Like a Love Story

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Like a Love Story Page 24

by Abdi Nazemian


  “Everyone’s always thinking something,” he says.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “Honestly,” he says, “I’m thinking that my stepbrother is an idiot for letting you go.”

  And that is exactly what I needed to hear. I grab Saadi by the collar of his blue Lacoste polo and I pull him close to me, and I make out with him. It’s furious. Our tongues explore each other. Then his hands are all over me, up the shiny fabric of the purple dress I designed for the party, on my thighs. His breath is heavy, and his hips are thrusting urgently. I feel what I never felt when Reza and I kissed, an erection. Saadi is so hard. He sits up and takes his polo off. His body is thick and his chest has black hair on it. I put my hands on his chest. My fingernails are painted purple too, and they look kind of great against his skin. He puts his hands on my face with a tenderness that surprises me, and that’s when I say, “Wait.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “It’s just . . . will you . . . could you, um, go wash your hands? You just peed.”

  He laughs. “Seriously?” he asks.

  “Seriously,” I say.

  He jumps up and goes into the bathroom. I can hear the water running. When he comes back, he sits back down next to me. He puts his hand next to my nose, and I sniff them. “Now I smell like lavender,” he says.

  “Better than smelling like piss,” I say.

  He laughs again. “You’re pretty funny,” he says.

  “And you’re pretty,” I say.

  “Um, thanks?” he says, imitating me.

  “Why are you friends with Darryl Lorde?” I ask. “Why do you stand around while he says such awful things?”

  Saadi shrugs. “Who else am I supposed to be friends with?”

  “There are other choices,” I say. “You could be friends with me.”

  “As long as I wash my hands obsessively,” he says.

  “Not obsessively, just regularly,” I say. “Also, as long as you stop being homophobic.”

  “You know, we can’t all change the world, right?” he says. “Some of us just go along with things the way they are.”

  “I get it,” I say. “I’m sure a lot of old Germans say the exact same thing.”

  He laughs. “Did you just compare me to a Nazi?”

  “If Das Boot fits,” I say.

  To my surprise, he laughs again. “Is it weird that the more you dislike me, the more I want to kiss you?” he asks.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I say. “Do you go to therapy?”

  He pulls me into a kiss. I explore his mouth with my tongue, feel every crevice of his body with my hands. The coarseness of his skin, the fuzz of his hair.

  “Take my dress off,” I say, shocked by the commanding tone of my voice.

  He yanks at the back of my dress.

  “Carefully,” I warn.

  “It’s beautiful,” he says as he carefully peels it off me. “So are you.”

  He looks at me, taking my body in. I guide him on top of me, feel his hardness. He wants to have sex, but I tell him I’m not ready.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Next time?” I ask.

  He thrusts against me until he’s done, and then he collapses, his head on my breast.

  I catch a glimpse of Annabel’s kitty-cat alarm clock. It’s ten thirty. It’ll be close to eleven if I run home now. My parents will kill me. Shit. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” I say. I see the bottle of water next to me. I’ve only had half of it. I grab it and chug the rest, begging for it to sober me up.

  “We’ll do this again, right?” he asks.

  “Uh, maybe,” I say as I put my dress back on.

  I run home, ready to beg my parents’ forgiveness. They love Annabel, so it should be easy to come up with some excuse of what we were doing. My mom’s just so happy I have a girlfriend. When I walk in, my parents are awake, just as I expected. And they look livid.

  “Where have you been?” my mother asks. Tears well in her eyes.

  “It’s almost eleven,” my dad says. He’s wearing a watch that Annabel’s dad gave him for his birthday last month. Seriously, all my best friends’ parents give my parents absurdly extravagant gifts.

  “Annabel and I were just watching a movie,” I say. “We lost track of time.” My mom shakes her head, still crying. I move closer to her. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “We were about to leave,” she says.

  “Leave?” I ask. “To go look for me? You guys, I’m not a child anymore. I can—”

  “To go to the hospital,” my dad says, and my heart sinks. If the bottle of water didn’t sober me up, this did.

  We rush out to the hospital together, and we’re greeted by Jimmy, who is in the waiting room, sweating anxiously.

  “Jimmy, is he okay?” my mom asks.

  “I don’t know,” Jimmy says. “They won’t let me go back and see him. I told them I’m his health care proxy, and they say I’m not family. It’s BULLSHIT.” The front desk nurse cringes a little as Jimmy glares at her.

  “Jesus Christ,” my mom says, and my mom never takes the Lord’s name in vain.

  “He was asleep next to me,” Jimmy says. “Then I heard him gasping for breath. Like he was fighting just to get enough air. And he was drenched. The whole bed was wet. I got him here as fast as I could, but . . . I just . . . I’m so worried.” Jimmy sobs. It’s like he’s been holding all the anxiety in until someone else showed up to help. My mom lets him cry into her cardigan.

  “It’s okay,” my mom says. “You did the right thing. Let’s go see him.”

  My mom heads to the front desk nurse, explains that she is Stephen’s sister, and tells the nurse that Jimmy is family to us, and that he will be coming to see Stephen as well. She doesn’t even give the nurse a moment to respond or defend herself.

  “Hey,” Stephen says when we enter his room. He has so many tubes and wires and beeping machines around him, but he smiles like he’s lounging in a palace or something.

  “Uncle Stephen,” I say. I try hard to hold it together. I want to transmit strength to him, but seeing him like this is tearing me up inside.

  My mom immediately goes to him and holds him, tears in her eyes. I know she doesn’t like crying in front of him, but she can’t help it. She’s not as strong as her brother.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Stephen says. “It’s just a touch of toxoplasmosis.”

  “I was so scared,” my mom says.

  “The very attractive doctor says they caught it early enough to treat it,” Stephen says. “I think he may have been flirting with me a little.”

  This is my uncle, a man who can make me smile even when he just almost died. Tears start to form in my eyes too, and I can see Uncle Stephen notices.

  “Hey, Judy,” he says. “You know I’d never go anywhere without saying goodbye to you, right?”

  “I know,” I say. “I know.” I sit by his side. My mom holds one of his hands and I hold the other. My dad stands close enough for us to feel his support, but far enough to let us have this moment with Stephen.

  “My girls,” Stephen says as he clutches us tight. “I’m a lucky man.”

  “And Jimmy,” my mom says. “If Jimmy wasn’t with you . . .”

  “You saved my life, girl,” Stephen says.

  “You’ve saved mine, girl,” Jimmy says. “I’d have followed Walt out of this hellhole by now if it weren’t for you.”

  “We’re all grateful to you, Jimmy,” my dad says with wrenching sincerity.

  The doctor comes by to check on Stephen. He is hot, and he does seem to be flirting with Stephen. I wonder if that’s his way of giving his patients a little extra reason to fight for their lives. As the doctor explains that Stephen’s vital signs are looking promising, it hits me that he looks a lot like José before he was sick. It’s uncanny—the messy black hair, the olive skin, the thick eyebrows, crooked nose, and soccer build. He even has José’s way of biting his lowe
r lip in between sentences. Somehow, the fact that this doctor looks like José gives me hope. It feels like a sign that Stephen will make it, that he’ll be one of the ones to survive this thing and tell the story when all the rest of his friends are gone.

  When the hot doctor leaves, Stephen turns to me. “Judy,” he says in a whisper, “there’s something I need to say to you before I go.”

  “But you’re not going,” I say. “The doctor just said you were doing great.”

  “I know,” he says. “But it’s time I said it. I want you to forgive Reza and Art.” I look away from him. “But especially Art. He loves you.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I just can’t . . .”

  “You want me to tell you a story? Stephen says. “In high school, I was teased mercilessly for being different, and I was so desperate to prove I was straight that I dated a girl. I convinced her that I loved her. And I let her fall in love with me.”

  I look at my mom, who nods her head. “Sara Massey,” she says. “She was a friend of mine, too.”

  “Sara Massey,” Stephen says wistfully. “I lied to her for almost a year. What I did to her wasn’t kind, but I did it because I was scared. I did it because I thought the alternative was being called a fag, being beaten up. And on some level, I was trying to convince myself that I might be straight. I wanted to want her.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I get it. But you weren’t living in New York City. And it was a totally different era. Things have changed.”

  “Not much,” he says.

  I shrug. “What you said explains what Reza did,” I say. “But not what Art did. Art didn’t date me because he wanted to be straight. He lied to me when I was his best friend.”

  “I know he did,” Uncle Stephen says. “I think he felt ashamed of his feelings for Reza, and he didn’t know how to tell you. What he did wasn’t right, but it doesn’t make him a bad person. It just makes him a human being.”

  All I can think of to say is “But Reagan and Jesse Helms are human beings, and that doesn’t mean they need to be our best friends.”

  “Are they human beings?” Jimmy asks. “I always thought they were some sort of subspecies.”

  We all laugh, even my dad, mostly because we just need to laugh. I don’t think my dad even hates Reagan all that much. He gives him a lot of credit for the fall of the Berlin Wall.

  “There’s something that would mean a lot to me,” Uncle Stephen says. “Come to Maryland with us. Me, Jimmy, Art, Reza. We’ll all be at the NIH protest.”

  “Oh Stephen,” my mom says, “that can’t be a good idea. You’ll be so far from your doctors.”

  “The protests are what keep me going,” Stephen says.

  “Let us take care of you,” my mom says.

  “You know I’m not good at that,” Uncle Stephen says. “Besides, I’ll be protesting outside the National Institutes of Health. If something happens, who better to treat me than them?”

  My mom rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she says.

  “Agreed,” Jimmy says. “Impossible, and impossibly hard to resist, so please say yes, Judy. We want you there. It would be very meaningful for your uncle.”

  I know I’ll go. I would walk barefoot across the equator for him. But I don’t want to be the only woman in our group. I’m done with that. I know now that it’s nice to have another woman by my side, someone who sees things from my perspective and can support me in different ways than Art and even Uncle Stephen can. And so I say something that surprises even me. “I’ll go on one condition,” I say. “That you come with me, Mom.”

  My mom looks at me in surprise. “Me? I’m not really much of a protester.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Uncle Stephen says. “Come on, Bonnie.”

  “When is it?”

  “May twenty-first,” Stephen says. “It’s on a Monday, but we’re going for the weekend, because I have a surprise planned.”

  “What surprise?” my mom asks. “I hate surprises.”

  “Let me take care of you,” Uncle Stephen says. “Stop worrying.”

  “Judy has school on Mondays. And I have book club that Sunday. I can’t skip . . .”

  “Mom, those ladies in pastel will forgive you for missing one book club. And what’s the point of reading all these self-help books about being your best self if you don’t live what they’re saying? This is important.”

  My mom looks to my dad, who nods. “I’m good with my girls going on this field trip,” he says. I see my dad and Stephen make eye contact, probably because they both referred to me and my mom as their girls. They have that in common. They’ve shared us all these years.

  “Okay, fine,” my mom says. “As if going to Paris wasn’t living on the edge enough, now we’re going to Maryland. Who am I?”

  “You’re Bonnie Bowman,” Uncle Stephen says. “Mom and sister of the century, and the very latest member of ACT UP.”

  My mom the activist. I never thought I’d see this day. For the next half hour, we reminisce about Paris, about everything we ate and saw and all the clothes we tried on but couldn’t afford to buy. Then the hot doctor comes back and says that Stephen should rest, and Stephen loudly says that the doctor is just trying to get rid of us so that the two of them can be alone. We all leave, and as we do, my mom turns to me and says, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how late you were tonight. I expect you to tell me everything.” Everything. The punch. The spin the bottle game. Saadi’s hairy, thick body on top of me. I feel myself blush.

  “Risky Business,” I say.

  “What?” she asks.

  “That’s the movie Annabel and I were watching. It’s so good. Annabel has a total Tom Cruise thing. She’s seen that movie, like, twenty times, and she knows Cocktail by heart.”

  My mom gives me a side-eye. I know she doesn’t believe me, and I know I’m lying to someone I love. But it doesn’t make me a bad person, I tell myself. It just makes me a human being.

  #76 Madonna

  She is not ashamed, and therein lies her massive power. Because shame is their weapon. People who feel shame remain hidden, and that’s exactly how they want us. And then along comes Madonna. She was quickly written off as a flash in the pan, a one-hit wonder, but not by the people who recognized immediately that she was not just a singer, not just a dancer, not just a performer. She was, and is, a revolution. Just look at the way she responded when Playboy and Penthouse ran nude photos that were taken of her when she was young and broke. She said three words: “I’M NOT ASHAMED.” Those words are why her presence in the world gives me hope for the future, that more queer kids will come out sooner, that more women will feel the freedom to own their sexualities, that maybe someday shame will be something kids don’t feel anymore. Before I became sick, I was out with José one night, on a dance floor. Madonna came out and sang one song, “Holiday.” No one had heard of her yet, but within seconds, we were communing with each other, with her, and with a new way of thinking. “You can turn this world around,” she sang, and she meant it. To turn the world around is to create a revolution, isn’t it? She is a revolution in every sense, a radical change and a celestial body in orbit. She’s turning this world around and showing us how to follow in her footsteps. I don’t know if shame has a true opposite—perhaps pride, but that doesn’t feel quite right. So, as far as I’m concerned, the opposite of shame is Madonna. Long may she reign.

  Reza

  We all plan to arrive in Maryland separately. Stephen and Jimmy got there earlier than us, to prepare for the protest. Judy’s mom rented a car and is going to drive the two of them. And Art and I are on the train. I love trains. I think they’re my favorite means of transportation. The rhythmic rumbling of wheels on tracks, the windows that give you rapidly changing views of foliage and industrial buildings and car lots. And the mystery of them. Like we are in an Agatha Christie novel. I try to explain this to Art, and his face lights up. “Let’s play Count the Fags,” he says. “Decode the mystery of these passe
ngers.”

  “I hate that word,” I say, frowning.

  “Get over it,” he says. “I’ve reclaimed it, and so should you. We’ll start at the top of the train, and we’ll get to the bottom. Which Stephen once told me is pretty much his journey.”

  “What is?” I ask.

  “He started as a top and ended a bottom.”

  “Oh,” I say. I do know what a top and a bottom are. There was a notecard about that. But I don’t know which one I am. I cannot let my mind even think about all that. I think that being a top would be like invading someone, and being a bottom would be like getting invaded. And both sound scary and unsettling. When countries are invaded, it’s usually not good for either side in the end.

  We make our way to the front car. Art is giddy with excitement, and it makes him even more beautiful than usual. “Look at me,” he says. “I’m away from my parents, on my way to a protest, with the man I love.”

  Now that we’ve both said we love each other, we can’t stop saying it. We declare it often. Proudly.

  “Am I a man?” I ask, amused.

  “You will be when I’m through with you,” he says with a smirk.

  Through with me? Will he be through with me? I don’t want that to ever happen. I want to be with him forever, preferably in a relationship that involves lots of kissing and cuddling, and no exchange of bodily fluids other than saliva, which I have come to see as the only bodily fluid that is my friend. And sweat. I like his sweat. I can see some now, just under his armpits. I love the smell of him. I breathe him in whenever he’s near me. He’s wearing a tank top, ripped black jeans, and leather motorcycle boots. He has changed his hair again—this time the sides are buzzed but the top is long, and a wave of dyed aqua hair falls over the left half of his face, like an ocean wave. He’s my queer Veronica Lake. I didn’t come up with that, he did.

  Art begins the game by slowly walking down the aisle of the first car. Upon seeing a man sitting next to his wife and two children, he whispers to me, “Fag number one.”

 

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