I Want to Kiss You in Public

by Zelda French

  “What’s wrong with you?” Tony slaps his hand against my forehead. I push him away.

  “Nothing. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

  When I lift my own t-shirt over my head, I can’t help but shivering at the memory of Michael’s flat stomach.

  I haven’t spoken to him since. Sure, I saw him on Monday, when we submitted our essay, in English Lit. But I kept to myself, and as I was being stubborn in my silence, he didn’t insist, left class without a word, and I was left to repeatedly bump my head against the table until Tony came over to get me.

  I shouldn’t worry too much about it, I know. I’m almost eighteen, I’ve got hormones on fire like the experts say on TV. I saw a flash of skin and my body reacted. It doesn’t mean I’m into guys. Just one look at Tony’s long face and dangling arms and I’m missing Lucie’s striking beauty.

  But something is messing with my brain. I haven’t been feeling right, lately. Because if it were just this incident, right, but it’s not. Was I just not, the other day, marvelling at the elasticity of Michael’s curls? Is that really a straight thing to do? I could ask Tony if it ever happened to him…

  Tony tosses my shirt at my face. “Wake up!”

  Forget it. There’s no way I can ask him anything. He would never shut up about it.

  “Sorry, sorry. “I put the shirt on hastily.

  “Lucie’s waiting outside.”

  “She can wait a second, can’t she?”

  “You’re so annoying this morning.” Tony never gets the hint to shut up. “Are you on your period or something?”

  “You’re so funny.” I rise from the bench and jab a finger in his chest. “Remind me to consult you next time we have an essay on sexism.”

  “Oh!” He clutches at his chest, pretending to be shocked. “Excuse-me?”

  “I told you I haven’t slept!”

  “Confess, it’s because of the new guy.”

  My heart jumps in my throat. “What? Why?”

  “Is he that boring? Did he suck the life out of you?”

  Once again, Tony’s got it wrong.

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  Tony’s too entertained my bad mood to drop it. I can see in his black eyes that he’s about to add something and I already want to punch him in the face, but at this exact moment, Michael charges into the changing rooms, closely followed by François. They’re both flushed, as though they’re raced the whole way here.

  Seeing me with my jaw hanging open makes François look particularly chipper.

  Michael barely registers our presence, hurriedly open his backpack to retrieve his gym clothes. When I realise what he’s about to do, I brutally shove Tony toward the exit.

  “Come on, Lucie’s waiting outside!”

  Once the door is safely shut behind us, I release a breath. The last thing I need is another glimpse at Michael’s underwear. When it comes to the sensitive subject of my genitals, I’ll take Yasmine’s Malinois over Tony’s laughter any day.

  Volleyball class is just as it sounds. The class is taught — if you can call it teaching— by Mr Granger, an overweight man in his early thirties, whose baby face is always red. If Granger has given up on life by becoming a PE teacher at Colette International, he has not given up on terrorising generations of slackers through his harsh grading.

  Needless to say, he hates Tony and I most, especially since that time Tony tried to convince him he had developed the ability to menstruate overnight, and therefore couldn’t attend swimming lessons.

  Volleyball is pretty straight forward. Granger splits us into teams, and we face each other while he watches lazily, drinks coffee and types on the keyboard of his old Pocket Pc.

  There’s no way I’ll distinguish myself as a brilliant athlete today, so I’m not expecting a good grade and I’m not too anxious about it.

  Lucie’s great at volleyball, she can throw a nasty punch, and I’m not the only one who gazes at her longingly while she plays. She trots toward us in her gym shorts and swaying ponytail, meaning business, and hands me a hair tie.

  “So you don’t miss the ball, this time.”

  It happened once, okay? My hair fell over my eyes like a curtain, I missed the ball, and our team lost. She never got over it.

  “Why are you helping me?” I gratefully accept the hair tie, and begin pulling my hair back. “You’re on the other team.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to have to watch you fail miserably.”

  When I’m done tying my hair in a low ponytail, Lucie watches the result with glowing cheeks.

  “Your hair looks so good these days.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Tony says, bending close to the top of my skull to take a better look. “It’s true, your hair’s been weird all week. You’re washing it, aren’t you?” He puts his hand on his hip, looking thoughtful. “You know, that’s not the only thing different about you.” He turns to Lucie. “The other day he stopped at the Papeterie outside my flat and bought a binder and notebooks and shit.”

  “What?” I try not to sound too defensive. “I needed new supplies.”

  “Lou, you never even take notes.”

  “You don’t, baby,” Lucie says, laughing.

  “I do now.” My cheeks heat up. “I need good grades, you know, for London.”

  A brief silence settles between us.Then Tony lunges at me and ruffles my hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his face split into an evil grin. “That was too tempting.”

  Lucie, laughing at my disgruntled face, blows me a kiss and walks over to the other side of the net, where Michael is also standing, flanked by Sacha and Yasmine. Sacha looks angry and Michael is pretending to be absorbed by the structure of the net.

  I jerk my chin toward Sacha. “What’s up with her?”

  Tony rolls his eyes. “She’s mad at New Guy.”

  “Michael?” My heart thumps. “Why?”

  “Who gives a shit. Some girl stuff.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “I tell you what. I’ll tell you everything if I can bump a cigarette later.”

  “Fine. Now, tell me. I can’t wait for you to explain to me how you became an expert on ‘girl stuff’.”

  He lets out an enormous bark of laughter. “Ha! What do you think?”

  “Lucie told you, and you thought the information too irrelevant to share with me.”

  “Bingo.”

  Amused, I shake my head. “So, what’s up with Sacha?”

  “She thought she could get herself a nice juicy slice of British pound cake, if you know what I mean?”

  “You are so gross.”

  He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?" My heart rate kicks up another notch. “She is… ahem… great.”

  I’m such a hypocrite. Tony’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. He seems agree with me.

  “Sure, Sacha’s great. Anyway, New Guy’s got a girl back home.”

  A little glass bubble shatters in the confines of my chest. I glance up toward the windows above the stands, the milky-white sky staring back at me, indifferent.

  Michael’s got a girl, back home.

  “So,” Tony says, now making ridiculous poses to stretch his legs. “Sacha’s pissed off, she’s wasted a lot of energy on him since he arrived, and it was all for nothing. And Lucie comforted her, even though Sacha is a bit much. But I was telling Lucie, you know what? We know her, she’ll bounce back, she’s find a way to get around that small complication.”

  A small what?

  Well, it’s not like I never thought it was possible. It’s just that… you know…

  He never told me. Why wouldn’t he tell me? He’s acting like we’re best friends, but he didn’t tell me he had a girl back home. What’s her name? What does she look like? Unsurprisingly, my imagination kick starts with no regards for the truth, and the image of a brunette in a schoolgirl skirt and tweed jacket, striking sexy poses for him on a velvet bedspread, flashes before my eyes.

  Michae
l has a girlfriend. I could have asked him this question a million times. He would have told me, if only I’d asked. All my stupid little questions would have been answered, and we would have moved on.

  Michael isn’t gay. Sorry François. He’s got a girlfriend, sorry, Sacha.

  Now I can stop acting crazy. No more asking myself weird questions which fuck with my brain, my sleep, and my occasionally, my manhood.

  All is well in the world.

  Rubbing my hands together, I jump into the game with a newfound determination.

  Ten minutes later, they’re destroying us. The third time François slams into me, allegedly to get the ball, but I think it’s just good old sabotage, I’m ready to throw in the towel. My already thin motivation to honour my team has pretty much evaporated. I remove myself to the back of our team to watch better athletes than myself take care of business.

  On the other side of the net, Lucie, her face glowing, is an absolute beast. Everyone watches in awe and no girl in their right mind is tempted to comment on the sweat pooling down at the small of her back. Behind her, Michael looks taller than the others, second to Lars. But contrary to Lars, he’s too much of a gentleman to stare at Lucie’s ass. Sacha, on the other hand, won’t take her eyes off of his.

  Classic.

  Tony joins me, breathing hard. “Fuck this.” He leans against me for support while he adjusts his shoe.

  “My thoughts exactly.” I sound bitter.

  Tony points toward Lucie. “She’s so good, though.”

  “She’s perfect…”

  Tony adds something, but I’m not paying attention. Sacha is approaching Michael, a determined look on her face.

  She raises herself on tiptoes, whispers something in his ear. Michael’s eyes widen, he throws his head back and laughs. Then, quick as a fox, spots the ball François is hurtling at him and throws it right back at him with great agility, scoring another point. His team cheers. Lars headlocks him, buries his chin into his hair to congratulate him. Some people know absolutely no boundaries! Who does he think he is?

  Michael doesn’t seem to mind, he pulls at the band of his sweatpants with one hand and uses the other to wipe sweat off his forehead. Sacha’s burning eyes are not leaving him.

  It’s a shame, really. Isn’t it, Sacha? A real shame.

  Tony tugs at my sleeve “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Sure.”

  Sacha walks over to Michael again. A bead of sweat glimmers at edge of his full eyebrow. Slowly, he lifts his hand and runs his long fingers through his dark, glistening curls. His nostrils flare with each of his strained breaths. His sharp green eyes never leave the ball.

  Sacha speaks. Startled, Michael jerks his head back, sends heaps of curls bouncing like a flock of fat little lambs, and—

  WHAM!

  Something hits me square in the eye with the force of a wrecking ball, and flattens me to the ground, knocking the air out of me. Bouncing lambs give way to an explosion of stars. Somewhere around me, the sound of Tony’s laughter and Granger’s whistle reach me.

  “Whatdijfoirgjthappened?”

  My brain has been punched out my skull. I seem to have lost the ability to form words.

  Tony’s blurry hand appears in my field of vision. After two failed attempts, I manage to grasp it and pull myself up. My teammates gather around us, some shaking their heads, some trying hard not to smirk. Lucie goes over to our side, takes one look at my face and gasps. A part of me shamefully relishes the attention.

  “Watch the ball, you dumbass, not the players!” The teacher comes running and snarling, then skids to a stop once he sees my face.“Well, hem… What are you waiting for? Go to the infirmary, now!”

  I feel strangely calm and put together, despite all of this. Perhaps getting hit in the head was exactly what I needed. I turn to Tony. “Does it look horrible?”

  He slams his hand on my shoulder, looking proud. “Yes! I love it.”

  “What happened?” I lift my hands to my face. Everything seems in place. “Who hit me?”

  “Fate.” Tony points at the ball at my feet. “You were staring at Sacha’s tits, confess. The Gods have punished you.”

  “You were what?” Lucie says.

  I let out a groan of dismay.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have concocted a great backstory for you by the time you return.” Tony uses his fingers to make imaginary quote marks. “Like ‘Charismatic hero takes on gang of fascist to topple the patriarchy’, something like that.”

  “You’re a true friend,” I mutter, leaving him with a confused Lucie.

  I take my leave and my secret with me, but ventures one last look over my shoulder before leaving the gymnasium. Tony is making a faithful impression of the ball hitting my face, Lucie looks torn between amusement and horror, and further away, Michael is standing on his own. Our eyes meet.

  My stomach makes an unpleasant jolt. Not only did the ball not fix my little problem, it seems to have make matters worse.

  Back at Colette’s, Sana, the veteran nurse, straight out laughs in my face.

  “Were you looking elsewhere or is it just pure incompetence?” She asks after two minutes of uninterrupted laughter.

  I slam both hands onto her desk. “Will you check on me or should I drag myself to the ER and have my parents send an email to the school headmaster?”

  “All right! No need to be cheeky.”

  Sana sit me down and waves all sorts of tools at me, and is all like “Can you see this?” and “Can you feel this?” and “Do you feel normal?” and I want to scream: “No! I’m still thinking about Michael!” but I don’t say of word, of course.

  She soon declares me safe to go back to class, that only my pride will suffer long term damage. I do want to bite her head off, but she hands me a lollipop on my way out, so I thank her and slink out of her office with my reward clutched in my fist.

  I do feel different. More confused, more miserable than ever. I know I wasn’t looking. And I know why I wasn’t looking. Did it take a volleyball in the face for me to confess that I’m jealous? That I’m annoyed? That I feel cheated, even?

  That Michael’s girlfriend feels like a huge smudge on my carefully constructed friendship with him? I don’t know why, I had a strange feeling that he and I, we were different. That we were on to something special. A secret, perhaps.

  And perhaps I’m mad, yes, that he didn’t tell me about his girl, and it’s not just because it means he doesn’t trust me. It’s something else. Something heavy and charged is swelling within me, like dark clouds before a storm. Soon they’ll be thunder, I know it, but it doesn’t mean the first crack won’t make me jump out my skin.

  Dragging my feet across the playground, the cold winter wind beating at my ears, I don’t hear the voice calling out to my at first.

  “Louis!”

  Louis, not Lou. My breath hitches.

  I turn around. Michael is running toward me, still dressed in his gym clothes. My heart jumps, both in elation and seething anger.

  “Michael?”

  He stops before me, panting. A tiny bead of sweat is perched on the curve of his upper lip. Two very conflicting thoughts burst into my mind. Shove him, call him a traitor. Pull him closer and check for myself what his sweat tastes like.

  “I was worried you were really hurt. Granger was worried too. He sent me, even if it’s to make sure you don’t get hurt and sue him or something.”

  “He sent you?”

  Michael nods. “Yeah, he said I seem to have my head on my shoulders.”

  I stare down at my shoes.

  He takes a step forward. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I recall Sana’s parting words. “No lasting damage, except to my dignity.”

  Michael laughs, sending tingles through my fingertips. I ball my fists and stick them in my pockets.

  “You’re always so hard on yourself.”

  “That’s because I’m useless.”

  “I see you’ve made my point
.”

  I say nothing, because the way he’s looking at me is confusing the shit out of me.

  He has a girlfriend. He has a girlfriend.

  Stop making everything about you, Louis.

  “Here’s the thing— Wait.” His hand reaches toward my face.

  My heart pounds madly in my chest.

  His fingers briefly graze my hair, sending a jolt of electricity that sparks life throughout my entire nervous system. My hair falls back on either side of my face. Michael withdraws his hand and dangles Lucie’s hair tie before my eyes.

  “You were about to lose it.”

  “Just about, yes.” I choke on a laugh. “You were saying?”

  His hands tightly squeezed together, Michael steps back. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I stare blankly at him for a moment, trying to unpack what’s going on, if I do have a concussion after all. But stars and volleyball aside, I’m thinking real fast, am I reading this right? The way he shuffles his feet, kicking pebbles out of the way, not meeting my eyes…

  What is happening?

  “Or…” Michael says. “It’s fine, if you don’t… Or if you have other plans. Or if you prefer to hang out with Tony.”

  Tony? Who’s Tony? Never heard of him.

  “No. We can hang out. I don’t have any plans.”

  Shit! I do have plans. Damn it, Louis! I’ll just have to cancel them.

  Michael doesn’t look so convinced. He leans in, filling the air and my sensitive nostrils with the scent of fresh apples. Imagine being buried nose deep into the crook of his neck. Imagine that.

  “You left so strangely last time we hung out.”

  Oh, right. The underwear incident. Old news. Haven’t been thinking about it for ages.

  I give a little laugh. “What can I say? I’m a little strange.”

  “Perfect,” he says, not skipping a beat. “I like strange.”

  What does this mean? Does he like every strange thing? Like weird ass ice cream flavour? Amusement parks? Or worse: Disney? Or does it mean he likes me, particularly? Me, me, me!

  “Strange means you can stomach this Korean movie I want to show you. They show it at the cinema on Mouffetard.”

  “Ah, right.”

  My stomach sinks. It awfully feels like I’ve been demoted from my position of mysterious rockstar, and relegated to the freaky part of the spectrum, with mimes and people who scrapbook.