We Are Lost and Found Page 9

  Then I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  He calls me back long after I’d given up hope, long after I stopped pacing in front of the phone and looking side-eyed at my mother when she said she needed to call the dry cleaners to see when my father’s suits would be ready. He calls when I’m in my room hunkered under the covers, Connor’s hand-me-down Walkman playing Joy Division on repeat, telling myself that Gabriel isn’t going to call and I need to get over it.

  I was thinking about you, he says.

  Why?

  I was thinking about when I was kissing you on Christopher Street.

  Oh.

  I was thinking that I wanted to do it again.

  Oh.

  The Islanders win their fourth straight Stanley Cup, but I don’t care. It isn’t that I don’t like hockey, it’s that their constant winning has gotten kind of boring.

  And it hard to care about things like sports at the moment.

  James has been busy. Always out. Always working.

  He’s sleeping during the day, rehearsing and plotting lights and weighing in on costumes and lines and meanings, all night.

  At least that’s what he tells me.

  I finally reach him and ask if I can come over to watch 20/20 since Geraldo Rivera is doing a report on a friend of a friend of his, a lighting designer with AIDS. It’s the first network report on the disease, and there is no way I’m going to get away with turning it on at home. My father would probably throw the set through the window, worried that he could catch something through the screen.

  I’m not watching it, James says when I ask him. I just can’t. But you’re welcome to come over here anyhow; I’m sure the boys will have it on.

  Which is what I do.

  I sit on the couch (Steven’s couch) with Rob, while Ted leans expressionless against the wall behind us.

  No one is flirting tonight. We’re barely breathing.

  The guy being interviewed is twenty-seven. Eleven years older than me.

  In his “before” photo, he’s someone I might have found myself attracted to.

  In his interview, he’s dying.

  Worse than dying, which I never thought could be possible.

  Distorted. Marked with purple splotches. Terrifying.

  I’ll never be able to get his face out of my mind.

  My father watches the 6:30 p.m. news. At 7:00 we eat dinner. That’s the way it’s always been and the way it always will be.

  My mother drafts me into chopping vegetables. From the living room, my father shouts at the TV: They should be quarantined, all of them!

  Stupidly, I ask what he’s talking about. My mother sends me a warning glance. She’s right. I should know better.

  Queers, drug addicts, and Haitians, he yells back.

  My knife stops midstrike.

  Your sainted New York Times even said it, he yells to me. A researcher says you can get it from close contact with family. These deviants like your brother are going to kill us all. You watch.

  When I tell James about the news piece, he nods. I know we’re young, he says. But how do you fool around with someone while you’re wondering if letting your guard down could get you sick?

  The sainted New York Times, he continues, which is, I think, what I’ll call it from now on, just wrote that the AIDS mortality rate is forty percent and getting worse with four new cases per day.

  I understand James’s fear in my head. How do you argue with something like that? But it’s hard to think that I’m really at risk. I haven’t had sex, and I don’t do drugs, and I can barely find Haiti on a map.

  But who really knows what will happen in the future, right? I mean, that’s the problem isn’t it? No one knows.

  I love my music. I hate my music. I can’t even listen to this crappy song. I should give up. But wait, that lyric is nice and with the right backbeat it would work. Maybe I should record it and send it out?

  Becky thinks her mom is using hardcore again. Or maybe the new guy she’s seeing is. Becky isn’t sure, but she found a used needle in the bathroom and Becky is determined not to go through that again, the endless cycle of dragging her mom home from bars and riding her bike around at night, checking alleys.

  It’s not like I’m asking her to stay home and bake cookies, she says, but can’t she find a guy who only likes to drink?

  It’s my father’s birthday.

  As far back as I can remember, we’ve celebrated our family’s events at Mama Patsy’s in the theater district. At first it was some combination of my parents, me and Connor, and my aunt Bettina before she moved to Florida, plus my grandparents before they died.

  I kind of thought we’d skip it this time. Given that it will probably be just me and my parents, I’d hoped we would.

  But no, my mother reminds me. This is tradition. Family.

  As if that really matters anymore.

  Is Connor coming? I ask.

  Mom looks away, a sure sign she’s lying, since she knows she has no poker face. She says, He told me he might have to work.

  Bullshit, I say, before I can stop myself. So much for tradition.

  I head to the phone in the kitchen, ignoring my mother’s admonishments to watch my language.

  Please don’t leave me alone with them tonight, I say as soon as my brother picks up the phone.

  He sighs, then asks, And what exactly am I supposed to say over the rum cake? Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks for kicking me out and telling me I’m everything wrong with the world today.

  Whether I want to admit it or not, my brother has a point.

  He won’t make a scene in public, I say, which is true. Even when Connor pulled his stunt at graduation, my father stayed quiet until we got home. Then there was nothing quiet about him as he started yelling and throwing Connor’s stuff out of the apartment.

  Why don’t you bail? Connor suggests. We’ll meet up with some of my friends. We can dance and pretend we’re orphans. It’ll be great.

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the receiver. I want to hang with my brother, but I must be more like my mom than I want to admit, because I don’t know how to do anything aside from keep up appearances. I’m not ready for the fight.

  Have fun for both of us, I mumble to my brother and hang up.

  According to the menu, the restaurant opened in 1906, and obviously hasn’t been updated since.

  Also, I’m pretty sure the members of the waitstaff are all originals as well. Old Italian men in stiff black suits and ties.

  Only tonight, our waiter is young. Not only young, but attractive with smoldering dark eyes and curly dark hair.

  His name, according to his tag, is Pietro, and I can’t keep my eyes off him as he pours water for my parents and drops rolls on our plates with silver tongs.

  I busy myself by folding and refolding my napkin, but then it falls to the floor and Pietro is there to pick it up and, with one deft move that makes my breath stick in my throat, sweeps it back onto my lap.

  Probably a good thing Connor isn’t here. I can’t imagine my brother keeping his hands on his puttanesca.

  Frank Sinatra plays in the background, and I listen to him sing about loving someone all the way while my parents talk about some movie they’ve seen, and about my mom’s second cousin who is about to have her gallbladder taken out, and about Reggie Jackson striking out two thousand times.

  My whole goal for the evening is to keep things on an even keel. I manage to stay quiet. Twirling my linguini, rolling cherry tomatoes around on my salad plate, staring at Pietro, sipping my Coke until the talk turns to this article in the Post by some commentator who says that AIDS is nature’s way of declaring war on homosexuals who have declared war on it. I hear the familiar rise in my father’s voice. Then I blurt out, “I think I’m flunking ch
emistry,” which isn’t true, but is better than where this conversation is headed.

  I have to backpedal on the flunking thing when my father starts talking about more time spent on homework and less time spent with my friends.

  But at least I circumvented another conversation about people deserving to die.

  The Spirit publishes a pro/con editorial about the Guardian Angels.

  On the pro side is that they’re keeping the streets safer just by being seen. They don’t even have to take action most of the time.

  On the con side is the potential for things to get out of control. For the Angels to overstep their rights and piss off the police. For people to get hurt by a group of civilians trying to enforce laws they may not understand.

  Neither article is bylined, and Becky avoids my stare when she hands the copies out in class. But later I see her smile cryptically when some kids are debating the issue in the hall.

  After school, Becky and I meet to work on our final project for Mr. Solomon’s class on the meaning of happiness. Which really means we’re hanging out in my room with James, talking about it.

  We already read about things that affect quality of life like money, marital status, and friendship. Then we created a form asking kids in the class about people they know who seem happy. Asking them to list the things that make them happy.

  It ends with this question: I feel most happy when (fill in the blank).

  I feel most happy when everyone gets out of my way, says Becky.

  What about you? I ask James.

  He thinks while he rubs the nap of his black velvet pants in the wrong direction, leaving dark lines in the fabric. I’m happy when I’m creating something that wasn’t there before. When I’m changing the world for the better, even in a small way, he answers finally.

  What about you? he asks me.

  I think and think, long enough that Becky has to flip over Bowie’s latest LP and still I can’t come up with an answer.

  Somehow the conversation turns to Gabriel.

  It’s not fair that we haven’t met him yet, Becky says. After all, you’ve both known Andy for years.

  Known would be pushing it, don’t you think, kitten? James says in his best fake Cockney accent. He’s putting it on. Even when he’s drunk, which he’s not, given that it’s four in the afternoon and we’re sitting in my room and not a bar, James’s real hint of accent is pure posh London.

  You can stop at any time, Becky says.

  I’m only looking out for you, he answers.

  If I were you, I’d…

  Hey. Don’t make me stop the car, I interrupt. I try to turn it into a joke. But really, I’m not sure I can handle them fighting. It’s a gift that James is even here and trying to take some time off from the show.

  I don’t know what it means that neither of us told Becky about James coming with me to Echo.

  And about what happened after.

  About what he told me.

  About his fear.

  Maybe you should come to Echo with me next time, Becks, I say, flooded with guilt.

  The words are out and I can’t take them back.

  Gabriel isn’t at the club.

  It feels like a different place without him now.

  I dance with Becky, who is wearing an angled, belted, hot-pink jacket she got from Connor that makes her looks a bit like an alien and a ribbon on her head as big as a watermelon that she got from a dollar store in Queens that makes her look like a birthday present. Somehow she manages to make them look as if the two things belong together.

  Danni plays Madonna’s “Burning Up” for like, the thousandth time, and the air must be out because the club is so hot the mirrors in the bathroom are fogged up.

  I stare at my watch, wondering if I said something wrong on the phone when Gabriel called. If I should have said more. If I wasn’t interesting enough, effusive enough. If I was supposed to flirt. Was that it? Does he think I didn’t like kissing him? Does he think I regret leaving him a message? Does he still think I’m mad at him? Did he say he’d be here this week or did I imagine that? Had I reacted differently, would Gabriel be here now? Would I want him to be here, talking to Becky about school and my parents and all that run-of-the-mill, daily life stuff?

  Someone bumps into me, and I turn to see Vampire Boy. He stares at Becky, then at me, and smirks as if my rejection has anything to do with her.

  You suck, I say to him. And then laugh at my own stupid joke.

  Becky stops. Shocked, I think, at my uncharacteristic nastiness.

  The boy looks at me, bares his pointy teeth, and smiles before he walks away.

  I guess I can see why you like it here, Becky says. I mean, the boys are mostly cute, and the music’s mostly good, and it’s close to the subway, and I like that smoke machine they have, and the lights, and…

  I let her talk, lost in my self-doubt, until she says, I don’t understand why James likes it, though, and then waits for me to explain it to her.

  Huh. Why not?

  Well, it doesn’t exactly give him a place to show off.

  Well, really, he doesn’t even dance when he comes with me, I explain.

  Sounds like he’s found a way to stand out, then. Just by doing the opposite of everyone else.

  As usual, she has a point.

  As usual, I’m not sure why it really matters.

  Half an hour till curfew and I’m still at the all-night diner with Becky.

  She says, If I can hold it together through senior year, I think I might move in with my dad’s cousin in Michigan and go to community college there. If I stay with my mom…

  I let her words drop off and resist the urge to beg her not to leave. Sounds like a plan, I admit, but what about Andy?

  She swirls her coffee cup, looking into it as if it will give her the answer to my question. She sighs and says, I figure I can’t miss him any more than I do now.

  I don’t look at her when I ask, Have you thought of breaking up with him?

  Sure, every time James suggests it. Not like I’m about to take relationship advice from him, though.

  Why not?

  Look. I love James, of course I do. Everyone loves James. But don’t you think there’s something a little bit… I mean, lately he can’t even get himself sorted out.

  I used to think James was one of the most “sorted-out” people I knew. Maybe he still is. Maybe he’s the smart one, and everyone should hunker down and wait all this out.

  I don’t want to judge him for being scared. I wonder how Steven is and wonder what James isn’t saying.

  I wonder what it means for me when I’m so tired of waiting.

  So, even though I’m hopped-up on caffeine and exhaustion, I find a way to keep my mouth shut. I’m sad that we’re starting to keep secrets from each other and have to wonder what James and Becky are saying about me when I’m not there.

  I tell Connor I want to meet him for coffee, because I haven’t seen him for a while and dinner seems like too large of a commitment for him to make to me these days.

  What are you going to owe me for this time? he asks, as if I can’t just want to hang out with my older brother.

  Nothing, I only…

  You’re the worst liar in the world, he says, but agrees to meet me at Astor Place, anyhow.

  When I get there, Connor is spinning the Cube, a huge black sculpture that’s really called The Alamo, for some unknown reason, as James has told me more than once. I stand on the corner and watch my brother, running in circles, a childlike smile on his face that I haven’t seen in years.

  On the other side of the Cube is a cute Black guy, his short hair dyed baby blue with that stuff they sell at Trash and Vaudeville. He keeps looking back over his shoulder at Connor, and now I understand my brother’s smile.

  I wonder if I’m
interrupting something or if they’ve just met, because Connor seems to have the ability to meet people everywhere: on the subway platform, in the store, once he even hit on a guy who came into his sociology class to discuss what it was like having a brother who was a priest.

  My brother is an equal opportunity charmer.

  This is Greg.

  My brother introduces us. Makes some pointless joke about my needing to use him as a cover for whatever evil thing I’m about to do.

  We buy coffee from the bodega across the street. It comes in those same Greek diner cups that all coffee in New York City seems to come in. The side reads HAPPY TO SERVE YOU. The design is called Anthora, according to James, although I have no clue what that means, and I really don’t care so long as it keeps the coffee where it’s meant to be.

  So seriously, Connor asks, what are you up to?

  Greg interrupts him, all Southern drawl and old-world charm. Cute boy like your brother, why wouldn’t he have plans?

  Then he winks at me.

  I think of explaining to Connor that I’ve missed him and that I’m not sure how long I can or want to keep living a lie at home. I want to pick his brain for ideas, get his advice.

  Then my brother gives me the once-over, leans in to Greg and says, Don’t let him fool you. Michael’s only plans are playing with himself and his guitar.

  And that kills that idea.

  There’s an end-of-year school talent show and I consider entering, but then James reminds me that people with talent don’t enter school talent shows, so I crumple up the entrance form instead.

  I’ve memorized Gabriel’s pager number, shoved the paper in my closet under a pile of sheet music, my old baseball cleats, a sweater.

  But I haven’t used it again.

  And he hasn’t used my number either.

  He hasn’t been to Echo for the last two Fridays, and I’ve developed a ritual. I have to hold my breath as I walk by the bodega and read the headlines of the Post. Only then will I avoid seeing something dire: an apartment fire, a hold-up, some random subway shooting like his dad. Only then can I believe I’ll see him again.

  I focus on writing music for James’s show.