Then I remember something. “Hey, you have my backpack?”
“Your book bag,” he says. “I am so sorry. It’s been sitting in my room for days. I promise I haven’t touched it.”
I think about what’s inside, a bunch of junk, and then I remember my most prized possession is in there . . . those notecards Stephen made me when I asked him what OUR history was. I can’t believe I left those. That shrink my parents sent me to would probably say I left the bag there hoping Reza would open it, hoping he would read those cards and feel what I felt when I read them . . . some connection to the past, to a community, some sense of belonging. “It’s okay,” I say. “Just give it to me next time we see each other.”
“Okay,” he says.
He’s about to go when I call him back. “Hey,” I say. “I’m just wondering . . . were you in Iran during the revolution?”
“I was,” he says. “My mother wanted to leave, but my father didn’t. We went to Toronto six years ago, when my mother left him.”
“Oh,” I say. “So your dad’s still there?”
“No,” he says. “Well, not exactly. He, um, died.”
There’s something so final about those words. He doesn’t embellish them. He doesn’t say he passed away, or something like that. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
Reza shrugs, like there’s nothing else to say about the subject.
“I’ve lost a lot of people too,” I say. “People I knew through Stephen. They’ve died. All around me.” I stop myself from saying more. What I’m thinking is that if Stephen is my spiritual father, the dad I was meant to have, then we’re both being raised by widows. But I don’t say that. Because Stephen’s not my father, and because Reza doesn’t look like he wants to continue this conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Death is never easy.”
“Yeah, death sucks,” I say. And then, desperate to end on a positive note, I add, “But life can be awesome, right?”
He smiles sadly, like he’s not ready to answer that question yet.
He braves the subway alone and heads back to school. But I don’t. I can’t. I go back home, where my parents are waiting for me.
My dad’s in one of his perfectly tailored business suits. My mom’s in a Jane Fonda aerobics outfit, but not even the sunshine yellow of her leotard and leggings can mask her distress.
“We saw you on the news,” my dad says, his voice laced with barely concealed rage.
My mom says nothing, because she’s really good at letting my dad speak for her.
I say nothing, because I know that I won’t be able to control my anger once I open my mouth.
“Look, we love you, Art,” my dad says, like he’s exasperated. “I wouldn’t have come home from work if I didn’t love you,” he continues. “But this is getting serious. You could have been arrested. You could have jeopardized your future.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Art,” my mom says, her voice trembling. “You have such a bright future ahead of you. I just want you to have . . . a future.”
There it is. It’s not my criminal record we’re worried about anymore. It’s my death.
Then dad does what he does best. He offers me a deal. “I’ll tell you what, Art. If it’s what it takes, then I’ll write a check to any AIDS charity of your choice. Ten thousand dollars.” My mom looks at him in shock. “If you promise to stay away from these protests,” my dad says. “And from that man.”
“That man” is Stephen, of course. I wonder what he would do in this situation. Would he take the deal? I can almost hear him telling me that the money will make more impact than one passionate teenager ever could.
“Okay, you’re on,” I say. We shake on it. My dad’s handshake is so firm that it almost crushes me.
“This is the right thing, Art,” my mom says, visibly relieved. She takes my hand in hers awkwardly. “Thank you,” she says, with a deep breath and a smile.
The relief that washes over my mom’s face makes me feel sick for a moment, because I have no intention of keeping my end of the bargain. I’ll just wait for the check to ACT UP to clear before doing anything risky again. Then it’ll be too late for them to cancel the payment. I avoid looking at my mother. I tell myself that I’m Madonna, and my parents are Pepsi. I’m the badass bitch here. Did Madonna also feel guilty when she took their money?
But deceiving them was the only choice. I couldn’t say no to that donation, and I’m not done either. I’m only getting started. For the first time in my life, I know what being gay is all about. It’s not about the wet dreams, or the jerking off, or the ability to impersonate your diva of choice. It’s about the feeling you get when you look into another person’s eyes and have an out-of-body experience. It’s about whatever the hell I was feeling when I really saw Reza for the first time. It’s about love. How can I not keep fighting for that?
As I walk away from my parents, another thought, and a feeling of terror, washes over me. Judy. Judy. Judy. I won’t hurt her. I won’t. And yet . . . I resent her right now. Her heterosexuality gives her the ability to declare crushes openly and without fear. She assumed he was straight, because why wouldn’t he be? Because the whole world is pretty much straight. I resent that she has a privilege I’ll never have. And I hate my resentment. I love her more than anything. I have other privileges. She’s my everything. What do I tell Judy?
Judy
I’m in my bedroom, staring at fabrics, desperately trying to drown out the sound of my mother’s book club. I pick up a sunflower-yellow fabric I’ve always wanted to use for something but never have because it was just too bright and beautiful and optimistic to be wasted on my life. Don’t get me wrong, my life has had its moments, but this fabric deserves better.
Maybe tonight is worthy of it, Judy. A first date. Is it a date? It’s so not a date. You invited Reza to Sunday movie night with your uncle and Art. What kind of a pathetic move is it to invite a guy you like to the gayest movie night ever, with your uncle who will most likely be wearing makeup and a kimono, and your inappropriate best friend?
I’m a chicken, and I need a buffer, and the thought of being out alone with Reza, even in the world’s lushest yellow fabric, scares me half to death. I hold the fabric up against my body and second-guess it immediately. Art says I’m a summer, which means I look good in this kind of hot color, but maybe he’s wrong. Maybe I’m a winter. Maybe I’m frigid. I think about what I could do with the fabric. It could be a dress. It could be flowy. It could be asymmetrical. It could be simple and classic, even though I don’t do simple and classic.
But I can’t get inspired when the sound of my mother and her friends invades my room, and our apartment is so small that you hear everything from everywhere. That’s the thing about having parents who insist you go to the best private school in the city. They end up living in the only nearby place they can find, which is tiny and has no heat. They say they moved here just before I started kindergarten so I could be closer to the amazing school I still go to, because education means everything, but I secretly think another bonus for them was the fact that we have to walk up six flights of stairs, which they think would be good for my waistline, and theirs. And yes, I was big back then too.