by Zelda French
“He dies,” I tell Paquin. ”He dies at the end.”
“How?”
“He was…” The hell with it, I have no clue. This book doesn’t even have one decent film adaptation. Remembering what Michael did under the table, I tempt my chance. “He was stabbed.”
Paquin’s face splits in a malevolent smile. “You know, Monsieur Mésange… It truly baffles me that you wouldn’t even think of searching for the summary of the book on the internet before you came in here. Your lack of resourcefulness is astounding.” She retrieves her book and squeezes it between her clawed hands. “As a result, you must bear the consequences. I will write to your parents about your lack of concern for rules and your refusal to do basic homework.”
At least Tony has stopped laughing, and has resorted to a painful grimaces instead. Lucie ’s eyes are brimming with empathy, which means I’d get some proper comforting later. So it’s not all that bad.
Enjoying the effects my humiliation had on the class, Paquin slowly slinks back to her desk.
“This year is important. You must pass all of your exams, including English Literature. Enough with the slacking. To show how serious I am, I’m giving you three weeks to write a proper essay on The Picture of Dorian Gray, using this list of questions as a reference. You will work with the person sitting next to you. No exceptions, Monsieur Mésange” she adds, watching my horrified face. Her gaze softens when she turns to Michael. “I’m sorry Monsieur Parker. I bet you regret have picked that seat.”
Michael looks like he’s never had a regret in his entire life. Perhaps he’s mentally impaired. Suddenly feeling very weak, and now properly shielded by Lars, I turn away from him and rest my burning face on the table.
When again Tony turns around to check up on me, I pretend to shoot myself in the head.
CHAPTER FOUR
NOT MY KIND OF MUSIC
THE REST OF the lesson is a never-ending nightmare. My cheeks are still tingling from Paquin’s harassment, the memory of so many laughing faces, and new guy’s pity-filled gaze.
I spend most of the lesson staring at Tony and Lucie’s back and hating everything about the way they laugh at each other’s jokes or whatever they’re writing or drawing in the margin of Lucie’s binder. My heart hammering in my ribcage, I long for the end of the day. And it’s the first class of term.
Michael is really into Paquin’s analysis of Dorian Gray. After he asked me to borrow my copy, I could only oblige. I slid the book his way without a backward glance, and he hasn’t looked up from it since.
He’s so into it that he’s almost leaning flat on the table, his nose inches from the page, and from time to time, he smiles at the mention of so and so, just as though the characters on the page are his mates and they just said something funny.
I get it, he’s a total nerd, and I should have never be paired with him. Since I met him, my partner has always been Tony. I should be sitting with him, right now. I hate myself for having misbehaved so much in the past term. If I hadn’t been punished, none of this would have happened. Now I’m stuck with chatty toilet guy.
Michael.
When I catch him turning the pages of my cheap paperback as though it’s the first edition of the Gutenberg Bible, I decide to break the spell, because it’s just embarrassing.
“So…” He startles at the sound of my voice. Great. I frightened him now. “You like books.”
His eyes don’t look up from the page. “Everyone likes books.”
This makes me snort quite loudly, earning me a silent warning from Paquin. Not everybody likes books, bro. I can’t remember the last time I read a book that I actual enjoyed. I used to have books, though. Tony saw them the first time he came to my place, his hands full of CD’s and chastised me for having them.
I lied, pretended they belong to my little cousin, or that my mother owned them, I don’t recall. “From now on,” he’d said, kneeling before me, “I’ll be in charge of your education.” The next day I put them in a cardboard box and stuck them under my bed.
I stifle a yawn. “That’s going to be handy, you being a fan of books, and all.”
He abandons his precious reading to slip me a glance. “What? Why?”
“For the essay.”
“I guess.” He dips his nose back into the book as though nothing interrupted him.
Out of boredom, I start listing all the ways this guy and I are completely different, and how there’s no way on earth we could be friends.
From his freshly shampooed dark curls to the fancy boots he’s wearing, we are utterly different. Oddly enough, he smells like fresh apples. I don’t even own a bottle of perfume or aftershave. His hands are large, his fingers long. For a man, his eyes are quite large, and his eyelashes long and dark. His clothes are nothing like mine; he probably dresses like his father. And the way he treats a battered copy of a book, like it’s precious. Spoilet alert: I don’t even bother opening them.
After watching him closely for half-an-hour, I’m convinced the writing of the essay is going to be more of chore than anything I’ve done before.
The bell rings, delivering me from this nightmare. I spring to my feet, ready to GTFO. Tony is at our table in seconds. Lucie readjusts her hair before joining us. Don’t think I missed it.
“So” Tony says, twirling my pen like a baton and dropping it. “That was humiliating.”
“Yes, thank you, Tony.”
Michael appears between us, holding my pen. I snatch it and toss it in my bag, eager to leave quickly, put as much distance between he and I. But Tony turns to Michael, eyes brimming with interest.
“So, Michael, is that right? British, right?”
“Guilty on both counts.”
Lucie flashes him one of her best smiles. But he’s already said that at the beginning of class. Not very original, is he? Especially for somebody who loves to speak to strangers in the toilets.
“What brings you to Colette?” Tony asks.
Lucie gives Michael a thorough look which makes me think she wouldn’t mind spending time locked in the toilet with him.
Michael puts his hands in his pockets. “My mother has gotten a job in Paris for the next few months. I thought it’d be a great experience to join her.”
It’s as though he can feel Lucie’s eyes on him, because he starts shuffling his feet nervously, and points at her polar bear backpack.
“Cute.”
She beams, but Tony doesn’t look so convinced yet. Bless his magnificent long face.
“You left your school and your friends in the middle of the year to come here?”
“I guess I like to live dangerously.” He glances at the door on the other side of the room.
“Cool. That’s cool.” Tony has never finds anybody cool except for Lucie and I. I watch him extend his hand, bewildered. “I’m Tony.”
“I’m Lucie,” my girlfriend adds, a bit too pink for my liking.
Michael finally cracks a smile, which slips at the sight of my scrunched up face. Tony slides in front of me, obscuring me from him.
“So, Michael. What kind of music do you listen to?”
Oh, nice one Tony. Tricky question. The make or break of any infant of a relationship with him. And therefore with myself, of course. Michael doesn’t know that. He’s staring at us as though he finds the question a little odd.
“I don’t really listen to music, actually.”
Lucie gasps audibly in the empty classroom. “You don’t listen to music?”
“Everyone listens to music,” Tony’s eyes narrow.
Tony believes that what you listen to says a lot about who you are. Like listening to French variety makes you a loser, by default. Listening to RnB or pop makes you a trend follower, and listening to classical music makes you a career politician. Avoid these people at all costs, Tony would say.
Tony’s intense.
“I just don’t,” Michael says.
There is a silence during which we all exchange stares that are w
ay too uncomfortable for my opinion. Michael’s statement is hanging in the air like a murder confession. With that, all my worries vanish. There is no way Tony will let him into our little group, and I’ll never have to deal with his annoying curls.
Eventually even Michael has gotten the gist of it, because he gestures toward the door.
“I should go. I’ve no idea of the layout of this place. I don’t want to get lost again.”
Before we can protest, not that I ever intended to, personally, Michael clears his side of the table by sweeping the contents into his backpack with one hand and hurries out of the classroom.
Lucie stares after him. “We could have been nicer, really.” She worries her bottom lip. “We scared him away.”
“Good.” Tony says, stretching his long arms. “What kind of person doesn’t listen to music? Serial killers, I think.”
Tony, as always, is right.
“I don’t think so.” I close my bag and start moving toward the door. “That would be too interesting.”
“Oh, you’re right. Can’t have more than one serial killer per school. And we already have Madame Paquin.”
Outside, the corridor is packed and I have to wrap an arm around Lucie’s shoulders to shield her from taller brutes.
“Who has Paquin ever killed?” She asks. “Allegedly, of course.”
Tony ruffles my hair. “Our dear Lou-Lou, repeatedly, in the past two hours.”
“Arsehole.” I punch him in the shoulder while he laughs uncontrollably.
No time for more conversation, as we reach our next class, History. After two hours of pure bliss where no one even thinks of interrogating me, and where I’m safely seated next to Tony while Michael ends up next to François, we drag our exhausted bodies outside for a cigarette before storming the cafeteria. It’s freezing, and the sky looks as gloomy as a January sky entails, but at least there’s no wind today.
Looking over my shoulder, I see Sacha, Yasmine and François have wasted no time pouncing on my toilet guy. I don’t know who’s acting more flustered. François, who in all the years I have known him, as never had a male friend, or Sacha, whose had more male friends than anyone should.
“Do we have time for a joint behind the bushes?” I ask, tying up my hair in a low ponytail.
“No.” Lucie pulls me to her. She kisses my cheek, my nose, my lips, and before long, she’s all over me, laughing into my mouth, smelling of La Petite Robe Noir and tasting of peach lip balm.
Tony’s voice distracts me. “So, Lou. What do you think?”
“Of what?” I pull two cigarettes from my pack. Lucie takes one and lights mine.
“New guy. You spent two hours with him. What do you think?”
I choke on the smoke. “What do you mean what do I think?”
“Should we invite him to hang out after class, could he be one of us?”
“Tony, he doesn’t listen to music,” Lucie says, and I feel a jolt of love toward her.
“Sure, true, but if Lou thinks Michael’s awesome, then we’ll have to make an effort. After all, we can teach him about music. Your precious Lou knew nothing of the good stuff before I peeled him off the streets like a stray puppy.”
“Thanks, really.”
“That’s true. You even looked like one. So?”
Staring in Tony’s laughing dark eyes, I feel an unusual feeling of bitterness, as though he’s playing out a joke he hasn’t let me on. What does he want from me? What is he playing at? I don’t like to be left out. I don’t like it at all. A mixture of fear and resentment overtakes me.
“Look, I’ve got to get out of this deal with Paquin.” I surprise myself with the harsh tone of my voice. “I don’t even want to do the essay with him. Michael. Even his name sounds lame. If you think I’ll stoop so low as to hang out with this total nerd, you clearly haven’t taught me anything at all..”
Lucie’s eyes widen, Tony’s jaw slacks, his mouth drops open.
“What?”
They’re looking at something located right behind me. With a mounting sense of dread, I turn around.
Michael is standing right in front of me, my copy of Dorian Gray in his hand. Unhelpfully, Tony lets our a nervous cackle.
Lucie buries her fist in his hip. “Dickhead.”
“I took your book by mistake,” Michael says. His face is blank.
I can try to convince myself I don’t think he heard it, but that would be delusional at this point. I immediately push my sunglasses up my nose to conceal my mortification, but in the centre of my white face, my cheeks are burning with shame.
“Thanks.”
Michael turns around without another word. Behind me, Tony’s chortling like a kid, and Lucie chastises him. I stare after Michael, an odd feeling swirling around my stomach. Sacha, François and Yasmine welcome Michael back. Sacha links her arm with his and leads him toward the cafeteria.
“Well done,” Tony tells me. “Now you better hope he’s not a serial killer.”
With a frustrated sigh, I stuff the book into my backpack. This day cannot be over soon enough, but I still have a whole afternoon ahead filled with opportunities to make an absolute fool of myself.
Why should I care if I hurt his feelings? I don’t even know him. He didn’t care about my feelings when he tries to chat with me in the toilet. But how would he be aware of my social anxiety? I’m pretty decent at hiding it. All you need is sunglasses during the day and alcohol during times-out.
Despite my fears, the day goes on without any more incidents. Not once Michael even looks at me or speaks to me again. Amazingly, Lucie and Tony seems to have completely forgotten he exists or that I said these stupid words while he was in earshot.
Still, I welcome the end of lessons with relief. Under the cover of dark, Tony, Lucie and I share a quick joint near the school bins and I wave them goodbye as they hop on the bus toward their home.
I live too close to Colette not to walk, even in the cold. I don’t mind it. I put my music on and keep my head down, that way I don’t even meet people’s gaze.
The only time I looked up, at the red light, I notice with surprise Michael walking in the same direction, only on the other side of the road. Are we neighbours? He spots me too, but pretends he doesn’t. He know he did, though, because he picks up the pace to put some distance between us. A faint feeling of shame settles on my chest. It might just be the weed.
Sticking my earplugs into my ears, I turn the music on. When Michael saw me earlier in the mirror, he probably thought I was a decent guy, so he went to sit next to me. And I am a decent guy. I wish I’d said nothing. I get so worked up performing for Tony sometimes that I act like a complete bully. Now I wish I hadn’t.
But still, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. I don’t know him. He doesn’t like music. I only wish he hadn’t heard me because he’ll get the wrong idea about me, think I’m some kind of asshole, and though I do stupid things from time to time, I don’t think I’m an asshole.
Something nasty awaits me at home. My father is waiting for me at the kitchen table. It’s his usual spot to berate me whenever he does, which doesn’t happen often, but always results in uncomfortable and awkward cohabitation for the following weeks.
“Mrs Paquin wrote to me.”
“She did threaten to do that,” I say with a smile, the weed clouding my judgment. I had completely forgotten about the old bat’s threat.
“Does that make you laugh?”
I stick my hands in my pockets. “Not particularly.”
My father takes a deep breath. He’s as bad as playing the bad dad than I am at playing good son. I actually feel sorry for him.
“You had two weeks to read that book. Two weeks. That’s plenty of time.” He rests his forehead in his hand, as though the conversation is already taking its toll on him. “You never try. Never make an effort of anything.” He looks up, his face twisted in a grimace. “God damn it Louis, you don’t even wash your hair anymore.”
I rake a hand
through my hair, mildly offended.
“That’s grunge.”
“That’s not grunge. That’s disgusting.” He rises from his seat, his eyes narrowing. “And are you high right now?”
“Nope.” I quickly stare down at my feet.
“You better not be.”
My father’s lips tighten in a white line. He slowly rubs his palms together, a thing he always does when he wants control of his emotions.
“I tell you what, Louis. Paquin told me about your essay. If you don’t get top grades to this essay, you can forget about going to London. And that goes for all of the other subjects too, you know. There will be no London as long as you don’t try a litter harder.”
I actually don’t know what to say. He’s never threatened me with anything before, and despite all the protests that come to my head right now, a part of me knows fully well that I fucked up with this Dorian thing. I could yell something, like ‘it’s not fair!’, or ‘Mom would never do this to me’. I don’t feel it, today.
Dad moves to the sink. “Go do your homework. I’m making dinner.”
Perhaps I should show a little more backbone. Rage Against The Machine, you know. So he could tell his friends we had a big fight and he came on top.
I lift my chin up. “I’ll be eighteen soon, you know. And then I can do what I want.”
Dad turns to me, frying pan in hand. “Not with my money, you won’t.”
That’s good enough. Now I can turn on my heel and stomp to my bedroom, even slam the door.
Dinner happens in heavy, resentment-laden silence, each deep into his thoughts. My father wonders if he went too far, if he should’ve raised his voice at all, if he’s worthy. Or perhaps he’s just wondering what’s on telly tonight.
Personally, I wonder how I’ll possibly get top grades on an essay about a book I haven’t read written with a guy who hates me.
A guy who hates me because of me.
CHAPTER FIVE
SO, I'M IN A BIT OF A PICKLE
AT THE END of the week, it’s clear Michael has forgotten even about my mere existence, or he’d rather not think of me. Not a single glance or a word from him since he heard me call him a nerd. Talk about holding a grudge.