Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  Idiot, Judy. Who wants to hear the word asshole on a date?

  The waitress returns, and we order salads.

  “Do you know that before school started, I ripped my braces out? Before that, I would never smile.”

  I suddenly laugh. “Oh my God,” I say. “Did you bleed?”

  “Oh, yes,” he says. He’s laughing too, now. We have found some kind of groove. “There was so much blood. And my mother was too scared to tell her new husband that her son is crazy, so she found an orthodontist in the yellow pages.”

  “No!” I say.

  “I’m very serious,” he says, laughing his beautiful laugh. “But I convinced them to take the braces off. Now I wear a retainer at night.”

  “Aw, that’s cute,” I say.

  “I haven’t told anyone about that,” he says. “Not even my stepfather or stepbrother knows.”

  “Your dental secrets are all safe with me,” I say. I lean in covertly. “And by the way, I would’ve liked you even with braces.”

  He smiles again. Our salads arrive. “You are too kind,” he says.

  “No, seriously,” I say. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not kind. I can be an awful, unforgiving person. I judge everyone, except Art and Stephen. I hate people.”

  “You do not hate people,” he says. “You love Art and your uncle. You just said you love those ladies who sing backup.”

  “Those aren’t people,” I say. “Those are downtown legends. I love downtown legends. I hate everyone we go to school with, except for you and Art.”

  “I don’t know if I blame you,” he says. “They are mostly not very nice.”

  “I know,” I say sympathetically, thinking of the terrible things I’ve heard said to him in the halls. “And usually Darryl Lorde is the ringleader.”

  He nods in agreement. There’s a short silence, and then he says. “Judy, I’m sorry about your uncle.”

  I tense up a little bit. I haven’t touched my salad, but now I start to nervously devour it. “Thanks,” I say, my mouth full.

  “I don’t know if Art told you, but my father died.” His salad is still sitting there, wilting as he speaks. “It was strange because I hadn’t seen him in years. When he died, at first, I felt nothing. I just went about my day like nothing happened. My sister raged and screamed and threw things. I thought something was wrong with me. But it hit me much later. Like, a year later. And in some ways, I don’t know, maybe I still haven’t accepted it.” He waits a beat. I say nothing. Then he says, “That’s the most I have ever told someone about him. I . . . You make me feel like I can say anything to you.”

  Uncle Stephen once told me that nobody can make you feel anything. If you feel it, it originates from you. “God, I’m sorry,” I say. “How did he . . . ”

  “He just drank too much,” he says. “His liver . . .”

  I’m filled with a sudden appreciation for my boring father, his accounting job, and his once-a-week glass of whiskey.

  “I just wanted you to know,” he says. “I understand what it feels like to lose somebody important to you.”

  I nod. Why is he so sensitive and cute? Who is this perfect? “Stephen’s lost so many friends. And then we lost his partner, José. That was hard. But I don’t think I’ll cope at all if Stephen goes. I just . . . I pretend it won’t happen, you know. I pretend he’s invincible.” I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. I think of the sweat pouring down his face earlier today. I gotta change the subject before I cry. “So what else did Art tell you about me?” I ask.

  “Oh, he told me about the yellow roses,” he says. “And that you like ice cream.”

  “And you remembered!” I say. “I mean, that’s just so . . . thoughtful.”

  “I’m always thinking,” he says, and the way he says it makes me feel a little like he’s talking about something else, something that has nothing to do with me, or salad, or ice cream.

  “What do you like?” I ask.

  “I don’t even know,” he says. “I just . . . This is what scares me so much about you and Art. You remind me that I have no idea who I am.”

  “You like Madonna,” I say.

  He nods.

  “Favorite song?” I ask.

  He doesn’t even think. He immediately says, “‘Oh, Father.’”

  “Mine is ‘Borderline,’” I say. “I know it’s an old one, but it just gets me. Like it’s about so many things. Borderlines are everywhere, between lovers, between straight and gay people, between countries.

  “And by the way,” I continue, “I’m not one of those stereotype peddlers who think liking Madonna makes you gay. She’s an equalizer. Not to mention that men from other countries are so different. Art went to Italy and France with his parents, and he said that every man there seems gay. I’ve never left the country, but when I’m a designer, I’ll go everywhere. Maybe I’ll even move to Paris when Saint Mark’s Place is so gentrified that it sucks. I’d like to be in a place where all the men seem gay. A world of men who act gay, but who like women, and with delicious croissants everywhere!”

  Shut up, Judy. You sound like a freak. Avoid culinary and homosexual topics immediately.

  “Not that you seem gay at all, by the way,” I say quickly. “It’s just the Madonna thing.”

  “I suppose I like what she has to say,” he says haltingly.

  “Your dad died, so you were raised by a strong woman, and it sounds like your sister is intense, so two strong women in your home. It’s obvious why you’d like a strong woman like . . . Madonna.” I was about to say a strong woman like me, but what kind of conceited thing to say is that?

  Change the subject, Judy.

  “It was so nice of Art to tell you what I like,” I say. “He’s a really great friend.”

  “Yes, he is,” he says. “A great friend, to you.”

  The way he says to you has a sting to it. Maybe something did happen between the two of them. Maybe they just don’t like each other. But that can’t be a deal breaker. I can’t give this guy up because he and Art don’t like each other.

  We talk for an hour, about his sister, who sounds badass and hilarious. She would often come home from clubs when Reza was waking up. About his mother, who must be tough as steel. It’s so obvious how much he loves her and wants to make her happy. I tell him about my parents, about how typical they are, and how they’ve sacrificed their lives to give me a life that I don’t even want. How fashion means so much to me. And Uncle Stephen—how without him, I wouldn’t even be me. I’d be someone named Ernestine Carol, or Carol Ernestine.

  He’s the one who asks for the check. And when the waitress brings it, he insists on paying. “A real gentleman,” she says, not to him, but to me, like she’s telling me how rare a real gentleman is.

  Oh, I know, fabulous waitress.

  After Reza pays, he excuses himself to the bathroom, and the waitress lingers. “You’re glowing,” she tells me. “You don’t glow like this when you come in with your other friend.”

  “Am I?” I ask. “I guess it’s because my other friend is gay.”

  “You’re also looking gorgeous tonight,” she says. “I love your dress.”

  I love downtown. I belong here. “Do you think he likes me?” I ask conspiratorially.

  “Definitely,” she says. “Body language, baby. He was leaning in. His hands were on your side of the table most of the time. His feet were too.”

  “Really? I didn’t even notice.”

  Of course you noticed, Judy. Why are you lying?

  She takes Reza’s money and heads to the back. When Reza returns, we step outside. The waitress’s words run through my mind. As we walk, I try to observe his “body language.” He walks next to me, but not so close we’re touching. His hands are in his pockets, nowhere near mine. But then, at one point, his foot grazes mine. “Oh, sorry,” he says.

  Maybe he did that on purpose. Maybe he was communicating his desire to touch you with this accidental kick.

  “I think
we should get ice cream,” he says. “Since you love it. And I love it, too.”

  I smile, really excited, like we have something highly unusual in common, as if 99 percent of the world doesn’t love ice cream.

  He gets chocolate and coconut. I get mint chocolate chip and French vanilla. As we eat, we pass a street vendor selling jewelry, sunglasses, and hats. We stop and browse. I throw a beret on him, and he laughs. “I look like a fool,” he says.

  “No, you look adorable,” I say. “Like an existentialist.”

  He puts the beret back in its pile, unconvinced.

  “Hey, could I make you over?” I ask.

  “Make me over into what?” he asks.

  “You know, like, make clothes for you. If I made clothes for you, would you wear them? I promise they will be very cool, and cut to perfection.”

  He looks at me with surprise. “I would really like that,” he says.

  My eyes fall on some pins the vendor is selling. Tiny laminated fish, one beady eye staring out through the plastic. “Are those, um, real fish?” I ask.

  “Of course,” the vendor says. “These pins are special. Fish represent life.”

  “Do they?” I ask.

  “Read the Bible!” the man says.

  “We’ll take two,” Reza says. He pays for the pins and puts one on himself, then one on me. As he pins me, his hand grazes against my boob. Body language. I feel like one of those pretty girls in fifties movies, getting pinned by the guy in the varsity jacket. Except our pins have dead fish in them, and his varsity jacket is a Madonna shirt, and my cheerleader uniform is a fabulous sunflower yellow outfit. I take my last lick of ice cream.

  And that’s when I look across the street at Manic Panic, and I see . . . her.

  Debbie Harry.

  She’s dressed in head-to-toe red. Red leggings. A body-hugging red dress, the back low-cut. Red boots, with stilettos. Her hair is ice blond, a red streak through it, like a punk Jean Harlow. She wears a chunky cross around her neck, and another necklace with big silver Xs running up and down it. Her lips are ruby red, too. I say, “Holy shit Reza, that’s DEBBIE HARRY.” No, I don’t say it. I scream it. And in doing so, I alert everyone on the block. Debbie must hear me too, because she waves to me, then steps into a black car.

  It’s a sign. It must be sign. When does this just happen? When does a guy bring you your favorite flowers the same night you see Debbie Harry on Saint Mark’s Place?

  “Is that the backup singer you were telling me about?” Reza asks.

  “No!” I say. “That’s the LEAD SINGER. That’s one of the most fabulous stars in the whole world. And we . . . saw . . . her.”

  Art will hate that he missed this moment. He’ll act happy for me, but he’ll be green with envy as I describe her red perfection.

  Don’t think about Art, Judy. This is your moment.

  “I like to see you so happy,” Reza says.

  My whole body feels alive, like a new life is beginning, like Debbie has transferred some of her energy to me. And that’s when I lean in and kiss Reza.

  Rapture. That’s what it feels like.

  I pull away. “I think I was supposed to let you do that,” I say. “If you even wanted to.”

  He blushes, his eyes nervously darting around.

  “Unless you didn’t want to . . . ? If so, I’m really sorry.” Suddenly I feel like the biggest fool on earth.

  “Do not apologize,” he finally says. “I’m so happy you did that. You have no idea how good that makes me feel.”

  Now he pulls me in, his hands on my love handles. I understand why they’re called love handles now. It’s rapture.

  December 1989

  “Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.”

  —Judy Garland

  Reza

  Judy’s home is everything my new home is not, by which I mean it feels like a home. There are no chandeliers. No gold, no crystal, no ancient paintings. I don’t feel like I’m in a museum in this place—nothing about it says look but do not touch. The pink and yellow flowers on the sofa fabric have long faded to gray. The wallpaper on the living room walls has started to peel at the edges, revealing the plaster and dried glue beneath it. The teacups don’t match, and they were clearly collected over many years as a family, from universities, tourist destinations, corporations, and concerts. The one I am currently handed by Mrs. Bowman reads “Dad of the Year” and it’s chipped. I will need to watch my lip every time I take a sip to make sure the cup doesn’t cut me. But I like that they have kept this chipped cup in their cupboards. I like that the dad in this house was dad of the year.

  “Is it okay?” Mrs. Bowman asks me.

  “I’m sure it is,” I say, as I blow on my tea, still steaming.

  “I know you Persians are masters of the tea,” she says, with a playful smile that erases any possible offense I may feel at hearing her say you Persians.

  “Mom, can you try being a little more sensitive with your words? How would you feel if he said, ‘I know that you Americans are masters of the . . .’” Judy pauses and sighs. “God, we’re not even masters of anything. It’s so depressing.”

  “We invented musicals,” Mrs. Bowman says, holding her smile.

  “Yeah, but they’re just a bastardized version of opera,” Judy says. “All we do is take other cultures, steal their treasures, and take the credit. We have no culture of our own.”

  Judy’s mother sighs, in much the same way Judy just did. Their mannerisms are remarkably similar beneath their divergent facades. Mrs. Bowman turns to me. “I’m sorry if my words offended you, Reza. I promise you that I only meant well.”

  “Oh, I was not offended,” I say.

  “Well, I was offended on your behalf,” Judy says, placing her hand around my waist. She likes to do this, put a hand on my body. Sometimes around my waist or my shoulder, sometimes on my leg, through my fingers or my hair. It usually makes me feel safe for a moment, and then it reminds me of everything I cannot give her, everything I am pretending to be, and everything I felt when Art’s hand touched mine. But that already feels like a lifetime ago.

  I take a sip of the tea. Though it did not come from a teabag, it tastes like it did. It has none of the richness of flavor my mother’s tea does. “It’s delicious,” I say. And then, wanting to lighten the mood, I add, “This master of the tea approves.” I’m such a liar. Everything I say is a lie.

  “You see,” Mrs. Bowman says, with a look toward her daughter. “He likes my tea. Perhaps you could take some lessons in graciousness from your new . . . boyfriend.”

  A wave of tension passes through the room. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. We have not used those words yet, at least not in front of each other. I can feel Judy scanning my face for a reaction, but I stare at the linoleum floor. This word has just underlined my deceit with its specificity.

  “Yeah,” Judy says, squeezing my waist. “You Persians have such good manners.”

  I don’t laugh, but Mrs. Bowman does. She pulls Judy in close to her. “Listen, I’ll be at book club for most of the afternoon, so if I don’t see you, I hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “And Reza,” Mrs. Bowman says, “once my daughter has approved, I’d love to meet your parents and your brother as well.”

  I smile and nod. We Persians have such good manners. But what I want to say is that they are not my parents. I have a stepfather and a stepbrother now. They don’t belong to me, and I don’t belong to them. Like Cinderella, I’m an impostor in my home, and like her, all I want is a prince.

  “Okay, may we be excused now?” Judy asks.

  “You were never not excused,” Mrs. Bowman says, and she turns away from us toward a dog-eared book above the microwave. “It’s a free country.”

  The title of Mrs. Bowman’s book leaps out at me. When BAD Things Happen to GOOD People. The words bad and good are capitalized, like warnings. Bad things have happened to me, but I am
not a good person. I’m a liar and a thief. Have bad things happened to Mrs. Bowman? I remember that her brother is sick. Maybe that’s why she’s reading this book.

  As Judy takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, I think about how easy it was to meet her parents. I met them weeks ago, and there was no pomp or circumstance about it. Judy brought me by her house for a casual dinner. Her mother made pasta and salad and insisted I call her Bonnie. Her father asked me questions about the revolution with genuine interest and insisted I call him Ryan. Since then, I have been welcome in their home. Easy. Nothing about tonight will be easy. Unlike this family, mine doesn’t come from a free country. We have rules and expectations. I had offered to bring Judy by the house to meet my mom and Abbas, but my mom rejected that suggestion, worried about what kind of impression it would make on Judy that they wouldn’t take her out to dinner first. I wanted to say it would send the impression that they were relaxed, normal people, but I let her have her way. My mother made and canceled three restaurant reservations before we finally settled on a place. She decided her first choice was too stiff, her second choice was too far downtown for Abbas, who generally won’t go below Fifty-Ninth Street, and her third choice too loud. At dinner in our ornate dining room, she asked me where I thought Judy would like to go. Perhaps, my mother said, we should choose the restaurant Judy would like. That’s when Saadi made his first of what I knew would be many cracks. He said Judy would like any restaurant that serves food, the more of it, the better. A moment of silence, and then the revelation that Judy is overweight. I could see my mother taking this in, accepting that her son’s first girlfriend may not be the perfect Persian princess she once imagined. I glared at Saadi and revealed some more important details about Judy to my mom and Abbas. I told them that she designs clothes, and that she loves Saint Mark’s Place, Debbie Harry, and avant-garde art. That’s when Abbas decided we should go to Mr. Chow, which is where the rich and the avant-garde meet, where Warhol liked to eat when he was alive and wanted overpriced dumplings. My mom wondered if we could get a table, and Abbas said that of course he could. This is the thing about the Abbases of the world. They may prefer to stay above Fifty-Ninth Street, but if they want to go elsewhere, they have access. That’s what money buys you, access to any corner of the world you want to explore and the safety to return home.