Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  “What do I think?”

  Startled, Michael turned around to see Ronan standing behind him. “What are you doing here?”

  Not exactly the greeting Ronan was hoping for. “I thought I’d walk you to your next class,” he explained. “But what were you saying? I never said you were stupid.”

  Damn that telepathic connection. Michael would have to be more careful if he wanted to keep his private thoughts private. Smiling the way one boyfriend should smile at the other, Michael said, “I didn’t say that.” He kept smiling as he tried to think of a plausible explanation for his words, but couldn’t, so he flirted. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, sir, please do it right.”

  Whatever Ronan thought Michael had said no longer mattered, not while his beautiful green eyes were sparkling, not while it was clear that Michael really was happy to see him. “Well, sir,” Ronan replied, “next time I’ll be sure to try harder.”

  On their way across campus, Michael continued to smile, in part because he was walking alongside Ronan and in part because he was getting a little bit smarter every day.

  Someone else who boasted a nontraditional kind of intelligence was Fritz. He may not be aware that creatures other than humans also called Double A their home, but when it came to social networking and interaction, knowledge acquired outside of the classroom, he was the smartest kid on campus. Running through the parade of students, Fritz finally reached Ronan and Michael and wedged himself in between the couple, pausing a moment to pant from his sprint. When he finally spoke, tufts of cold air emerged like crowns above each word, which was appropriate since his words were a proclamation: “At tomorrow’s assembly they’re going to unveil the new headmaster to replace Hawksbry,” he announced.

  “Really?” Michael asked. “So it’s official, then; he isn’t coming back?”

  “Nope, just up and left town, the old sod. Not a bleedin’ word to anybody.”

  Ronan knew that wasn’t the truth, but he wasn’t about to share the information. Let them believe that Alistair was simply irresponsible and grew bored with being sequestered in the countryside, or could no longer take the stress of being in charge of so many young lives so he left unannounced and without explanation. Better that than the truth, that he was either killed or, worse, transformed into one of Them, one of Brania’s people. Ronan hoped it was the former, though based on one of the last conversations he had with the Headmaster, where he alluded to the fact that he knew the truth about Ronan and was disgusted by his presence, Ronan was led to believe that he had been turned into their kind. No need to mention any of that. He would keep those beliefs to himself and instead offer a new suggestion. “Maybe he finally found a totty and ran off to Las Vegas to get married.”

  Michael appeared confused. “Totty is, um, British for girl, right?”

  “You’re starting to catch on,” Ronan said, happy that Michael could make him smile no matter what he was thinking.

  “But you’re not, mate,” Fritz said. “Hawksbry’s a pouf, you know that. We caught him red-handed with his hands all over that chauffeur bloke.”

  An image of Alistair and Jeremiah walking arm in arm down an alleyway in Eden pierced Michael’s memory. “That’s right, Ro, we did.”

  “If he ran off anywhere to get married, he and the chauffeur would’ve driven to Canada, which is like Vegas for you people!” Fritz laughed so hard at his own joke that his whole body shook and he slipped on a piece of ice on the walkway in front of St. Joshua’s. If it weren’t for Michael grabbing his arm and steadying him, he would’ve fallen flat on his back. “Quick reflexes, Nebraska,” Fritz said. “I owe ya one.”

  Another change. Michael noted to himself that Fritz was becoming a real friend. Ever since Penry’s death, they had been getting closer. And the closer they got, the more Michael realized his loud, abrasive exterior hid a loyal, thoughtful guy. He wasn’t as innately kind or amiable as Penry was—very few of the students he met were—but he was proving to have worthwhile qualities all his own, the most obvious one being the ability to make Michael laugh. But unfortunately, thinking about Penry inevitably made Michael think about his girlfriend, Imogene, which wasn’t a laughing matter. “So, do you have any news about Imogene?”

  Fritz shook his head, his smile gone, in its place a look of concern and apprehension, his dark bronze complexion growing pale. “Looks like she really did run away.” Once again, Ronan remained silent while Michael and Fritz discussed how out of character that seemed. Imogene was not the type of girl to run from something. Whether it be a problem or an opportunity, she ran toward things. Even still, the police investigated the situation and concluded that that’s what had happened; Imogene ran away from the trauma center either because it was something she had always planned on doing or as a result of Penry’s death. It didn’t make sense to either boy, but since the only other alternative—that Imogene could also be dead—was too painful to consider, both Michael and Fritz chose to believe the police department’s official statement.

  Let them believe in their own hypotheses, Ronan thought. Sometimes ignorance is preferable. It wasn’t a luxury he could embrace, but he had learned to hide darker secrets; one or two more wouldn’t matter. And what did he really know anyway? Only that Alistair was definitely not on his honeymoon, and Imogene wasn’t a runaway. Ronan shrugged. “We may never know where either one of them is.”

  How did we get to talking about such unpleasant things? Fritz thought. Isn’t the first day back to school unpleasant enough? Must change the subject and must change it now; luckily, I always save the best piece of information for last. “True, but I do know where one of our friends has been spending all of his time lately,” Fritz declared proudly. “And the new and much older boyfriend he’s been spending all of his time with.”

  What was that horrible smell? For a terrible moment, Nakano thought it was coming from him. He’d dressed quickly this morning, but he did remember to use deodorant, didn’t he? Yes, of course he did; he wouldn’t forget, not when he had an early morning date. Could the odor be clinging to his clothes? No, he just had his whole uniform washed; he felt like making a good impression for the first day of class. Oh, that was such a lie. He couldn’t care less about his classes, about Archangel Academy even. The only reason he remained enrolled was because Brania told him that her father revered education and rewarded those who demonstrated academic excellence. No, the only reason he washed his clothes was to impress his boyfriend. And despite whatever that offensive smell was, he seemed to be doing just that.

  Nakano thought Jean-Paul Germaine was, without a doubt, the most attractive man he had ever met. And what made him so incredibly attractive was that he was a man, not a boy, not a teenager, but an adult, twenty-one years old in fact. And of course absurdly handsome and French and, as of three weeks ago, his boyfriend. He never would have thought someone like Jean-Paul would be interested in dating someone like him, but as they snuggled in the backseat of his car, kissing quickly and impatiently, while his fellow students raced to their next class, there was no doubt, his boyfriend was very interested in him.

  “I weesh you had a free period every morning,” Jean-Paul said, his words sounding like the perfect lyrics to accompany the violin music that floated throughout the car.

  “Me too,” Nakano said. His words sounded harsher, more like gasps, sharp intakes of breath. But that’s okay, he thought, I’m still sort of new at this; I’ll learn; I’ll learn to be just as perfect as Jean-Paul. The day’s lesson, however, was over because just then Jean-Paul’s cell phone rang, the dramatic, sweeping music of the Nessun dorma overtaking the soft violins and reminding Jean-Paul that while he was a boyfriend, he was also an employee.

  “That’s zee boss’s ring,” he said, with a resigned shrug.

  “That’s okay, I have to get to math anyway,” Nakano said, trying to sound excited, as if he were expecting Father Fazio to unveil new and exciting revelations about geometry. From Jean-Paul’s response, it sounded as if i
t worked. “Cool, math was my favorite subject.” Straightening his clothes, Nakano decided he would really pay attention in class today; maybe the priest would provide him with some useful information after all.

  As Jean-Paul focused on listening to his boss’s instructions, all Nakano could concentrate on was that smell that was still lingering in the air. It wasn’t Jean-Paul, that was for sure. He smelled like a man, simple and clean, like a just unwrapped bar of soap. This odor was sort of spicy and reminded him of that stupid American holiday, Thanksgiving, that he loathed because it was simply an excuse to eat all day long, and who cared about that? He sniffed deeply and it finally came to him: cinnamon! That was the smell. So foul, so pungent, so boringly human. He would have to remember to get Jean-Paul a new air freshener since he planned to spend a lot more time in the backseat of his car.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, sir.” Jean-Paul snapped his cell phone shut and looked at Nakano intently for a moment before speaking, “I have to get to zee airport. Will I see you later?”

  “I have swim team practice ’til six.”

  A smile appeared on Jean-Paul’s face, lopsided, the right side higher than the left, and slowly his lips parted to reveal his tongue lazily brushing against his sparkling white teeth. “I’d love to see you in nothing but your swimsuit.”

  “Okay.” Nakano heard himself say that one word and even though he knew it was a stupid, completely unromantic response, he couldn’t think of anything else to add, so he kept quiet and hoped that the image of him wearing just his Speedo would occupy Jean-Paul’s thoughts and not Nakano’s inability to flirt.

  They both got out of the car and walked toward the driver’s side in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of snow under their feet. By the time Nakano got around the car, Jean-Paul was wearing his chauffeur cap, his straight, dark brown hair tucked neatly behind his ears, looking very important, like a man with a career. Nakano looked up until his eyes met Jean-Paul’s and reminded himself not to slouch, to stand as straight as possible. Taller might make him look older, he thought, and even though Jean-Paul never commented on his age, never said anything except that a five-year age difference wasn’t a big deal, Nakano couldn’t help but feel like an imposter in his presence. As if he were the one part of this couple who didn’t belong. But he was, he was part of a couple, he was Jean-Paul’s boyfriend, and the way Jean-Paul kissed him good-bye was proof of that.

  A frigid wind blew across Nakano’s body, making his white shirt ripple, his tie fly past his shoulder, but he didn’t feel the cold; he could feel only the heat that lingered from Jean-Paul’s lips. Filled with energy, both nervous and unbridled, Nakano rubbed the back of his head briskly, hardly noticing the feel of the strong bone underneath, the coarse bristles of his crew cut flicking through his fingers, and watched Jean-Paul in the driver’s seat, looking relaxed and professional.

  “See you later,” Nakano said, not even aware that his hand was still massaging his scalp.

  “Yes, you will,” Jean-Paul replied. He started to turn the car around and then suddenly stopped. “Have you ever thought about letting your hair grow out? I bet it would look très chic.”

  As Nakano watched his boyfriend drive away underneath the iron Archangel Academy front gate, he realized he had yet one more thing to think about.

  The only thing Michael was thinking about was how happy he was that the first day of classes of the new semester was officially over. Now the fun could really begin, starting with swim team practice. The excitement of being part of a team still hadn’t lost its novelty and for good reason. For the first part of his life, Michael was a loner, spending his time either by himself in his bedroom reading, thinking, dreaming, or at school acting as if it was his preference to stay on the outside looking in, to pretend that he didn’t want to belong to any of the school’s cliques. It was a lie. It was not at all what he wanted, but he felt that it was better to let everyone think he was independent and chose to be alone, instead of the truth, that his solitude was forced upon him. There were a few times in grammar school and at Two W, his old high school, when he tried to break through the wall that the other students had built around him, tried to make contact with someone, just one other person who might want to be his friend. But for whatever reason, he was never successful. He never found anyone who wanted to call him their friend, until he came here.

  Here he was a starter on the swim team; he had attempted something and he had succeeded. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before and he was sure that Mr. Alfano, his old gym teacher, would be proud. He knew exactly what he would say to him—“Better late than never, Howard”—in a voice filled with more respect than surprise. Then Michael wondered what Mauro would have to say. How surprised would he be that Michael was an athlete now—correction, a star athlete. But wait, no, Mauro couldn’t say anything because Mauro was dead.

  On the other side of the gym, Michael saw Nakano dragging Mauro Dorigo’s nearly lifeless body across the ground, the Weeping Water track in the background, the smell of blood in the air, and he had to shut his eyes tight to wipe out the memory. It wasn’t my fault, he told himself. I let him go; I was going to let him live no matter the consequences. It was him, Nakano. He killed Mauro. I wouldn’t even feed off his blood. I couldn’t, even though I hated, hated, hated him, I couldn’t do that to him. “Are you all right?”

  The memory was gone and Michael was back in St. Sebastian’s Gym, standing next to Ciaran. “You look, pardon the expression, a bit queer,” his former dorm mate said.

  Grateful for the diversion, Michael exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Forcing a smile, he replied, “Oh yeah, just a bit nervous, I guess, about getting back into practice.”

  Because Ciaran was both very perceptive and fully aware of Michael’s history, he knew he was lying, but because he was also his friend and now an honorary member of his extended family, he didn’t press the issue. “You’ll be fine. Ronan tells me the two of you got in some practice over the break.”

  “A little,” Michael admitted. “It was kind of fun, just the two of us here while everyone was away.” It was Michael’s turn to be sensitive. He didn’t rattle on about how enjoyable it was to spend a few weeks alone with his boyfriend when he knew that Ciaran had to spend most of that time in Devil’s Bridge, a small town in Wales with his stepmother and her relatives. Michael had been informed that this step-family was a bizarre clan who practiced alternative medicine and ran their own church and who, in Ronan’s opinion, made water vamps look completely normal in comparison. Michael thought he would get to see Ciaran on Christmas at Edwige’s flat in London, but Ciaran had decided to stay in Wales since his stepmother, though hardly loving and affectionate, was slightly more maternal toward him than Edwige. Since she had spent most of the day lamenting how much she hated the pagan holiday, Michael thought Ciaran made the right decision. Still, he hadn’t realized how much he missed his friend until just now. “But I’m glad everybody’s back.” Michael said. “I’m looking forward to a fun semester.”

  Ciaran glanced over at Ronan, who was chatting with Nakano. “One can only hope. If one happens to be the hopeful type.”

  Michael also saw his boyfriend talking to his ex-boyfriend and was happy to note that he could hardly feel the pangs of jealousy any longer. He had to be honest: They were there, but just barely. “Well, you know me, Ciaran. I’m Mister Hopeful.”

  Yes, you are, Ciaran thought, hopeful and eager and filled with little optimistic rays of sunshine. Ciaran stopped his sarcastic stream of unconsciousness. He liked Michael, he really did, but sometimes it was hard to like the guy who always gets everything he wants. “Well, it looks like all your dreams have come true,” Ciaran said. “So why shouldn’t you expect more of the same?”

  That’s right, Michael told himself, so much good stuff has happened to me so far, in such a short period of time, why shouldn’t I expect my lucky streak to continue? Because all good things must come to an en
d, he reminded himself. Nothing lasts forever. Michael laughed out loud at his last silent and foolish remark. Not only some things but also some people last forever. Fortunately, Mr. Blakeley blew his whistle at the same time Michael laughed, so he didn’t look like a total fool in front of Ciaran. Not that he had much time to worry about his reaction; within seconds, Blakeley had the starting team lined up for the first practice heat of the new season.

  Ronan, Michael, Nakano, and Fritz each took their positions on top of their swim blocks, goggles on, bodies bent, heads down, arms stretched out behind them, no one daring to move a muscle until the loud blast of Blakeley’s gun was heard. But Michael couldn’t help himself; he was too close to Ronan, the magnetic pull between them too strong for him not to shift his eyes the tiniest bit to the left to get a glimpse of him before they were all underwater. He was glad he took the risk. In his arched position, Ronan’s body was like sculpted white marble, his calves a solid curve, his thighs strong and thick, his right arm a series of rolling muscles. When Michael looked up to see Ronan’s perfect profile, he was thrilled to see Ronan smiling back at him. He was trying to get one last eyeful of Michael as well.

  While the echo of Blakeley’s gun still reverberated off the walls and windows of the gym, the boys were already in the pool, stroking, stroking, stroking, left arm, right arm, deep breath, kick, kick, kick, each trying to win, each trying to claim the first victory of the season. Michael felt the cold water rush past him, envelop him, and he imagined he was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean off Inishtrahull Island toward The Well. He tried to swim toward the finish line with the same abandon and the same purpose. If he did, maybe he could get there first.