This is a lie. School is terrible. I’m the new, dark kid who has no idea how to make friends. They make Iranian hostage crisis and ayatollah jokes about me. And I’m scared of the other kids, none more so than Art, who attracts and repels me, sometimes in the same moment. There’s one good thing about school, and that’s Judy. She is kind, and funny, and she seems to like me, seems to see something in me that I wish I could see in myself.
“Tell us a little more,” my mom says. “What is your favorite class?”
“Um, I don’t know,” I say. “English, I guess. We’re reading The Odyssey and I think it’s good.”
Saadi nods his head. “Awesome book,” he says. I saw him yesterday in his room, reading the CliffsNotes.
“I wish you would read the Shahnameh as well,” Abbas says. “We have our own history and literature.”
“We could all read it together,” my mom says. “Like a family book club.”
I can see the wheels in Saadi’s head turning, trying to figure out the chances that someone has written CliffsNotes for the Shahnameh. When he figures out that the chances are zero, he says, “Right, like we have time to read two epics in one semester.”
Abbas doesn’t admonish his son. Instead, we sit in silence, nothing filling the space but the sound of four mouths chewing. There’s a point during all our family dinners so far when everybody’s attempts at conversation fail. We sit and say nothing, chewing as quietly as we can. In Iran and in Toronto, we never had a quiet family dinner. My dad and my sister didn’t know how to be quiet.
And then the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” my mom says.
“It’s for me,” Saadi says, getting up. “It’s my project partner for biology. Don’t be shocked by how he looks. He’s a queen.”
Saadi moves toward the front door and opens it. I don’t see Art, but I can hear him. “Hey, what’s up?” he asks Saadi.
“Nothing,” Saadi says. “Let’s get this over with.”
Saadi and Art enter the dining room. It’s the first time I have seen Art out of the school uniform, and now the rest of him matches his lavender hair. His jeans are ripped at both knees and splattered with paint. He wears a sleeveless black T-shirt, with zippers at both sides and a decal of a woman with big hair on it. And his combat boots have thick heels on them, so when he walks in, it sounds like my mom sounds when she enters a room. He has a camera around his neck, a fancy one with a big lens.
“Family, this is Art,” Saadi says. “We have to work on a science project.”
“Hey, family,” Art says, waving his right hand, revealing a single fingernail painted black.
“Hello,” Abbas says. He stands up and shakes Art’s hand politely. “I’m Abbas, Saadi’s father. You are a classmate of his?”
“Oh yeah, we’re real close,” Art says, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“This is my wife, Mina,” Abbas says, and my mom dutifully stands and shakes Art’s hand. “And you must know my other son, Reza.”
I freeze for a moment. I do every time Abbas refers to me as his son, which I am clearly not. Nothing about me says that I belong in his world of high finance and high-rises.
But I know it’s my turn to stand dutifully, and I do. “Hello, Art,” I say, and I approach him to shake his hand.
“Hey, Reza,” Art says. When he shakes my hand, he holds it a little too tightly, and I catch a hint of the smell of his armpits. His sleeveless shirt has sweat stains on it, inevitable if you are outside for more than a few seconds. Smelling him makes me uncomfortable, and I pull my hand aggressively away from his. He looks at me funny when I do, but I have no idea what he’s thinking.
“Are you hungry, Art?” my mom asks. “We have stew and rice. Have you ever had Persian food?”
“We’re going to study,” Saadi says.
“It’s okay,” Art says. “I don’t eat meat anyway. I don’t believe in killing living things. Except Jesse Helms.”
My mom and Abbas flinch at that, more than a little offended, as if his clothes and hair were not enough.
“And yeah, I’ve had Persian food. My parents have lots of Persian friends. Kind of inevitable when you live on the Upper East Side post-1979.”
“Who are your parents?” Abbas asks. “Do I know them?”
“Dad, I want to be done studying before Quantum Leap is on,” Saadi says. “Can you let us go, please? And he’s Bartholomew Emerson Grant VI, so he passes whatever test you’re giving him.”
I stare at Art, wondering what the significance of his name is, what special lineage he comes from. I zone out as the conversation speeds up—Abbas is excited by this newfound piece of information. The sounds become hazy. All I see is Art, like I can hear his heartbeat through the fabric of his tank top, underscoring the conversation.
Oh of course I know your father. We’ve never done a deal together, but we’ve tried.
Probably for the best.
Tell him I say hello. And your beautiful mother.
What a lovely coincidence. We’d love to have your family over for dinner.
And I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandfather. What a man!
The expression on Art’s face seems to question whether the death of his grandfather was a loss at all. I know that ambivalence. I felt it when my mom told us about my dad. By that point, I hadn’t seen him in four years, not since we left Tehran. And I felt a hollow sadness, a sharp pain, but also relief. We could start over.
“He was a great man,” Abbas continues, perhaps hoping for some response from Art.
Art does respond now, but not about his grandfather’s greatness. “This is the raddest dining room I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Could I take a picture of it?”
My mother stands up. “Oh, of course,” she says, exceedingly polite. “We will just get out of the way.”
“No, no, you’re a crucial part of it. All of you.”
My mom sits back down. Art raises his camera to his face, closes one eye, and focuses. The four of us sit, smiles frozen on our faces, and wait for him to click. “Brilliant,” he says, with a fake British accent.
Then Saadi pulls Art out toward his bedroom, leaving me alone with Abbas and my mom.
“I wonder why Bartholomew Grant allows his son to dress like that,” Abbas says.
“American parents are so different,” my mom says. “They let their children get away with murder.”
“Murder is one thing,” Abbas says. “Purple hair is another thing altogether.”
My mom laughs, and I get a glimpse of what she sees in him. Maybe it really is more than money. I also find myself wanting to defend Art, and I don’t know why, because I too hate his purple hair, and his dirty high-heeled boots, and his sweaty armpits.
“Well, thank God, none of us have children like that,” my mom says. “We have wonderful children.” She tousles my hair and smiles as she says this, and I realize she probably has not told Abbas a shred of truth about my older sister and all her issues.
“We do,” Abbas says. “We are very lucky.”
I force a smile, and I remind myself to be grateful. “I feel very lucky too,” I say, and my mom beams. “I also feel full. May I be excused?”
“Of course,” my mom says.
Before leaving the room, I give my mom and Abbas a kiss on each cheek and thank them for dinner.
I’m in my room reading The Odyssey, and I can hear the faint voices of Saadi and Art in the room next door. I can’t tell what they’re talking about, and although the subject matter of their conversation is probably restricted to the mundane details of their homework, I still want to hear everything. I try to refocus on the book, but I’m on page one of over two hundred, and I’m not exactly feeling focused. I think about my own odyssey, from Iran to Canada to New York. I find myself turning the page without even remembering a thing I have just read. I used to be a reliably good student, always capable of getting the straight As that my mother desired from me. But now, finding myself unable to
read a single page, I wonder if maybe I was only good because I was compensating for my sister’s perpetual problems. If she hadn’t been around to scare me into behaving, would I have studied as hard, or tried as desperately to please my mom? I turn another page. I’m still not paying attention, even though I highlight a sentence or two in an effort to convince myself I’m still diligent.
Then the door opens. No knock. I assume it’s Saadi, but Art walks in, and I jump back in surprise.
“Whoa,” he says. “I’m not Freddy Krueger. You weren’t jerking off, were you?”
“Um . . . no,” I say. I hold up The Odyssey and push it toward him, just in case he has bad eyesight or something. “I was reading. For school.”
“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 his book bag, removing the mess of items inside and laying them down on my floor. First, a bright-yellow Discman. Then his own copy of The 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 other until 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 my dad’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 right words 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 the f word,” I say, “but I don’t think you’re allowed to use the b word.”
“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?”
I feel trapped. I don’t know what the right thing to say is. If I say no, then she may never spend time with me again, and she is the only friend I have made. And also, I’m scared of Art, of how he makes me feel, of his directness and self-assurance. I wonder how he got to be that way. Maybe his parents support him unconditionally, cheer him on no matter what. I bet they do. That’s what American parents are like.
“She’s, um, very cool,” I say, hoping that will make him stop. “Probably the coolest girl I have ever met.” That’s not a lie. I can’t tell the whole truth, but I also hate telling lies.
“Okay,” he says. “That’ll do for now. She’s a great kisser, you know. We practiced with each other.”
I don’t say anything to that. I’m too busy daydreaming about what it would be like to practice kissing with Art.
He stands up again and clicks open his Discman. He pulls out the CD, then finds the case for it in his bag. He throws it on my bed. “A present,” he says.
“Oh, I can’t accept that,” I say.
“Whatever. I can easily steal another twenty bucks from my parents to replace it. My dad’s so easy to steal from. He just leaves his money in a money clip on the mantel when he showers.” Art throws on a few of the jelly bracelets and dumps all the other items that were in his bag back in, in no apparent order. “See you at school?” he asks.
“Um, okay,” I say. He’s
about to leave when I stand up and call his name. When he turns around, I stumble over my words, but finally I ask, “When did you know that you were, um, you know, homosexual?”
He puts his bag down and smiles. “I had a wet dream about Morrissey. He’s a singer. A hot one with an accent. I love accents.”
“Is that a serious answer?” I ask, self-conscious about my accent.
“Seriously,” he says. “But I should’ve known sooner. All my friends were girls. And there was Judy’s uncle Stephen. He was always around. You know me and Judy have been friends forever, right?” I nod, but I say nothing because I don’t want him to stop. “I always felt more connected to him than to my own dad. I guess I should’ve known that whatever Uncle Stephen was . . . is what I was too. It was just so obvious that we belonged to the same tribe or something. But before that wet dream, I didn’t understand, you know? I had no frame of reference. Why?”
“No special reason,” I say.
“So you’re cool with me being gay?” he asks. “Because Judy was afraid you’d be a homophobe.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” I say, as if it’s a matter of politeness.
“Cool,” he says. “Case closed.” Then he waves his hand and leaves. Just like that.
I notice his backpack on the floor. I could run out and return it to him, but I stay put. I lock the door, and I pull out the sweaty tank top he threw in there and a pair of black briefs. I put on the Madonna CD he gave me, and as I listen to the sound of her voice calling me home, I push his scent against my face. It makes me feel wobbly, and I sit on the floor as I catch my breath. Then I keep searching through his bag, feeling the smoothness of his jelly bracelets and leafing through his notebook, like I’m searching for his secrets. But I immediately feel awful about snooping, and I slam his notebook shut. He doesn’t even have any secrets, I remind myself. He is the open book. I’m the one with secrets. I close my eyes. The second Madonna song comes on. She tells me to express myself. I wish I knew how to do that.
Then I pull out a stack of worn, oversize index cards, held together with a rainbow scrunchie. My eyes catch the top of the first card, which reads #1 Adonis. Then #2 Advocate, The. Then #3 AIDS. I stop cold. Just that word on a piece of paper scares me, makes me feel like it could be transmitted to me, and I quickly flip past it. The cards are alphabetical, each with a number on top and a subject, followed by a handwritten scrawl, almost illegible. You can tell they were written quickly and with passion. Some entries are longer than one card, sometimes two or three, stapled together. I scan through the cards. I wonder what secrets they hold. There are one hundred and thirty-one of them in total, and a few leap out at me. #9 Baldwin, James. #18 Brunch. #26 Condoms. #28 Crawford, Joan. #53 Fucking Reagans, The. #54 Garland, Judy. #75 Love. #96 Radical Faeries. #127 White Night Riots. #131 Woolf, Virginia. But one card calls to me above all others. #76 Madonna. I pull it out and start to read.
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