Like a Love Story: September 1989

It would not be so different than Iran was, with women in their chadors.

My mom and my sister were so immersed in analyzing Isabella’s skin tone that I managed to covertly flip through the magazine...

I run my tongue around my mouth, reveling in the feeling of smooth teeth.

But now that the braces are gone, I can already tell that this obsession only saved me from thinking about the sad state of the rest of my appearance: my thin, nondescript body (not tall enough to be lanky, not stocky enough to be athletic), my cheeks with their remnants of baby fat (which have been mercilessly pinched by my sister), and my thick mop of unkempt hair.

Almost three hundred people are massed in this dingy space, but we’re the only teenagers.

I’m the only out gay kid in our whole school, and Judy isn’t exactly the kind of girl most guys go for, though she has certainly pined for a few.

“Well, that’s what affinity groups are for,” Stephen says. “And I’m on board with our plan. Like all of you, I’m ready to risk getting arrested...again.”

There’s some laughter in the room, solidarity in the number of times they’ve all been booked and released.

But this man’s face—gaunt and covered in caked-on concealer doing a poor job of hiding purple lesions—is the face that stops me from acting on any of my abundant desires.

“We have no experience!” Judy says, way too boisterously.

“Bite your tongue,” Stephen says. “I only just turned nineteen.” When he says this, he sounds like he’s in one of his melodramas.

If I were Art, I would start spreading a theory that fat girls with avant-garde fashion sense and severe black bangs are the chosen people.

“So, um...” I stammer, trying to make scintillating conversation and failing.

Art says he’s a little histrionic because both of his parents are so rigid and rarely show emotion, so he overcompensates.

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.

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.

“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.

The gold, crystal, glass, and emeralds of the dining room, the old paintings, the cacophony of rugs, the lacquered picture frames and heavy curtains, they were probably all selected by this woman I have never met.

I think about my own odyssey, from Iran to Canada to New York.

Abbas doesn’t admonish his son.

All I see is Art, like I can hear his heartbeat through the fabric of his tank top, underscoring the conversation.

The expression on Art’s face seems to question whether the death of his grandfather was a loss at all. I know that ambivalence.

I can’t tell what they’re talking about, and although the subject matter of their conversation is probably restricted to the mundane details of their homework, I still want to hear everything.

“It is, um, really great,” I say, unable to find the right words to describe the transcendent experience of hearing that song.

“Honorary,” he says.

Next to the deli is a record store, and inside is Reza, browsing nonchalantly.

But the thing about Judy is that no matter how much artifice they imposed on her, and no matter how many pills they gave her, her raw authenticity still shone through.

They all laugh, like this is funny, like comparing us to terrorists is somehow apropos.

Her tone is sharp. She’s miffed. Not quite angry though. These ladies, like my mom, just get miffed. Anger is too hot for them.

Before I can even open the door, my mom calls out to me in her most benign tone, “I made a delicious beet salad and some poached salmon. It’s in the Tupperware in the fridge.”

Don’t you think I know how magnetic he is? Don’t you think I emulated him when I was young just like you do now?

Abbas already gives me an allowance, something my mother could never do when she was raising us alone and paying for everything from the sporadic money she made from interior-design clients.

Then, in the pouch, I find bills. Three hundred sixty dollars in different denominations. I wonder how much would make him notice. I decide fifty dollars is a good number, take it, and run out.

“Those outfits. The gowns, the hair. Honestly, that homely Queen Elizabeth should take some tips from her.”

“Before the guest of honor arrives...” Stephen says, and he sits next to me and leans in close to me conspiratorially, “tell me everything I need to know.”

“Okay, well neither of you is divulging anything of interest,” Stephen says.

The minute it takes for him to take the elevator up is interminable.

I could tell him about all the little fleeting moments that passed between us.

“You and Art are lucky,” he says, wistfully.

Rapture. That’s what it feels like.