Art just smiles. He’s used to Darryl by now, the ringleader of our school’s homophobes, who is so good at sports that he can pretty much get away with anything. “I did it just for you, Darryl,” Art says, then winks.
Darryl shakes his head in disgust, then heads into class. I can hear him fake sneeze when he passes Reza, but instead of saying “Aaaa-choo,” he says, “Aaaa-yatollah!” And his dumb cronies laugh. I shoot him a dirty look and glance over at Reza, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore what is happening.
Art and I are the last ones to arrive. As we walk in, Art fake sneezes himself, blurting out, “Aaaa-ssholes.” But no one laughs this time. A few people stare at us like we’re aliens, including Annabel de la Roche and her gaggle of girlfriends, who all look like they subsist on multivitamins and iceberg lettuce.
There are only two empty seats left. One is next to Reza. “Take that seat,” Art whispers to me. I hesitate, and when I do, Art practically pushes me into it.
Reza whispers to me, “Why is your friend so aggressive?”
Before I can respond, Art leans in close to Reza. “Because life is short and I’m not going to let it be boring too.” He catches himself, then backs off. “Sorry, I’ll go sit up front and leave you two lovebirds alone.”
Oh God, Art, lovebirds? Seriously?
“I’m sorry about Darryl,” I say to Reza.
“Who?” he asks.
“The idiot who was making fun of you,” I say.
Reza shrugs. “I’m good at tuning things out,” he says. “Denial is even more Iranian than ayatollahs.”
I giggle nervously, not sure where to take the conversation next. “Sorry about Art, too. He comes on a little strong.”
He nods. Then in a hushed voice, he says, “There was nobody like him in Iran or Toronto.”
“I’m sure Toronto has gay people,” I say, way too defensive. “As for Iran, I don’t know, maybe they’ve killed them all.”
Okay, this is over. You’ve definitely scared him off.
“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry to offend.”
That’s all he says. And it’s enough to make me feel like total shit about myself.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “I’m just sick of people making fun of him.”
“Was I making fun?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “No, not at all. You were just making an observation, which was probably totally true. In fact, I’m the offensive one. I’m the one who assumed that he’s basically like all other gay people. When in fact you were right. Absolutely no one in Toronto, or Iran, or any place where humans live, is anything like Art. Maybe that’s why I get defensive of him. ’Cause he’s special.”
Reza just nods, almost like he’s agreeing with me.
We both look up at Art, so hard to miss with that hair. He’s flipping through some notecards. Not just any notecards. The Queer 101 notecards Uncle Stephen made for him to explain important gay concepts like conversion therapy, the Cockettes, and Quentin Crisp. And those are just a few of the Cs. I can see that Art is reading #67 John, Elton.
“I talk too much,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize for talking. Most of my life, I’ve talked too little.”
He smiles hesitantly, stopping himself midsmile. It’s like he’s just learning how.
“I’m not, by the way,” I say.
Stop. Stop now.
“Not what?” he asks.
“I mean, we’re best friends, and he’s on the upper echelon of the Kinsey Scale, but . . .” I can tell he has no idea what the Kinsey Scale is, and I explain. “Oh, that’s this scale, this thing that says some people are into men, some are into women, and some are in between.”
“Oh,” he says.
He seems extremely uncomfortable with this conversation, and I want to change the subject immediately, but instead, I say, “I’m on the side of the scale that’s totally hetero. That’s it. I just wanted you to know. I have no idea why I’m telling you this.”
Yes you do. Because he’s cute, and unlike the rest of the boys at school, he doesn’t seem like a total tool.
“Oh,” he says. He closes his eyes for a moment. After a beat, he says, “Me too.” Then he smiles awkwardly. And I smile back.
#75 Love
Love might just happen to them, but for us, it’s not as easy. For us, it’s a fight. Maybe someday it won’t be. Maybe someday love will just be . . . love. But for now, love is the four-letter word they forgot we care about ever since they discovered that other four-letter word, AIDS, the disease formerly known as GRID. Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. That’s what they called it at first. They changed the name eventually, once it became clear we were not the only ones who would die. But the stink never wore off. It never does when they want to control you. Marilyn was always Norma Jeane, and they never let her forget it. When her ideas got too big, they reminded her she was nothing but an orphan. And AIDS will always be GRID. It is our disease, born of our deficiencies. But I’ll tell you what we will never be deficient of. LOVE. We love art and beauty. We love new ideas and pushing boundaries. We love fighting against corruption. We love redefining archaic rules. We love men, and women, and men who dress like women, and women who dress like men. We love tops and bottoms, and top hats, especially when worn by Marlene Dietrich. But most of all, we love each other. Know that. We love each other. We care for each other. We are brothers and sisters, mentors and students, and together we are limitless and whole. The most important four-letter word in our history will always be LOVE. That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.
Reza
Our dining room is extravagant and ridiculous. Just sitting in it makes me feel uncomfortable. It looks like it was designed for an ancient royal shah. Anything that can be gold is gold, and anything not made of gold is crystal, glass, or emerald green. The paintings on the walls are mostly old Persian portraits from the Qajar dynasty, but then there’s a portrait of Abbas, done in the same style, as if to imply that he is one of those royals. I’m surprised there’s no painting of Saadi done in the old Qajar style, except instead of wearing an ornate robe and headdress, he would be wearing boxer shorts and holding a lacrosse stick.
“There is no doubt we are headed toward a recession. And if others have doubt, they are wrong. I know we are. Just look at real estate prices. They’re starting to dip and it’s only going to get worse. We were living in a bubble, and it’s popping as I speak. Nobody is spending on luxuries like real estate and expensive furniture anymore.”
That’s Abbas talking. My stepfather. He’s bald and very tall, one of the lankiest Iranians I have ever seen. And he speaks with so much authority. If there’s one thing I have learned since my mom married this man, it is that when he talks, you listen. If I could interject, here is what I might say: First of all, you are still living in a bubble. Just look around this home. And second of all, stop subtly suggesting my mother shouldn’t start working again. Because that is what is really happening right now. My mom was an interior designer in Toronto. She did okay. Well enough to support me and my sister, although we certainly did not live in a gold-leafed wonderland, and we certainly did not go to a fancy private school with starched uniforms, children of famous people, and lacrosse teams. I don’t even know how Abbas and my mom met. Probably ages ago, since Persians all know each other anyway. All I know is one day, my mom sat me and my sister down and told us she was getting married again. She said she and I would be moving to New York, while my sister stayed in Canada for college. And that was that.