The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy

by B. T. Gottfred

  She says, “No,” but lets me slip it out of her hand when I reach. The conversation with the unnamed number has to be him. “What are you going to say?”

  “Something brilliant.” Then:

  ME (WRITING AS ZEE)

  I want to meet again. I’m bringing

  my best friend Art this time because

  we protect each other from

  our parents’ horrible life choices.

  “Jesus, don’t,” Zee starts, but,

  “Too late.” I send it.

  “He won’t respond. After how I acted, he’s probably like, ‘That’s why I wanted to abort her.’”

  I laugh. “You’re funny.”

  “I know.” Then:

  ZEE’S DAD

  Thank you for giving me another chance. whatever is best and most convenient for you. And I’d love to meet your friend.

  “Ooh, good answer by him, right?” I say.

  “Whatever.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Zee doesn’t respond, which I know means she wants me to handle it. So I text:

  ME (WRITING AS ZEE)

  Lunch at the P.F. Chang’s at

  Northbrook Court in two hours.

  “Art, no!”

  “Oh, please, you love when I take control.”

  Zee goes silent.

  “I was referring to our shower kiss in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’m making jokes about the awkward tension between us, which means I’m feeling much better.”

  “I’m glad my crap with my dad is helping you get over your crap with your mom.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Maybe that’s the reason we’re friends. To show each other things could always be worse.”

  ZEE

  On the drive to Northbrook, I tell Art how I think my dad is probably a terrorist and that I’m definitely a racist a-hole for thinking he’s a terrorist.

  “He’s not a terrorist, Zee.”

  “Wait till you see him.”

  “I don’t need to see him. I can tell through his texts.”

  “You’d be a terrible FBI agent.”

  “I’d actually be the best FBI agent ever, but I can’t be one because I have more important things to do like take you shopping so Cam can fall in lust with you and then both of you can pretend it’s love.”

  Jesus.

  * * *

  He drags me to Macy’s and then ropes an energetic saleslady named Luanne into helping us pick out clothes I will never wear. I tell him, “I’ve changed my mind. If Cam doesn’t like me in cargos and hoodies, fuck him.”

  “You don’t mean that. And I refuse to let you even pretend you mean that because then you’ll harbor buried feelings for him instead of discovering much more amazing feelings for me.”

  “Art.” Stop.

  “You’re right. I’ll stop.” Luanne brings over colorful skirts and dresses and the sight of them makes my insides clench into a knot but Art saves me and says, “Only pants, beautiful Luanne. But ones that fit.” He hip-nudges me. Art does try to make me try on two-hundred-dollar Makkabi designer jeans that have holes and don’t even reach my ankles.

  “I could buy ten pairs of cargo pants at Target for this one pair of fatally fucking flawed blue jeans.”

  “But we know Cam doesn’t think of you as a girl in cargo pants. We want Cam to think of you as a girl, and for him to think that, his creatively limited brain needs to see hips and ass.”

  “Don’t say that about Cam.”

  “Even if it’s true?”

  “Even if it’s true.”

  “If you try on the jeans, I won’t talk about Cam’s lack of imagination ever again.”

  “Asshole.” I grab the jeans from him, head back into the private dressing room Luanne got us. He throws a white tank top with strings for straps over the door and yells,

  “And that too.”

  Asshole. Takes me five minutes to slide the jeans over my legs. Who the fuck would spend five minutes putting on a pair of jeans? For two hundred dollars, they should materialize on your body!

  “No bra!”

  I do it because I already feel like an idiot and what’s one more fucking thing at this point. I’m trying to avoid looking in the mirror, but I’m catching glimpses and I look like a kid playing dress-up. Fuck this. About to yank off the tank top when Art throws open the dressing room door. “Get out,” I say.

  “You were going to take it off without showing it to me!”

  “Because I look like a girl pretending to be a girl!”

  “Ooh, good line. But come, let’s look.” He stands next to me and turns my shoulders to force me to face the mirror straight on. It sucks. I look naked and yet I can barely breathe or move in the jeans. I suppose it’s better than a skirt. And even with my short cropped hair and small tits, you can certainly tell I’m a chick. Cam would like it. But Art’s not saying anything.

  “WELL?” I finally yell.

  “Cam would love it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He hesitates. Which means he hates it.

  “Why did you make me try this on if you don’t even like it?”

  “Because we’re shopping for what Cam would like.”

  “You want me to wear some super-frilly skirt, don’t you? You’d love if I was into this clothes crap as much as you are.”

  “Zee…” But he stops.

  “What?!”

  “No, we have to go soon and we need to focus on you.”

  “Screw you. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I thought I would like you in it … I did … and I truly think it will make Cam drool … but you don’t look like my girlfriend in it, you look like a girl that’s just my friend.”

  “That’s because I’m not your girlfriend.” I didn’t need to say that. Everything feels awkward again. “I’m never going to spend this much money on clothes anyway.”

  “I’m buying it for you,” he says.

  “No way.”

  “Too late.” He winks at me and walks away.

  “Get back here, Art, so I can yell at you more.”

  “We don’t have time. We’re supposed to meet your dad in five minutes.”

  Yeah.

  art

  Zee changes back into my old baggy jeans and sweatshirt and then refuses to carry the clothes I bought her. I know she’ll eventually wear them for Cam and it makes me want to puke how much he’ll love her in tight jeans and he’ll want to touch her and I’m never thinking about that again even though the image is now etched into my brain.

  On the walk to P.F. Chang’s, my phone buzzes with a text. The only person I really care about texting me is Zee and she’s walking next to me, so I decide I won’t look. But then I look anyway because that’s just what I do:

  JAYDEN

  I found you on instagram and I shouldn’t tell you this

  but I can’t NOT tell you this: you’re the most handsome

  boy I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Don’t worry, when we meet (if you still will meet me after

  I admitted I’m crushing) I’ll act aloof and disinterested.

  You should text back at some point to let me know I’m not

  sending these texts to some old christian lady in texas -J

  It’s not that I don’t want another gay friend, I just don’t know if I can handle another gay friend who wants me to be his boyfriend. But I’m the nicest person on earth and Jayden’s texts are clever and he clearly has great taste if he thinks I’m the most handsome boy ever, ha, so I text back:

  ME

  This is Art

  and

  an old Christian Lady from Texas-

  I’m THAT interesting;)

  Let’s find a time to meet when things

  clear up in a couple weeks

  I feel this was a worthy response to him while also sending the message of I’m flattered you find me handsome, but I prefer the ladie
s.

  “Who are you texting?” Zee asks, and I resent Jayden for distracting me from my lady love.

  “Some person I promised to meet.”

  “A girl?” she says, and, oh-my-god, I think she’s jealous. Which I love, but I can’t lie, so I say:

  “You’re the only girl for me, my queen.” But she doesn’t respond to my flirtation because she has stopped walking, eyes fixed ahead. I follow her gaze to see her dad waiting outside P.F. Chang’s.

  “He’s fucking smoking,” Zee says, starting to take small steps backward. “That might be even worse than wanting me to never be born.”

  I block her from retreating further. “Zee. You’re malfunctioning. That’s okay. And yes, smoking’s gross, but we need, right now, to start opening our minds and hearts to this man. Me and you, more than anyone, should know we don’t want to be judged prematurely.”

  She nods and her eyes grow large with tears and she shrinks into a tiny, terrified little girl. I take her hand in mine.

  “I’m here for you just like you were there for me this morning with my mom.”

  She nods a second time and lets me guide her to meet her dad again for the first time.

  * * *

  Once he sees us approaching, he drops the cigarette, steps on it, and throws it away in the garbage. “Sorry about that. The last vestige of another life. You must be Art? I’m Arshad. Thank you so much for inviting me to lunch.”

  Zee’s stiff beside me, her hand squeezing mine with increasing pressure. “Arshad…” I start, and I decide as our eyes meet that he can handle All That I Can Be and that Zee wouldn’t want me to pretend to be anything less anyway. So I let it fly: “This is going to be a very fascinating and dramatic lunch and I love fascinating and dramatic things so should we get a table and some chicken lettuce wraps and dive into the many great mysteries of Zee’s dad?”

  He laughs. He laughs like Zee.

  “Zee thinks I’m hilarious too,” I say, and, OUCH, she crunches my hand and I take it because that’s what you do for the girl you love.

  “Having a friend who makes us laugh is a great gift.”

  “Wise words, Arshad. Wise words.” I almost say having a boyfriend who makes you laugh is an even greater gift but I’ve banned myself from making this lunch about me—WHICH IS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE—but I can do it. For Zee.

  As Arshad speaks to the hostess, I notice that he dresses like Zee. So, of course, when we follow him to the table, I have to say, “Did you and Zee always dress alike or just since yesterday?” (He also looks exactly like her, but I bet she doesn’t want to hear that right now. Same beautiful dark skin, same intense dark eyes, same beards. Ha, I’m hilarious.)

  Zee gives me a murderous scowl as he answers my question while looking at her, “Katie told me we dressed alike. I almost wore something more formal to our coffee yesterday since I didn’t want it to look like I was dressing like you on purpose, but I would have felt like I was faking something and I was already so nervous.…” He trails off. Probably because Zee is now giving him the murderous scowl.

  “Zee turns silent when she’s nervous—”

  “I’m not nervous,” she says. “I’m observing.”

  Before I can inject a clever aside, Arshad says, “That makes perfect sense. I respect that greatly.”

  She shoots back, “I don’t need you to respect it.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t mean…”

  Oh, boy. I say, “Arshad, let’s let Zee observe a bit longer.” The waitress delivers the menus just in time. “While we casually look over our lunch options, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Where you’re from, how you met Zee’s mom, what you’ve been doing for the first seventeen years of her life.”

  And I push too hard. Zee’s tolerance for the tension snaps, and then she leaps to her feet and says, “I gotta go.” And is off.

  “Order her a Coke, me a Diet, and I’ll go get her. Don’t worry, you’re doing great.” Sometimes it’s okay to lie.

  ZEE

  Art catches me before I get out the door, pulls me down to the bench by the hostess table. I don’t fight him. I want to kill him. But I don’t fight him.

  First thing he says, “Do you want me to go and leave you two alone?”

  “Fuck no. I want to go.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “YOU’RE SO ANNOYING, ART!”

  “I know.” He smiles.

  “Just stop trying to make this funny and light. It’s not. He ditched my mom and me and we were broke and she had cancer and it sucked and I thought he was dead. So this isn’t funny!” I’d cry about this if I didn’t want to punch my fist through the wall.

  Art doesn’t respond. Not for a long time. (Well, long for him.) Then, finally, he says, “No.”

  “No what?”

  “If I’m going to be here and endure the tension between you two—and oh-my-god, it’s so tense I can feel the blood inside me race around looking for an escape hatch—then I’m going to try to keep it as light and funny as I can. Because that’s what he needs and that’s what I think you need too.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Then I’ll go.” He’s being so fucking stubborn. And confident. It’s kind of a turn-on. And getting turned on makes me think about our kiss. And I need not to think about that ever again.

  So I say, “Fuck. Fine. Do what you want.”

  “I always do.” And he winks again! After his big teary good-bye last night, I thought I’d never see this side of him again. But he’s more … just more … than ever.

  * * *

  I follow him back to the table, where Arshad has drinks waiting for us.

  Art says, “Zee’s going to sit on the inside of the booth this time.”

  No. Asshole. Fine. I scoot in first, accidentally take a sip of his Diet Coke, which tastes like acid. Switch the drinks, try to look at Arshad. Can’t. Now I have to look at the wall because I’m on the inside. I feel like an idiot, so I try to look at him again and he’s looking right at me.

  Arshad says, “Is this too much? Too soon? I only want what’s best for you.”

  He’s so patient and present. Fuck him. “Stop being so fucking nice. You can’t be a nice person. Nice people don’t abandon their kids when they don’t get aborted.” Art tries to take my hand in his. Fuck him too. “I don’t want to hold your fucking hand, Art. I’m fucking fine. It’s you two that are being a couple of frauds.”

  Arshad’s face shoots straight down with shame. Good. Sort of. But now I feel like I’m the asshole. That’s not fair!

  “Zee…” Art starts, then leans into my ear and whispers, “Open mind, open heart.”

  “I hate you, Art,” I say, loudly.

  The kid tells Arshad, “That’s Zee-speak for ‘I really appreciate you.’ Don’t worry, you’ll learn it over time.”

  But Arshad can’t smile at Art’s charms this time. Good. Neither can I. Arshad closes his eyes, like he did yesterday at the café. Probably wishing he’d given up on me after that fiasco. Fuck it. I’m gonna pretend I’m Art and just say what I want. “Why do you do that?”

  He opens his eyes to say, “Why do I close my eyes?”

  “Yeah. It’s weird.”

  “I apologize if it’s off-putting. I do it when I’m feeling overwhelmed. It helps slow me down so I don’t say or do things I might regret,” my dad says. Arshad. Whatever. It was a good answer. Whatever a second time.

  “Oooh,” Art starts, “I like that. I never regret anything, but I still like that. I’m kidding. Not about liking that. I do. But about not regretting anything. I already regret saying I don’t regret anything.”

  “He broadcasts his internal monologue,” I tell Arshad.

  He says, “I think it’s very refreshing.”

  So Art says, “Thank you, Arshad. Zee loves it too. That’s why we’re BFFs now.”

  “Zee, can I address your comment about
my not being a nice person?”

  “I didn’t mean…” I start, but I did mean it so I stop.

  “No, you were correct. I was not a nice person. I was many things, but nice was never one. It is something I’m still striving toward. I have a theory if you don’t mind my sharing it.”

  I don’t respond. Fucking Art does: “We’d love to hear it.”

  Arshad goes on, “Kindness, I believe now, is not something you give others. Kindness is something you give yourself and only after you have given it to yourself does it flow freely and effortlessly toward others. Your mother…” He pauses. A memory. Oh, fuck, Arshad, you better not cry over my mom now because it will make me cry. Crap. He’s tearing up. Oh, here I go now. So sick of crying! I choke it back as best I can as he continues, “… your mother, she overflowed with it. When I was young, and we were dating, I thought it was my job to show your mother how cruel and unfair the world was. So I said and did cruel and unfair things. Only years later—years and years of therapy and self-analysis—did I realize that I was not drawn to your mother because I wanted to teach her how unkind the world was. I was—subconsciously—drawn to your mother because I was hoping she would teach me how to be kind to myself.”

  Uh …

  Yeah.

  If you’re so busy being angry, how are you going to look for things that might make you happy?

  Yeah.

  Open mind, open heart.

  Okay.

  But first I’ve got to unleash these tears. It’s suffocating trying to hold them in. So I let my body shake, put my face in my napkin, and just let it pour. “I’m sorry…” I gasp out.

  “I didn’t mean…” Arshad starts.

  But Art interjects, while rubbing my back, “This is good. It’s good, Arshad. What you said was very, very good. And I keep telling Zee that tears are good too and someday she’ll believe me.”

  The emotions calm. The napkin clears my tears. “Okay…” I say, “Okay…” Whatever crap he did to my mom back then, I’m not saying I forgive it. I’m just saying I know he understands her now. And not many people do. And that means something. “Arshad?”