I Want to Kiss You in Public

by Zelda French

  “So what? You seemed to want nothing to do with me the other day.”

  Right. He’s into dropping bombs, then. I should have known that much. He’s British, after all. Ok, fine, the truth then.

  “We don’t really have a choice now, do we? We have to work together, or Paquin will give us both a bad grade.”

  I realise now I’ve completely forgotten Tony’s plan to ask him do write the essay alone and slap my name on it. There’s still time to ask, if he refuses me. I mean, to work with me.

  Michael seems to think about it.

  “Come on, it will be easy for you. You seem to know all about it. You had to read it at school in London, didn’t you?”

  Michael’s eyebrows knit together. “I read it for pleasure. The first time, at least.”

  “For pleasure, really?”

  I can’t help laughing, but I swear, I didn’t mean anything bad by it. He’s so very touchy.

  “You should try reading it, really. Not because some teacher you’ll never remember asked you too. But because you want it. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the world and meet other people? Reading a good book can do that to you.”

  My shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “Tony says rockstars don’t read books.”

  It’s Michael’s turn to snort in derisive laughter. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I bet you the best ones do.”

  It’s my turn not to smile anymore. Here it is. Michael thinks he’s so much better than us, huh. Because he lives in Kensington, wherever that is, and reads books and has a mother who not only reads books, but learns them by heart.

  And Tony and I we’re just dumb freaks in leather jackets. My face closes up, my jaw wires shut in boiling resentment. Michael looks confused, and eager to go.

  “I have to go, but I’ll see you around then.”

  “And the essay?”

  He nods. “Don’t worry about the essay. I knew we had to do it together.”

  With a little wave, he carried on down the street, and I take a left.

  Took his sweet time to get in touch with me about it, though. And by the way, I did all the work. I came to him, stalked him in the dark and made small talk and all he did was nothing. It’s like he was waiting for me to come after him, you know.

  Weirdo.

  Well, in any case, mission accomplished. We’ll do the essay together and he’ll use his big smarty-brain and… And it will be a success. No biggie.

  Then why am I so emotional? So what, if he hurt my pride a little? I did the same to him when I called him a nerd, and he seems to have gotten over it.

  Perhaps he’s just a better guy than I am. That wouldn’t be too difficult.

  Or perhaps I want to prove him wrong. Perhaps I want to show him what I’ve got. If he thinks I can’t read, then he’s in for a surprise. I’ve read books before, I’m not a complete idiot.

  The first thing I do ten minutes later after launching myself on top of my bed, is to retrieve Dorian Gray from my backpack.

  The bloke on the cover and I exchange a long stern look. Then, after drawing a long, steeling breath, I open the book on the first page.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I'M TRYING OUT NEW THINGS

  WELL RESTED AFTER seven hours of uninterrupted sleep and the powerful knowledge of having surpassed myself, it’s in high spirits that I wake up the next morning, Dorian Gray still open to the last page read on the side of my bed.

  My father’s eyes widen in shock when he sees me slink out of my bedroom an hour earlier than usual. He probably thinks his little speech is the reason for my early rising, but he’s wrong.

  It’s not his anger, but mine, that got me up so early this morning; I am determined to show Michael how wrong he is about me and that’s I’m not just really handsome, but also super smart. Ok, ok, that might be a bit much. But my mind’s made up. I’m determined to innocently stumble upon him on the way to school this morning to tell him I’ve read a quarter of the damn book by myself and without a glance at the pictures.

  “Are you okay this morning?” My dad asks when I sit at the kitchen table. He pours me a healthy dose of black coffee. “You look feverish.”

  “I’m fine. There’s just many, many things to do. Busy year. Lots of work to be done.”

  If I leave now, I’ll probably catch Michael. He definitely looks like the type of bloke who’s early for about anything, with spare time to read the paper before leaving the house, like some sort of 1950’s nuclear family super-dad. I have to tell him I’ve read his god damn book, and it wasn’t even hard. Not that I want to impress him. Just to show him I’m not the idiot he thinks I am.

  My dad watches me devour a piece of toast and take a large swig of steaming coffee. It’s like lava. I’m pretty sure it will melt my organs on the way down.

  “What news about your essay?” he asks.

  I get up, eyes streaming. My backpack and sunglasses are waiting for me under the coat rack. “I’m working on it tonight.” Probably. “Might be late.”

  My burnt tongue is still prickling when I shut the door behind me.

  It’s with a good song on my lips that I careen down the stairs, backpack swaying on my shoulder, until a vision of horror stops me in my tracks.

  The Old Lady from the second floor is there. Clad in black slacks and the pinkest blouse, arms folded over her chest, she’s staring right at me.

  “Good morning, young man.”

  We gaze at each other through squinted eyes, sizing each other up. Oh, I knew. My time was bound to come, one day. Like the brave young men of her generation who evaded the war long enough, and eventually were called to the front. I had been too good at dodging her, and a part of her always wanted to get me for it. Bad news for her, people don’t go to war anymore, they go to school, and she doesn’t have to know how early I am.

  Ostensibly checking my phone for the time, I mutter good morning back.

  She studies me with her sharp brown eyes, her bob of white hair perfectly framing her wrinkled face.

  “You look like you certainly have the time to help an old lady.”

  Do I? Do I? Really? That’s funny. Was I not literally running down the stairs? Emphasis on RUNNING?

  But she’s so tiny and wrinkly… What would happen if I refused her? I don’t know what she needs help with. Heartbroken at my refusal, she might attempt the young man’s job herself. Then she’s break her hip, and I’d never forgive myself.

  Throwing a longing look down the stairs, I advance toward her.

  “What do you need?”

  Her eyes light up. “It’s nothing. I just need you to take a box out of my closet. It’s too heavy, I can’t lift it by myself. But for someone like you, it won’t take a minute.”

  Dragging my feet, I follow her into her flat and into through a dark, narrow corridor. She practically hisses at me when I bump into one of the million and a half picture frames she’s got hanging on each wall.

  I was half expecting the old lady’s home to smell musty, like old people, or worse, like cat pee, but it smells just fine. She probably doesn’t even own a cat. I only wish she’d walk faster. I’ve got things to do, curly-haired people to talk to, she probably cannot comprehend it at her advanced age, but I’ve got a life.

  At the end of the corridor, the door to her living room is ajar. I catch a glimpse of a cosy looking rug and dark squashy-looking sofa, and piles and piles of of bits of paper littering the handsome carved coffee table. But we’re not going in there. Old Lady turns left into another, shorter corridor and pushes open the door to a medium-sized bedroom. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn, conferring the room a gloomy feeling.

  I stroll in, both hands on my hips. “Jesus! Did somebody die in here?”

  She gives a dry chuckle. “You could say that.”

  All right, I see, she’s pulling my leg, or the box she wants me to lift contains somebody’s decaying body. Above the bed, an old cloak informs me that I’ve already wasted too much time. Michae
l might have already left. Who knows when I’ll have an other opportunity to shove my achievement down his throat. The impatient click of my tongue earns me a disapproving glare.

  Old Lady points at the massive wardrobe on my right. “The box is in there. Top shelf. You can’t miss it.”

  I shuffle hesitantly to the imposing wardrobe, put my hand on the handle, turn around. God knows what’s in there. What if I come face to face with some… old lady things?

  She waves for me to get on with it. “Go ahead, it’s not going to bite. But don’t drop it, or I’ll skin you alive.”

  Ok, I see. You’re a funny one.

  “Can I at least have some light or something?”

  “No.”

  My grimace makes her scoff. “Don’t look so miserable.”

  “I’m not miserable. I’m just… busy.” I remove my sunglasses and hand them over to her. “Here, hold this.”

  Old Lady takes them with an amused look.

  “Busy or not, you’re young, you’re supposed to have a good time.”

  Rich. I was having a great time before she forced me into unpaid child labour.

  “Look, if you don’t mind…”

  My phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I ignore it and pull the handle. The door creaks open. Thank goodness, no threatening old lady things, but coats and things like that. Despite standing on my toes, I can still barely reach the top shelf. I start feeling around for the box with my fingertips, while she watches me, her eyes twinkling. She’s having fun, watching me poking around her wardrobe in the dark.

  “I have to go to school, you know. What about my bright future?”

  She lets out a stifled laugh. “Is it school, that makes you so miserable?”

  Inside my pocket, my phone won’t stop vibrating, adding to my irritability.

  “I am not miserable!” I throw her a nasty glare over my shoulder. “I can’t feel it. Where is it?”

  “Perhaps a little deeper.”

  “Look, I don’t know how tall you thought I was, but it’s not— oh.”

  I can finally feel the edge of a cardboard box deep into the wardrobe. “Okay, I almost got it. Where do you want it, by the way?”

  “What? You’re mumbling. I can’t hear you.”

  “Where do you want it?”

  Her white head appears next to me. “Leave it on the bed. If you ever manage to get it out, I mean.”

  For fuck’s sake. Grasping the box as firmly as my extended fingers allow it, I give it a good pull. It’s heavier than I thought. What does she have in there? Gold bars? Who knows. Maybe she used to work for a cartel or something. Am I to become an accomplice? Perhaps she’ll give me a bar, as a thank you.

  The box is stuck. Straining under the effort, I pull, and twist, and pull some more, until it suddenly breaks free, sending us both, the box and I, flying backwards. The old lady lurches forward, seizes the collar of my leather jacket and twirls me around. Before I know it, I’m falling backwards into her open wardrobe. One of the gold bars jumps out of the box and lands heavily on top of my head. Mercifully, her pile of fluffy coats stops my fall.

  The old lady laughs at the curse that escapes my lips. “Careful, you wouldn’t want to get stuck in there.” She helps me up and out of the wardrobe.

  I look down at the thing that struck me. It wasn’t a gold bar. It was an old metal box, but it felt just the same.

  “This thing almost gave me brain damage. My father would have sued you.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m not afraid of your father.”

  Well, can’t exactly blame her for that.

  And all the while, I haven’t dropped her stupid cardboard box, and my phone is still vibrating in my pocket. It stops just as I drop the blasting thing on the bedspread. Then I take notice of the clock above the bed. If that’s the time, I’m officially late now.

  Thanks, thanks a lot, old lady.

  Wiping my brow with one hand, I take my phone out of my pocket with the other. The harassment was from Lucie. She wants to know what to do this weekend. Why? Why? I’m about to see her in about ten minutes.

  “Alright,” I say, turning on my heel to face my tormentor. “All done.”

  She’s gone. Probably looking for other chores for me to do. Hell, no. I need to get out of here, now.

  Retracing my steps quickly through the corridor, my hand’s already on the front door when she calls out.

  “Wait. I’ve got something for you.”

  My hand freezes on the handle. That’s actually really nice. I wait in silence as she ambles toward me.

  “Thank you for your help,” old lady says. She presses something into my hand. It’s round and heavy, so fat chance for a twenty euros note. I stare down in disbelief: it’s a bottle of shampoo. “I looks like you really need it, dear.”

  “Are you for real?”

  I almost broke my neck retrieving her gold and she insults my lifestyle.

  “Don’t forget these either.”

  My sunglasses are dangling from her tiny fist. Snatching them, and not without one last glare, I leave her in the middle of the corridor, not bothering to shut the door behind me.

  On second look, I can at least appreciate that her shampoo looks high-end, Champs-Elizées super-shampoo sort of stuff. With a groan, I stick in my backpack.

  Once outside, disappointment really settles on my shoulders. I’m late again. Way too late to meet Michael anyway. My plan to impress him, I mean to show him I’m just as capable as he is, has turned against me.

  But to my surprise, he’s right there, in front of me, as I reach Place Monge, walking at his own pace, not a care in the world.

  I double check through squinted eyes. Is it really him? I recognise his set of long legs, dark coat and dark curls. It really is Michael, on his way to school.

  LATE.

  Haha! Who’s the loser now, right?

  I start lumbering toward him, clutching my baggy pants as I go.

  Michael doesn’t seem to know he’s late. He’s looking up at the sky, a contented look on his face. The clouds parts at this exact moment, bathing his face in bright sunlight. I slow down and call his name. He turns around, his eyes scanning the street.

  An obscure, deep-seated and foreign part of me flutters to life. From it, a shy question arises, confusing me. Will he be happy to see me? But his face tenses when he recognises me.

  I reach him, panting. ”I’m late.”

  With a dubitative frown, he looks down to check his watch. “I’m not, though.”

  “What?”

  I pull out my phone once again to check the time. It’s fifteen minutes earlier than I thought. Damn this old lady! He clock must have been defective. But it’s not really her fault. It was probably as ancient as its owner. That must be it.

  “We’re not late.” Michael looks at me with concern. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  His mouth twitches, then he bites his lower lip, as though to stifle a laugh. I forget what I wanted to say. It was probably not important.

  We start walking in silence again. It makes me feel self-conscious. I decide to break it.

  “I only thought I was late because was helping my neighbour with something and—” I hesitate telling him the whole experience. Normally I would tell Tony first thing, but I don’t want Michael to think I’m an idiot. “She’s an old lady, so it took a while.”

  Michael stares at me with surprise. “You were helping an old lady? That’s so nice.”

  “Oh it’s nothing you know. I do it all the time.” I hide my face behind my scarf, ashamed of my blatant lie. “Anyway, that’s the only reason why I’m late.”

  Michael nodded thoughtfully “I usually leave earlier as well, but I got distracted this morning.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Nothing as nice as helping my neighbour, I’m afraid. I was just talking to my mum and I lost track of time.”

  The massive snort that
comes out of me probably won’t do me any favour. But I couldn’t resist.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “You lost track of time while talking to your mum?”

  “Sure.” He seems half-amused, half-exasperated by my astonishment. “I love talking to my mother. She’s brilliant.”

  Now we both stare at each other in disbelief. I cannot comprehend that anyone want to spend time with their parents. He probably doesn’t get what sort of animal wouldn’t want to.

  “You don’t talk to your mum?”

  “Not really, no.”

  And it’s better this way.

  “Then I’m sorry for you.”

  “Don’t be,” I say, shrugging. “Not every family’s the same, that’s all.”

  “I guess not.” I can feel his eyes on me for a brief moment.

  The silence between us growing oddly thick once again, I decide to get straight to the point.

  “Should we meet tonight, work on the essay then?”

  “Oh, about that.” He offers me an apologetic smile. “I forgot to tell you, I don’t have the book, I left it at home. I mean, in London.”

  “Right.”

  “I need to buy a new one, but I haven’t really been around to it yet. So, before we start…”

  “I know where you can get one,” I say quickly. “I’ll take you after class if you want.”

  Look at me, helping a mate out. Shopping for books. It’s really is a new year.

  “Sure, great!” Michael seems very enthusiastic about it and even picks up the pace. “Let’s meet at the school gate after class then?”

  “No!” I have just realised something. “It’s better if we meet where Place Monge. But believe me,” I add, when he begins frowning again, “this place will blow your mind. It’s the best bookstore in Paris.”

  I’m half-expecting him to say he’s surprised I know of one bookstore in Paris. I’m waiting. He’s going to say it. But no. He says nothing.

  When our eyes meet again, his expression is perfectly relaxed again. But before I can return his smile, Lucie call out to me. I look around, and am shocked to see her and Tony waving at me. Are we already at the school gate?

  We walk over to them. Tony, looking bored, tosses his cigarette in my direction but it lands right between Michael’s feet.