllable. “The way we love Stacey Q, scrunchies, and Mommie 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 boring too.” 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.”

  I giggle nervously, not sure where to take the conversation next. “Sorry about Art, too. He comes on a little strong.”

  He nods. Then in a hushed voice, he says, “There was nobody like him in Iran or Toronto.”

  “I’m sure Toronto has gay people,” I say, way too defensive. “As for Iran, I don’t know, maybe they’ve killed them all.”

  Okay, this is over. You’ve definitely scared him off.

  “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry to offend.”

  That’s all he says. And it’s enough to make me feel like total shit about myself.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “I’m just sick of people making fun of him.”

  “Was I making fun?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “No, not at all. You were just making an observation, which was probably totally true. In fact, I’m the offensive one. I’m the one who assumed that he’s basically like all other gay people. When in fact you were right. Absolutely no one in Toronto, or Iran, or any place where humans live, is anything like Art. Maybe that’s why I get defensive of him. ’Cause he’s special.”

  Reza just nods, almost like he’s agreeing with me.

  We both look up at Art, so hard to miss with that hair. He’s flipping through some notecards. Not just any notecards. The Queer 101 notecards Uncle Stephen made for him to explain important gay concepts like conversion therapy, the Cockettes, and Quentin Crisp. And those are just a few of the Cs. I can see that Art is reading #67 John, Elton.

  “I talk too much,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not apologize for talking. Most of my life, I’ve talked too little.”

  He smiles hesitantly, stopping himself midsmile. It’s like he’s just learning how.

  “I’m not, by the way,” I say.

  Stop. Stop now.

  “Not what?” he asks.

  “I mean, we’re best friends, and he’s on the upper echelon of the Kinsey Scale, but . . .” I can tell he has no idea what the Kinsey Scale is, and I explain. “Oh, that’s this scale, this thing that says some people are into men, some are into women, and some are in between.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  He seems extremely uncomfortable with this conversation, and I want to change the subject immediately, but instead, I say, “I’m on the side of the scale that’s totally hetero. That’s it. I just wanted you to know. I have no idea why I’m telling you this.”

  Yes you do. Because he’s cute, and unlike the rest of the boys at school, he doesn’t seem like a total tool.

  “Oh,” he says. He closes his eyes for a moment. After a beat, he says, “Me too.” Then he smiles awkwardly. And I smile back.

  #75 Love

  Love might just happen to them, but for us, it’s not as easy. For us, it’s a fight. Maybe someday it won’t be. Maybe someday love will just be . . . love. But for now, love is the four-letter word they forgot we care about ever since they discovered that other four-letter word, AIDS, the disease formerly known as GRID. Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. That’s what they called it at first. They changed the name eventually, once it became clear we were not the only ones who would die. But the stink never wore off. It never does when they want to control you. Marilyn was always Norma Jeane, and they never let her forget it. When her ideas got too big, they reminded her she was nothing but an orphan. And AIDS will always be GRID. It is our disease, born of our deficiencies. But I’ll tell you what we will never be deficient of. LOVE. We love art and beauty. We love new ideas and pushing boundaries. We love fighting against corruption. We love redefining archaic rules. We love men, and women, and men who dress like women, and women who dress like men. We love tops and bottoms, and top hats, especially when worn by Marlene Dietrich. But most of all, we love each other. Know that. We love each other. We care for each other. We are brothers and sisters, mentors and students, and together we are limitless and whole. The most important four-letter word in our history will always be LOVE. That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.

  Reza

  Our dining room is extravagant and ridiculous. Just sitting in it makes me feel uncomfortable. It looks like it was designed for an ancient royal shah. Anything that can be gold is gold, and anything not made of gold is crystal, glass, or emerald green. The paintings on the walls are mostly old Persian portraits from the Qajar dynasty, but then there’s a portrait of Abbas, done in the same style, as if to imply that he is one of those royals. I’m surprised there’s no painting of Saadi done in the old Qajar style, except instead of wearing an ornate robe and headdress, he would be wearing boxer shorts and holding a lacrosse stick.

  “There is no doubt we are headed toward a recession. And if others have doubt, they are wrong. I know we are. Just look at real estate prices. They’re starting to dip and it’s only going to get worse. We were living in a bubble, and it’s popping as I speak. Nobody is spending on luxuries like real estate and expensive furniture anymore.”

  That’s Abbas talking. My stepfather. He’s bald and very tall, one of the lankiest Iranians I have ever seen. And he speaks with so much authority. If there’s one thing I have learned since my mom married this man, it is that when he talks, you listen. If I could interject, here is what I might say: First of all, you are still living in a bubble. Just look around this home. And second of all, stop subtly suggesting my mother
shouldn’t start working again. Because that is what is really happening right now. My mom was an interior designer in Toronto. She did okay. Well enough to support me and my sister, although we certainly did not live in a gold-leafed wonderland, and we certainly did not go to a fancy private school with starched uniforms, children of famous people, and lacrosse teams. I don’t even know how Abbas and my mom met. Probably ages ago, since Persians all know each other anyway. All I know is one day, my mom sat me and my sister down and told us she was getting married again. She said she and I would be moving to New York, while my sister stayed in Canada for college. And that was that.

  “It is not surprising that prices are starting to dip in the city,” Abbas continues. “People are afraid of getting mugged, beaten, raped. What happened in Central Park is just the beginning. I love it here, but if I were to do it all over again, I would think twice before buying in the city.”

  My mom just smiles, an eye toward the pot of ghormeh sabzi, and says, “Honestly, Abbas, I have no idea how you trained your cook to make Persian food this well.”

  “Oh, my mom trained her,” Saadi says. “These are her recipes.” There’s no obvious venom in the way he says this, but his intent is hard to miss.

  That’s when I deduce that it wasn’t Abbas who picked out the decor of this mausoleum we are living in. The gold, crystal, glass, and emeralds of the dining room, the old paintings, the cacophony of rugs, the lacquered picture frames and heavy curtains, they were probably all selected by this woman I have never met. For a moment, a feeling of warmth toward Abbas washes over me. Because if he was married to a woman this tacky and over-the-top, and then traded her in for a woman as classy as my mother, then perhaps he isn’t as bad as I want him to be.

  “Her recipes are delicious then,” my mom says diplomatically.

  “So, Reza jan, how was your first week of school?” Abbas reaches over to me and tries to playfully punch my shoulder.

  “School is okay,” I say.