by Zelda French
François has no class, no shame. To scream things like this from the rooftops. It’s vulgar, even. Whatever he does shouldn’t be any of our business, should it?
None of our business.
Why is he here anyway? He was definitely following us. “I love books”, my ass. No. He had a motive in coming here, and… and…
And it just dawns on me how thick I can be sometimes.
If he’s after Michael, does it mean that…
Is is possible that…
Is Michael gay too?
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER?
WE WALK THE way back in silence. Hidden behind my shades, sneaking side glances at the quiet Michael next to me, I can’t help thinking about gay François. I picture them both tucked away in the reading nook at the Shakespeare, having it out. It sure churns my stomach, to imagine them together.
I might be a homophobe. Damn it. There’s already so much wrong about me, now I’m a homophobe? Life’s not fair, really.
François is gay. That, in itself, doesn’t really come a surprise. The fact that he’s stalking Michael doesn’t come as a surprise either. It’s not like the guy’s ugly. Even as I speak, sunlight bounces off his curls in an attractive way.
Now, the important question is: is Michael gay?
If he is, is he interested in François?
But why should I care? I’m being ridiculous.
Or am I?
After all, the first time I saw Michael, wasn’t he looking at me strangely? And in a public toilet!
I’m the one who took him to the best bookstore in Paris, by the way. And honestly, am I not better looking? Not that I would… But if Michael is gay, shouldn’t he be attracted to me?
That’s it, I’m officially losing my mind. All because of François. I never thought I’d live the day.
Rewinding the last words we shared together outside the Shakespeare, I start over-analysing everything. How they got out of the shop, the way François kept leaning toward Michael in a conspiratorial way, how they laughed at some secret joke.
“Didn’t buy anything, François?” I took an enormous drag of my cigarette.
“Not today.” He was smirking. “I come here all the time, though. The staff knows me.”
I said nothing, but my leg started twitching. So what, if no one knows me? Michael doesn’t need any help to pick up a book, he’s not mentally disabled, as far as I know!
François rearranged his perfect strands while staring at my limp mop of hair, then point blank asked Michael out, wanting to know if we would go to the cinema and watch a movie with him. “We” he said, staring pointedly at Michael.
“We have to work on this Dorian Gray thing,” Michael said.
François made a face. “You can do it later. There’s time.”
Rich, coming from the teacher’s pet who never fails to submit all of his work in advance. I shoved two sticks of gum into my mouth to keep myself quiet.
“I’d rather be done with it,” Michael said.
Yes, he said that. I started fuming. Why not go around town wearing a sign saying ‘I was forced to work with this idiot, please send help’ while you’re at it. And all the while I thought he started to like me.
François gave us a fake smile, frozen at the edges, and said his goodbyes. Michael and I have walked in silence since, occasionally exchanging looks, but for once I’m happy no one’s trying to break the silence.
When we reach Place Monge, Michael stops.
“Where do you want to go?”
That’s a valid question.
Not that I’m trying to impress this guy, but considering the state of my bedroom, or the fact that my father barely categorises as a life form, I’d rather keep my home life a very well guarded secret.
Besides, going to Michael’s seems like the perfect plan. If his bedroom wall are covered by posters of men, then I’ll know he’s gay, and I can move on.
“Can we go to your place? Mine is a proper mess.”
Michael leads the way, smiling. “If you’re lucky you might even meet my mum.”
Ok, gay or not, it’s definitely a weird thing to say.
Michael’s flat looks like a model home, like it was decorated only to take pictures for a magazine and it wasn’t really made to live in. Perhaps it’s because they just moved in and their stuff isn’t there yet. Or perhaps they’re renting it as such.
Save a few plants and generic books with nice pictures of boats on it, most shelves are bare. Everything’s maddeningly bright, and clean, including a cream linen sofa which looks so perfect that I would never dare sit my ass on it.
The exception is the kitchen, where the breakfast table is still set, with half-empty plates and crumbs and pieces of fruit scattered everywhere. I can’t help staring at every item, every shape and texture, something that would scream ‘I’m gay!’ or ‘my son likes dicks and I’m totally okay with it’, that sort of kind of thing.
Do I feel dirty and borderline homophobic doing that? Yes, you bet I am. I could just turn around and ask Michael if he’s gay, after all. But then he might get the wrong idea. Like I fancy him, and all. I just feel I should know if he was, since we’re doing the essay together. I wouldn’t want him to get his hopes up.
As I’m browsing for clues through what I hope are discreet glances, I eventually take notice of a woman with a heart-shaped face standing in front of the sink and staring right at me.
Gulping, I straighten myself up as Michael runs to her and hugs her in the middle of the kitchen. I turn my gaze away until they’re done patting each other’s back.
“Mum.” Michael says, as the woman looks at me from head to toes. “This is Louis. I told you I had to do this essay on Dorian Gray, didn’t I?”
Michael’s mum is definitely an old woman, perhaps even in her early fifties, but she has a handsome face. Behind her black glasses shine a pair of very bright green eyes. Her dark hair is cut short, in a boyish way, but one thing is certain: she doesn’t have Michael’s curls.
Is his father home too? I begin craning my neck to look around the flat, just in case Michael’s father is hiding, curls and all, behind the sofa.
Michael’s mother introduces herself as Anne and extends a hand. I remove my sunglasses and shake it gingerly, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels, or my hair as dirty.
“Nice to meet you, Madame.”
“You can call me Anne.”
“He’s French,” Michael says, inexplicably.
Mrs Anne laughs at his comment. “Indeed he is.”
What is that supposed to mean? Do I have a French face? François has a French face. I don’t want to look like François. But I don’t ask out loud, so she walks over to the kitchen table and shoves a handful of half-walnuts into her mouth.
“Dorian Gray, you said?” She speaks with her mouth full. “Interesting stuff. ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’”
Michael scratches the back on his neck. “The teacher assigned us do it together.”
Here we go again. You know, blaring from every rooftop that you were forced into this is not going to improve our chance to work together, but go ahead. Say it! I’m not your type, obviously.
Anne hasn’t taken her eyes off me. It’s the hair, isn’t it? Fourth time’s the charm, I do promise myself to take better care of it.
“Would you boys like something to drink?”
Michael turns to me, I nod and shrug at the same time, noncommittal.
Anne cocks her head. “Tell me Louis, are you a coffee person or a tea person?”
“Coffee, obviously.” I hesitate. “Tea’s for British people, isn’t it?”
My answer, though delivered politely, only serves to make her laugh. With a pointed look addressed to his mum, Michael waves at me to follow him.
“We’re going to my room.”
Michael’s room is located at the end of a long and squeaky corridor. His bedroom is also bare. A queen-size bed
with navy blue sheets and neutral pillows sits in the corner of the room, close to an oak desk. A matching wardrobe stands on the opposite wall.
It’s too neat to be real. The only thing on the wall, above the desk, is a poster about a Chopin concerto occurring next month at Opera de Paris. Unless he’s sexually obsessed with Chopin, or pianos, I still have no clue as to where Michael stands on the spectrum.
Michael stands in the middle of the room, an apologetic look on his face.
“We’ve just moved in. It doesn’t look like home yet.”
Thankfully, he has no clue as to what I’m thinking. Nothing in this room could tell me anything about himself, let alone how gay he might be. It’s the plainest most boring teenager room I have ever seen. No way this guy is gay. Not that I was expecting glitter bombs and butt plugs, but shit, come on, a minimum of effort would have been nice.
Where is the life? What are you hiding? Who are you, Michael? What’s your favourite colour, the name of your first pet, your worst memory? When did it all go wrong?
“We only took two suitcases each,” Michael says. “We didn’t really plan beyond that.”
He’s frowning at me. I frown back. What does he expect me to say?
“It’s, ahem… It’s great that you can pack so efficiently.”
“Hm… Thanks.”
Still frowning, Michael offers me to seat on his bed, by his desk. The only thing on there is a laptop.
I wonder if he has Facebook. His profile would surely show pictures of girls, or boys. But he would need to add me first. There’s no guarantee he will. He has not, after all, offered me his phone number either.
If he is gay, he isn’t into me. A small part of me finds this unacceptable.
Mrs Anne knocks on the door and enters, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. She puts it down and hovers by the desk, a bright smile on her face.
“Good luck, boys.”
She’s not showing any sign of leaving. Michael notices too.
“Thanks, mum. We’ll see you later.”
“Right. Just let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
I pop my gum just loudly enough to make her jump.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
I can’t help snorting a little. Just a little. A little snort. “No, I’m good thanks.”
Michael looks embarrassed for the first time ever. Watching his face flush is sort of exhilarating. I don’t know why I was thinking he thought he was better than me, or Tony. He’s probably just as screwed up as the rest of us. He’s just better at hiding it.
Mrs Anne closes the door behind her, all smiles.
Michael hands me a mug of coffee. “I’m so sorry, she just likes to… hang out, you know.”
“That’s all right.” I point to the poster of Chopin above his bed. “You do like music after all.”
He gives the poster an anxious glance. “You can understand why I’m not advertising this.”
“Are you worried about what people say? Worried they’d take the piss?”
“They do. You did.” He rubs his palms against his thighs.
“Did I?” I pretend to inspect my nails.
“You called me a total nerd. You said you would never stoop so low as to hang out with me.”
Our eyes meet. I start blowing on my coffee, fast. “I wasn’t sure you’d picked up on that.”
“Look, I get it, okay? I’m boring. I’m not into whatever it is that you like. I care more about books and movies than parties and girls.”
Girls? Did he say girls?
“You’re not boring.” I surprise myself to come so quickly to his defence. “You know, about that day… I was having a bad time. Paquin has been on my case since the start of the year, and Tony was pulling my leg, and—”
“That’s quite all right.” His tone indicates me he’d rather talk about anything else. “You’re not the only person who made comments, you know. I’ve heard it all before. Though not usually on my first day.”
“Do you talk to strangers in the toilet on your first day, though?”
“What?” He gives me an incredulous look.
“That was weird, it freaked me out!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. People making eye contact and talking in public toilets make me uncomfortable.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. It was my first day, I was nervous, you came in here, you seemed cool, so, when you looked at me, I said hello, you know.”
He said I looked cool. Just to be clear.
“I looked at you?”
He nods. “You definitely looked at me.”
“Probably only to warn you to stop looking at me.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was looking at you.” He slams a hand on his forehead. “I must have been lost in thought. I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot now.”
“That’s fine, come on.” I don’t want him to beat himself up for this, especially not because of me. “Think about it. Now the tension’s out of the way, we can move on.”
He smiles. “We can even be mates, if you want.”
“Sure, but not in public.”
Silence.
Why the fuck did I say that? That’s the gay stuff I can’t shake, François’s fault. I didn’t mean to say that. Why the fuck am I even allowed to live?
Michael’s jaw has slacked as though he can’t believe what I just said, but just got another confirmation that I’m a small dick in a bag of bigger dicks. I want to throw myself out of his window, but he lives on the second floor and there’s no way the fall would kill me.
Now why would Michael be into me after that? He may have liked my reflexion, but the real deal is something else. I insulted him, stalked him, made a fool of myself in front of François, and now I’ve insulted him again. Even if Michael was the gayest man in the galaxy, there isn’t the smallest chance of him being interested in someone like me.
It’s not my safety I should be worried about. It’s my honour.
“What I mean is… My friends are pretty, hum, possessive, and they don’t…”
“So, you do think I’m boring.”
“No!” In my panic, I can’t find a nice, white lie to say. The truth comes rushing out and I can only witness in horror. “I just— I don’t want you around them. Tony can be a bit… wild.”
Can’t exactly explain that hanging out with Tony would scar Michael for life and then fat chance of he and I could ever be mates.
Michael’s face is twisted in a painful grimace. I can see he’s trying his best to move on from this weird conversation and he’s trying even harder not to call me an asshole.
“Ok. Let’s get started on this thing.”
I get it if he wants to be done with me as soon as possible. I won’t hold it against him.
Michael stretches his long limbs, and cracks his neck. I guess there would be worse things in the world than kissing this guy. I could almost understand François, if he wasn’t such an impertinent snob.
“Yes?” He has seen me stare. He has seen me stare. Abort!
“Your mum’s nice!”
That’s the best I could find.
“Isn’t she?” Michael’s face softens. “She’s brilliant.”
I’ve never heard anybody call their mum brilliant. Tony’s mum is close, though. She’s a funny woman. But Tony thinks she’s annoying too, sometimes.
Avoiding my gaze, Michael drums his fingers on his desk. “And your mom… How is she?”
He’s just asking a question. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He doesn’t know how little I want to talk about it. But after the way I treated him, I owe him a fair answer.
“She lives in the South. I hardly ever see her. That explains why I’m acting so unhinged most of the time!”
I meant it as a joke, but still. I don’t feel like seeing pity in his eyes, so I look down at the tiny nightstand I hadn’t noticed before. The picture of Michael and his parents at the
beach on it catches my attention. Michael’s curly hair was much longer, his laughing face younger. When I spin around briskly, he looks away. Was he staring at me?
“I’m sorry,” he says.
About my mum? Or staring at me?
“Why? I’m perfectly fine.” I hesitate. “She calls for my birthday, sometimes. Plus I met Tony a couple of years later, so…”
“Tony’s your best friend.”
“Yep.”
I wish he wouldn’t look at me so much. I’m no good for eye contact without my sunglasses. Whatever riches people want to read in the others’ eyes they won’t find in mine. But then, he startles me by slamming his Dorian Gray on his desk.
“So! The Picture of Dorian Gray. You have to read it.”
Ha! The moment has come for me to unveil my awesomeness. He still thinks I’m total loser because I haven’t done my homework. After all, he hangs out with the likes of François, who knows the Shakespeare’s staff and can get him ‘special editions’.
But hear this, Michael: “I read it last night.”
A look of delighted shock brightens his features. Yes, I did that.
“You have read the whole thing last night?”
“Well, no.” Way to smash my achievement, Duncan. “I’ve read about a quarter of it.”
“That’s great!” He starts gesturing excitedly. “Because half of Mrs Paquin’s questions are about the beginning, and when you’re through, we can meet again, and we can start on the actual essay, and— and… You probably think I’m a total nerd again.”
“Hm?” All I heard was ‘great’. “What? No. I mean. Yes. Yes you’re a nerd, but you aren’t boring. I was wrong to say this—and you know what? I don’t know if you picked up by now, but I’m shit with words. Everything comes out wrong. I’m sorry. ”
He folds his arms over his chest, his bottom lip stuck between his teeth. “I have never been apologised to by a rockstar before.”
“First times for everything, baby.”
He laughs, so I follow, but my laughter turns nervous pretty much instantly when I realise how dirty everything I say sounds. He doesn’t seem to notice. He switches his laptop on.
We work better together than I would have expected. Not one did he make me feel stupid or useless, despite the startling difference between our educations. I felt at ease, so much, even, that I have totally forgotten to worry about whether he’s gay or not.