Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

Stephen holds his hand up to silence her. “She’s too embarrassed to tell me what I need to know. Art, speak.”

  “Um, he’s from Iran,” I say.

  “I know that,” Stephen says.

  “He’s nice,” I say.

  Stephen looks at me, disappointed. Judy also looks at me, like she knows something is up. Because she knows that I would normally have a lot more to say than this.

  “Okay, well neither of you is divulging anything of interest,” Stephen says.

  “He’s cool,” I say. “And I think . . . I think he’s not like American guys, you know. Like, he’s into Madonna. When I was picking up my bag at his place, he had posters of her on his wall.”

  “Interesting,” Stephen says. “It’s the rare icon who can reel in both straight and gay men. Of course, straight men want to screw her, and gay men want to be her.”

  “Great,” Judy says. “He likes ’em in killer shape. That’ll work in my favor.”

  “He also likes them daring and stylish,” Stephen says. “And like a virgin.”

  “Ew, Uncle Stephen. Can we talk about something else?” Judy asks. “I’m already nervous enough.”

  Stephen smiles and says, “Nope, can’t talk about anything else.” He stands up next to Judy now and holds her hands. “My baby girl’s first date. This is your first date, right?”

  “Yes,” she says with pride. “Of course. I would’ve told you. We have no secrets.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Stephen says. “I have a secret or two, but nothing you kids need to know about now.”

  I think about Stephen’s secrets. I think about the one thing he has never told me: who made him sick. Was it José? Or was it someone else? Did Stephen have it first, or did José have it first? And does Stephen even care? Does it even matter who gave it to who?

  “Well, I don’t have any secrets,” Judy says.

  I have secrets. I have guilt. I have shame. Stephen said once that getting AIDS helped free him from the last remnants of shame inside him. “I shame my shame,” he said. I wish I could do that now, but I can’t. My shame is too fresh.

  Then Judy says, “Where is he?”

  Where is he? A very good question. He should’ve come up by now. I told him to wait a few minutes, but it’s been more. Did he go home? Is he done with us all? Have I ruined my best friend’s chance with him?

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Stephen says. “So tonight, I was thinking we could watch Ziegfeld Girl. We haven’t seen that one in ages, and it’s a safe choice for your new friend.”

  Ziegfeld Girl, a movie we’ve seen before. Stephen loves it because it stars not one but three of his favorite actresses, Judy Garland, Lana Turner, and Hedy Lamarr. Judy loves it because the fashion is insane. Gowns and capes and diamonds and crowns made from stars. I love it because it’s about sisterhood, about three women who couldn’t be more different but who stand with each other in solidarity. And the first time we saw it, that’s what I thought we were. Me and Judy and Stephen, sisters in solidarity. A tribe.

  “Sure,” Judy says. She seems more concerned now.

  Where is he?

  I think about Lana Turner, and about how Stephen once told us that even though she and Ava Gardner dated and married all the same men, they were also great friends. Maybe Judy and I can be like Lana and Ava. Maybe we can both have Reza and still remain great friends. If it worked for them, why couldn’t it work for us? But then I remember Reza doesn’t even want me. And that Lana and Ava were both gorgeous women, so of course they were both desired, and of course they remained friends because if their man strayed, they could attract another with a snap of their fingers.

  Then, finally, the ring of the buzzer. He’s arrived.

  The minute it takes for him to take the elevator up is interminable.

  When the doorbell rings, Stephen tells Judy to open it. “He’s your guest,” Stephen says as he wipes more sweat from his face. He hasn’t been in the kitchen for a long time now, and the apartment is air-conditioned to a crisp, but the sweat still pours. I’m starting to get worried now, and so is Judy.

  “Are you okay, Uncle Stephen?” she asks.

  “Of course I’m okay, silly,” he says. “Don’t waste your youth worrying about my hot flashes, please. Every girl goes through menopause at my age.”

  Judy opens the door, and Reza stands on the other side. He’s holding the bottle of cider in one hand and a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. He must have gone back to the deli to buy them. “These are for you,” he says to Judy, handing her the flowers.

  I can’t see Judy’s face from behind, but I can feel her beaming. I feel my body shake, but I can’t even figure out what emotion is causing it. Anger, maybe. Jealousy. Hurt. Some combination.

  “Wow,” Judy says. “That’s so sweet. Thank you. Wow. How did you . . . did you know yellow roses were my favorite?”

  “I did,” Reza says. “Art told me.”

  Judy looks back to me now and smiles. “Wow,” she says. “Wow.”

  I don’t move. I don’t react.

  Stephen approaches the door. “Hi, Reza. I’m Judy’s Auntie Mame, but you can call me Uncle Stephen.” Judy looks a little mortified. But Reza doesn’t get the joke. He shakes Stephen’s hand, and then Stephen wipes more sweat from his face. Reza smiles politely, but I can tell he’s afraid. He doesn’t cross into the apartment.

  “This is for you,” Reza says, handing Stephen the cider.

  “My favorite too,” Stephen says, an obvious lie. Then, playing up the joke, he says. “Did Art tell you that nonalcoholic cider is my favorite?”

  “No,” Reza says. He’s totally missed the joke. He doesn’t get Stephen’s humor.

  “He’s just teasing you,” Judy says. “That’s what he does.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s something I must say,” Reza says, and that stops me cold. What is he about to say? I feel a bead of sweat on my own brow and wipe it off. Why is everyone sweating tonight? What is he about to say? “I just thought it would be nice to spend some time alone with Judy. I have an allowance, and we could go out, if that’s okay with your uncle.” I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t reveal my secret. At least he didn’t out me.

  Judy turns around. She looks different, like a woman.

  “It’s fine with her uncle,” Stephen says, a proud smile on his face.

  It’s not fine. It’ll be the first Sunday movie night we’ve skipped since we started. We didn’t skip Sunday movie night the week after José died, or when Judy had the flu. Sunday movie night is sacred. It’s church. And it doesn’t work without the three of us. Without each one of the Ziegfeld Girls.

  “Um, well, I guess I’ll see you guys later then,” Judy says.

  “Well, let me put those beautiful flowers in water,” Stephen says. “We wouldn’t want them to die.”

  That last word seems to linger in the air. Before handing the flowers to Stephen, Judy breaks one in half and places it in her hair. “Just ’cause it matches my outfit,” she says.

  Stephen tells them to have fun, then disappears into the kitchen with the bouquet. Reza then waves to me and says, “Goodbye, Art.” Goodbye. Just like that. With finality. Like a send-off. I stand up to say goodbye. I watch them go to the elevator. As they do, Reza places a hand on Judy’s back, protectively, like a boyfriend would.

  I stand alone as the door closes, feeling sick to my stomach. When Stephen returns, I turn toward him and see he has placed the flowers in a pink ceramic vase. They look perfect, and I wish they had been mine. I’m filled with envy, and I hate myself for it. “Nice guy,” Stephen says. “I wish my first boyfriend had been that nice.”

  I want to say that he’s not her boyfriend, but I don’t. “I’m happy for her,” I say. Can he tell I’m lying?

  Stephen goes to the kitchen and brings back a bag of jelly beans. “Two more to add tonight,” he says. “It was a bad day.” He pulls out a red jelly bean. “Pete,” he says. “Such a be
autiful dancer.” He drops the jelly bean into his pot. Then he takes out a turquoise jelly bean. “Miss Mia Madre,” he whispers.

  I gulp down hard. I remember Miss Mia Madre, a drag queen he loved. She’d always be at the ACT UP meetings, though usually out of drag there. “But she still looked healthy,” I say. “She hadn’t even lost any weight.”

  “She was healthy . . . and then she wasn’t,” Stephen says. “AIDS is a little like meteorology. They can predict tomorrow’s weather with some degree of accuracy, but anything further out is pretty much a guess.”

  That fills me with panic. I need Stephen here for more than another tomorrow. But I don’t go there. “I think . . . I think I took some pictures of her.”

  “I’d love to see them,” Stephen says. “She was born Pedro Martinez, you know. In New Jersey, of all places. Such an ordinary name for an extraordinary soul.” He throws the jelly bean into the pot. “It’s over a hundred now.” He sighs. Then he collapses on the couch. “Maybe it’s for the best those two went out,” he says. “I’m feeling worse than usual tonight. I can’t beat these fevers anymore. My glands feel like golf balls. I wouldn’t have been much of a host.”

  I sit next to him. I say nothing. He sits up and holds my hand. His is so clammy that it slips a little in mine.

  “Hey,” he says. “Let me tell you a story.”

  I nod. I love his stories.

  “My sister and I used to be best friends. We did everything together. We were partners in crime. We spoke at least once a day, we reported every detail of our lives to each other. Remind you of anyone?”

  I can feel him trying to make eye contact, but I evade his gaze.

  “She met Ryan before I met José. And when she did, things changed. She didn’t call me every day anymore. Some days she forgot. And then two days would pass, or three. Eventually, we spoke once a week. And when we did, she wouldn’t report every detail of their lives to me. I pressed, but she didn’t feel right. She didn’t want to tell me everything about their intimate life because their intimate life trumped ours.”

  “It’s a really sad story,” I say. He thinks I’m melancholy because I’m losing Judy, and I guess it’s true, but only partly. The other part I’ll never tell a soul about, even Stephen.

  “You haven’t heard the ending yet. I, of course, being the demanding bitch that I am, was very upset with her. I wouldn’t take her once-a-week calls. I withheld information from her about my life, just for revenge. We still spoke, but it wasn’t the same.”

  “Is that the happy ending?”

  “Eventually, I met José. I fell in love. And then I understood what had happened. Because what happened between us, the intimate moments, the love and the sex and the fights and the negotiations, they were our secret world. And to tell anyone all of it, even my sister, would have been betraying him.”

  “Is that the end?” I ask.

  “I suppose,” he says. “The moral is, the dynamic of friendship changes when one friend finds romance. But change doesn’t mean it’s over.”

  I could ask Stephen if he thought Reza seemed gay. I could tell him about all the little fleeting moments that passed between us. I could tell him that I think I love him too. But ours will never be a love story. And what’s love, anyway? I don’t have time for love—I’m too angry to have time for love.

  “So when’s the next action?” I ask, desperate for something to take my mind off things. “I want to be involved.”

  “Art,” he says, “you can’t be a part of every single one.”

  I give him a gaze of steel.

  “We’re in the early stages of planning something against the church. In December. We figure the closer to Christmas, the better. Show them exactly how lacking in Christmas spirit they really are.”

  “I’m in,” I say decisively. “What can I burn down?”

  Stephen laughs. Then he picks up his apron again and wipes himself. He’s really soaked. “Don’t say the word burn to me right now. I feel like my head’s in an oven.”

  “Can I do something to help?”

  “Pay attention in science class,” he says. “Then cure AIDS.”

  I want to cry. “I suck at science,” I say. I think about studying biology with Saadi, about Reza next door to us. “I can sit here and watch a movie with you. Keep you company.” I’m the one who needs company.

  “That sounds nice,” he says.

  We watch Ziegfeld Girl as planned. I eat arroz con tofu. It’s not very good, but his cooking never is. I don’t care. It reminds me of the days when Stephen was strong, José was alive, and Judy was my uncomplicated best friend. Stephen doesn’t touch his plate, just slowly sips bright-orange Gatorade from a wineglass. He has no appetite, and the more he eats, the more diarrhea he has. And since Judy Garland is framed above his toilet, he tries to minimize his diarrhea out of respect.

  I don’t like the movie as much this time. I realize that Judy, Lana, and Hedy all go their separate ways in the end. Their sisterhood has an expiration date, like a carton of eggs.

  Judy

  The air is warm and muggy. I love these summer nights, when you can almost feel a hint of autumn coming but summer just won’t say goodbye. The yellow rose tugs at my hair. No one has ever given me flowers before, let alone yellow roses. When I declared them my favorite, I never thought anyone would. As we step out into the evening, Reza says, “I don’t know this neighborhood very well.”

  “I can lead the way,” I say.

  “To be honest, I don’t know this city at all,” he says.

  I smile. “I don’t mind being your tour guide.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I would like that.”

  Wow, Judy. Have you seriously found a guy who likes you being bossy?

  I lead him to Saint Mark’s Place. It’s my happy place. It’s where punk shops and comic book stores and wig shops coexist. It’s where hippies, drag queens, and musicians unite. It’s where I get pretty much all my ideas. As we walk, I feel a pang of worry. Uncle Stephen seemed so ill tonight. The sweating, it wouldn’t stop. He’s had fevers and flus before, but this one looked awful. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him. I have this constant fear that each time I see him will be the last, and that I won’t tell him all the things I need to tell him. That I won’t get to say goodbye.

  “The neighborhoods are so different in this city,” Reza says. “This is nothing like the Upper East Side.”

  “Uh, definitely not,” I say. We get to the beginning of Saint Mark’s. “This is where I want to live when I grow up. Right at the edge of Saint Mark’s Place. I want a small apartment overlooking the street, and in the window, I want to put a few mannequins wearing my designs. I’ll swap the designs out every month, and I’ll do seasonal displays. It won’t be, like, a store or anything. It’ll be my home, but it’ll entertain people who walk by.”

  “You and Art are lucky,” he says, wistfully.

  Art. Something was up with him. All that business with the backpack was weird. And he called me Frances, which he does when he feels guilty. But maybe I’m overthinking it. Or maybe he was just concerned about Stephen like I was.

  Stop thinking about Art and Stephen, Judy. Enjoy this moment. That’s what Uncle Stephen would tell you to do.

  “You both know who you are, what you want to be,” he says.

  “What do you want to be?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I have no idea. I guess I just . . . want to go to college, so I have more time to figure it out. I like school. Well, I like class at least.”

  Something strikes me. That maybe the reason Art and I know what we want to be is because we’ve been partially raised by Stephen, and we feel how fleeting time is, how quickly it can be taken away.

  “So, my favorite place here, if you’re hungry, is Yaffa. It’s got really yummy tahini dressing, and the waitresses are so badass.”

  He’s craning his neck, taking in this street for the first time. The leather. The piercings. The tattoo shop down the street. There�
�s a dog wearing pink vinyl. There’s a man in a corset. There’s a hippie smoking grass. There’s Manic Panic, my favorite place on the whole street. It’s closing soon, supposedly, which totally depresses me. I wish I could freeze time on Saint Mark’s, just so it never changes.

  “That’s my favorite store,” I say. “They sell crazy hair dyes and punk things. The women who started it are so amazing, They even sang backup for Blondie.” He looks at me, confused. “Blondie. One of the best bands of all time, led by goddess Debbie Harry, who could literally wear anything and look good.”

  I’m talking too much. What guy wants to hear about hair dye, and about Tish and Snooky’s backup career? What does he care?

  “That restaurant sounds nice,” he says. “Should we eat?”

  We go inside and sit. The waitress wears black vinyl platform shoes, a short black skirt, and a crop top. I’ve seen her before. Art and I love her look. “Isn’t that cute?” she says as she hands us menus. “The flower in your hair matches your dress. I love that.”

  I love that she noticed. I’m so yellow that I feel like sunshine.

  Say something charming, Judy. What do people talk about on dates? About how much they like each other?

  For a long time, we say nothing. We stare at menus. We can’t even see each other.

  Then he says, “Judy, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  I think he’s going to ask me something deep, but he says, “What should I order?”

  I laugh. “I’m obsessed with the tahini dressing, but you can pretty much get it on the side of anything you order. Like if you get a burger and fries, dip them in the dressing. If you get salad, get extra dressing. Honestly, if you get pancakes, douse them in tahini and they’ll taste amazing.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Maybe we should ask them for tahini dressing soup.”

  I laugh too loud. It’s not even that funny, but I love the idea of both of us slurping salad dressing like soup.

  “You have a nice smile,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. He’s so sweet and so vulnerable, and so different from every other guy I’ve met, and without thinking, I say the first thing on my mind. “And by the way, thank you for not being a typical asshole guy.”