I can tell he wants to ask me what talkies are. That’s definitely a question I asked my uncle a while ago, but he just says, “You look good.”
I don’t say anything, because I’m freaking out inside. A beautiful boy just told me I look good. I need to seal this deal before some skinny girl scoops him up from under me.
Other kids are zipping past us, going to class, gossiping about their summers, and yet it’s like Reza and I are all alone. He has a weird quality about him. A calmness. He speaks softly, chooses his words carefully. It’s disconcerting and exciting, maybe because I’m so used to being around Art, who spews words from his mouth like an active volcano.
“Perhaps you can cut my hair someday,” he says.
“First of all, I won’t touch your hair ’cause it’s perfect,” I respond. “If Rob Lowe’s hair follicles and a perfect ocean wave had a baby, they would birth your hair.”
What the hell is wrong with you, Judy? Why are you talking like this?
“And second of all, my attempt at cutting my hair was disastrous, so my uncle fixed it. If I look halfway normal, it’s because of him. Okay, what’s your first class?” I ask Reza. He takes his schedule out of his pocket and hands it to me. “We both have English with Tompkins first,” I say. “Follow me.”
But before we can start down the hallway, Art rushes toward me frantically, his face obscured by a winter hat, which is an odd choice for a sweltering September heat wave. When he’s uncomfortably close to me, he takes the hat off, revealing hair dyed a strange shade of lavender that wouldn’t look out of place on the mane of a My Little Pony. “How bad is it?” he demands.
“It looks fine,” I lie, because Art is my best friend, and as his best friend I know that if I tell him he looks like a My Little Pony, he’ll go apeshit. Art says he’s a little histrionic because both of his parents are so rigid and rarely show emotion, so he overcompensates.
“Okay, you’re clearly lying,” Art says. With his hat back on, he shifts to the right and eyes Reza. “Who are you?” he asks. “And what do you think? Honestly?”
Reza stares at Art with what I can only read as either fear or disgust, and my heart sinks a little. It suddenly hits me that if and when I finally fall in love, the chance that my heterosexual lover is a homophobe is high. And I can’t love a homophobe. Definite deal breaker, right alongside dirty fingernails and guys who don’t wash their hands after they pee, which Art tells me is another important epidemic that women are unaware of due to bathroom segregation.
“Hello!” Art says to Reza. “Do you speak?”
Reza clearly doesn’t know what to do with Art’s super-intense energy.
“What do I think about . . .” Reza trails off. He’s still staring at Art like he’s studying him, and it’s starting to piss me off a little. My best friend isn’t a circus freak. But then I tell myself that maybe Reza is staring because he’s curious. I try not to jump to a negative conclusion. I know I can be defensive, protective, judgmental. Take your pick.
“About my sherbet hair!” Art whisper-yells. “Is it the worst tress trauma since Pepsi burned Michael Jackson’s scalp to a crisp?”
I turn to Reza and explain, “Michael Jackson is a pop star. He started out as part of the Jackson Five before releasing what I still consider to be his masterpiece, Off the Wall, then . . .”
“I know who Michael Jackson is,” Reza says.
“Thriller is his masterpiece, and don’t change the subject please. I need an honest opinion.” Oh, that’s another thing about Art. When he’s in the room, it’s all about him. Don’t even try to divert attention away from him.
Reza doesn’t give an honest opinion. He doesn’t say anything. And this makes Art crazy. “Okay, whatever, you can’t even be bothered to answer a simple question. I’m done here,” Art says. But Art doesn’t leave. He hovers around us.
Reza has a far-off look. He shrugs. “I should, um, get to class.”
He awkwardly gives me a kiss on each cheek, and as he does, he rests his hands on my love handles for a moment, like they’re a hand pillow. I wish I hadn’t eaten that bagel for breakfast.
Finally, Reza lets go of me and walks down the hallway. Once he’s safely out of hearing distance, I turn to Art. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, irritated.
“Um, hello,” he says, lifting his hat once more to reveal his hair.
“Art,” I say, “I was having a moment with that guy.”
“Oh,” he says. “You mean, like a sexual-healing, super-freak, touched-for-the-very-first-time moment.”
I blush and nod. “I don’t know. I think so. He’s new, and cute, and seems, I don’t know, different. Maybe they like girls like me in Tehran and Toronto.”
“Or Taipei,” Art jokes, and I smile, because I love that our brains sometimes work the exact same way.
“Or Türkmenabat,” I say.
“How long have you been waiting to throw Türkmenabat into casual conversation?” Art asks.
“I mean, since I was born.” I’m smiling now. This is me and Art. This is what we’re like when we’re at our best. Like two puzzle pieces that decided to escape the rest of the puzzle because we fit so good.
“Look, I’m an asswipe and I’m sorry,” Art says. “I promise you that my number one goal from now on, other than pissing my parents off by dyeing my hair the gayest color that’s not rainbow, will be to aid your mission of romancing that stone-cold hottie. You got that, Frances?”
Oh yeah, Art sometimes calls me Frances, usually when he’s said or done something stupid and needs my forgiveness. My uncle named me Judy for his “favorite Homo sapiens of all time,” and Judy Garland’s real name was Frances Gumm. Art likes to think he’s the only person who knows the real me. His real name’s Bartholomew, by the way. Bartholomew Emerson Grant VI. He comes from a long line of men who would probably be horrified to share a name with him.
“I got it.” I sigh. “Do you think this is the year I’ll finally get a boyfriend?”
“I hope so,” Art says. “And if it’s him, more power to you. His ass is Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.” That’s a movie my uncle made us watch. “So does this mean your crush on Ben Stark is over?”
“Yeah, that ended when he misspelled fabrication in his editor’s letter for the school paper,” I say. I shake my head, wondering how I could ever have had a crush on anyone but Reza, and say, “Come on, My Little Pony, let’s get to class before the bell rings.”
“You wench, you lied. I do look awful.” He groans. “I’m going to burn you at the stake.”
“We love My Little Pony,” I counter.
“Iron-i-cal-ly,” he says, stretching out every syllable. “The way we love Stacey Q, scrunchies, and Mommie Dearest.”
I hold Art’s hand before he can bolt out of school, and we walk toward English class together. On our way in, we run into Darryl Lorde, who takes his white baseball hat off and greets Art with “Hey, faggot, you know hats aren’t allowed.” Then, when Art takes his hat off, Darryl leaps back. “Whoa, I didn’t think you could get any gayer.”