by Zelda French
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Michael asks.
I let out a snort of derision. His concern sounds a lot like he doesn’t think I can sit still for two hours to watch a foreign movie. Well, what do you know. I have done it, I have watched The Two Towers, Extended Edition.
“Yeah, of course, why?”
Michael points at my face. “You got hit pretty hard.”
Vividly aware of the pain in my eye cavity, I dispel his concern with a wave of my hand.
“That? It was nothing. I’m fine! I can totally watch a Crimean movie.”
“Korean.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Michael’s face splits into a blinding smile. “Brilliant. Let’s meet at six then.”
He walks away. His perfume lingers in the air, my heart is still thumping, my thoughts still reeling.
Ok, I need to calm down. I just found out he was straight, and that he had a girl. It’s just a movie between friends. I’m not even gay, by the way. Remember?
Oh, and I too, have a girlfriend by the way. And… we loved each other.
I’m feeling quite light-headed. It must be because I was just hit by a volleyball. It’s quite possible I’ll never recover mentally.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IS IT YOU OR IS IT ME?
IT’S AS THOUGH I can see myself acting out of character, but cannot do anything about it. I know I shouldn’t lie to my friends, and I know I’ll get into trouble if I keep doing this. But I simply cannot stop myself.
At six o’clock sharp — well, actually it was seven minutes lates, which isn’t at all bad for a fiend like me — I meet Michael in front of L’Epee de Bois, the small cinema rue Mouffetard dedicated to movies no-one in my class ever bothers to watch, except Michael.
I’m nervous. Michael, of course, isn’t. We share a few words about homework, and I ask about the movie we’re about to watch. It’s better if you don’t know anything, Michael argues. The surprise will only be heightened. All right. He smiles. I smile. He sticks his hands in his pockets. He looks nice, tonight. I turn away, light a cigarette. More smiles.
What are we becoming to each other?
Do all the smiles and looks we share mean what I think they mean? Michael might well have a girlfriend, this doesn’t help a nagging question bouncing around in my head.
Did he ask me out as his English Lit mate or has he too, lately, felt as though some strange tension was growing between us?
Is he, like me, afraid of the truth? What would happen if tonight, they both decided to find out? What would it mean?
We buy our tickets at the small kiosk. Michael opens the door to the screening room.
“You go first.”
“You must be popular with the girls,” I say stupidly.
He darts me a quick glance, but doesn’t answer.
Michael is excited as we take our seats in the small, nearly empty room. He promises a great film. My mind is racing. Has your girlfriend seen this one? Or is it a special event only for the two of us? What kind of person is she?
I bet she has a great mane of wavy, shiny hair. And she wears a schoolgirl uniform. She probably recites him some poetry before bed. And why does it matter anyway? I’m not gay.
I clear my throat. “Do you take your girlfriend to the movies, sometimes?”
Michael flashes me a look of alarm. “What?”
Suddenly, I understand how delicate this balance is. He cannot know that I have these weird ideas. If he knows, and doesn’t share them, a whole lot of terrible things will happen. I decide, resolutely and bitterly, to stay quiet about the matter, but I secretly decide to interpret Michael’s choice of a movie as a sign for the direction in which our friendship would go, if Michael could influence it.
Michael answers my question in a muted voice. “I’ve never shown this one to anyone.” When the screen lights up, so do Michael’s eyes. We exchange a smile before the rooms turns pitch black.
The movie is called Old Boy, and it’s a brutal explosion of style and violence. If Michael’s intention is to kidnap and imprison me for fifteen years, resulting in heavy trauma, then I daresay the choice of the movie is flawless.
Twice Michael darts side glances at me during the film; I faintly register it. When the movie ends, I’m speechless, and Michael looks uneasy for the second time since I met him.
“Did you like it?” He asks in a whisper, his eyes wide.
Too mesmerised to speak, I answer with a shrug. Michael’s shoulders sink. He rises from his seat. I hurry after him.
“I loved it. It was great.”
Michael opens the door and gestures for me to go first.
“Liar,” he whispers, right into my ear, as I walk passed him.
He must have accidentally touched a nerve, because my whole body twitches. Forgetting how to breathe, I jump back and flatten myself against the wall.
It’s definitely the ball. It must have broken my brain when it hit my head.
Michael pretends to not notice how I flinched away from him. We leave the warmth of the cinema for the reality outside. I don’t know what’s the most brutal. The wind clawing at my face and my hair, the traumatising movie I just watched, or how I twitchy and electric everything feels around him, like I’m about to burst at the simplest touch.
Michael proposes we talk about the movie, so we take refuge from the cold at Café Mouffetard.
Despite my blatant lies, the memory of what happened last time we had coffee together is still burning my face when I think about it. But this time, small chance of Michael getting undressed, because it’s freezing.
And yet: Michael opens his coat with shaky fingers, blows on his hands, darts me some furtive glances. Is it me, or is he nervous? Or it’s me who’s nervous, and I paint everything with my own anxious colour palette.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Always.” He meets my eyes. And smiles.
Better excuse myself before I say something stupid. I move fast, before he can stop me, my blood pounding in my head, and take refuge in the gents.
I’ve been here before. I know the layout of the place. But tonight everything feels unfamiliar. I’m coming apart at the seams. The mirror reflects my face, tense, red. Another question comes crashing, like an unstoppable wave.
If tonight, Michael wanted to kiss me, would I let him?
It’s a crazy question. I’ve got no answer for you, mate.
Probably not, anyway. Because I’m not gay.
A splash of cold water on my face has the effect of a slap and pulls me out of my own head.
All right. You can do this. It’s only coffee, you know. Not a blowjob. It’s coffee with your British friend. All is fine and dandy.
When I come back, coffee’s already served, though I don’t remember ordering. Michael interprets my incredulous frown as a need for explanation.
“I took the liberty… so it would have time to cool down.”
My frown only deepens. He adds:
“So you wouldn’t burn off your tongue, like last time?” He makes a face that’s supposed to be like mine when I choked on my coffee that time when Yasmine was there.
I begin to laugh, a quiet, awkward little giggle that sounds like I’ve just been talked to by the hottest jock in an American movie. Michael joins in my laughter, though with reserve.
His dimpled smile brings me my answer, as uncomfortable as it is.
I wish he wanted to kiss me. Not only would I let him, but I’d probably enjoy it more than I want to admit.
I realise I’ve been staring. Must find something to say before he thinks I’m brain-damaged.
“I’m worried about the essay.”
“Why?”
“I’m not convinced it was good enough.”
Michael shakes his head. “It was perfect. We went even deeper than was required. Yasmine was right. It’s only for Paquin. It’s not that important.”
If it’s not that important then why did we spend so much time o
n it? Nit-picking every turn of phrase, checking every word? The essay has been the most important thing in my life lately. I want to do it justice.
But Michael doesn’t care about the essay, apparently, nor does he want to talk about it. He’s tapping his teaspoon against the rim of his cup of coffee.
“I’m more worried about volleyball, honestly.”
Worried about volleyball? No one ever worries about volleyball, except perhaps volleyball players at international level. And their coach. Perhaps their mothers. Not a whole lot of people, you see.
“Why are you worried about volleyball?” The hint of disappointment in my voice gives it a bitter edge. “I’m the one who got hit in the face.”
Tony would have laughed, but Michael looks mortified.
“It barely shows, you know.”
“I know.”
I probably have internal bleeding, considering the thoughts I’m nurturing toward him right at this moment. But without a black eye, good luck getting sympathy votes from the other teachers who might have thought I have problems at home.
“Why are you worried about volleyball anyway? You’re good at it.”
Michael watches me take a large swig of scalding coffee with an arched eyebrow.
“You think?”
“Yeah, I watched— I mean, I saw you play, you were good.”
“I’m… adequate.” He finally stops banging the teaspoon against the cup. “Lucie’s really good. Very impressive.”
Why are we talking about Lucie, now? The only time I get to not talk about her is when I’m with him. It’s like he’s determined to do the opposite of what I want him to do.
“Yeah, she’s good at many things, you know. Like Spanish.”
Michael hangs his head. “Have you known her for long?”
Now I’m starting to worry he’s into her, and has lured me out of my flat to gather intel about her. It wouldn’t be the first time this happens to me. Way before I met Tony, my only value seemed to have been a reminder to all of my friends of how better they were than me.
“No,” I say in a low voice. “We met in the fall, at the beginning of the school year.”
Michael nods, but doesn’t add anything. Another silence stretches between us. Does he, too, wonders what it would be like to kiss me? At times, I can almost swear he wants me. Other times, like now, he’s like a mystery book in a language I can’t read. He makes me want to scream into a pillow.
“Are you and her very close?”
I sneak a hand under the table and dig my nails into my knee until I feel composed enough to answer.
“Why do you care about Lucie?”
A flash of alarm in his eyes. “I don’t know. I was just making conversation.”
“Sure.”
Perhaps he’s lying, perhaps not. I don’t mind humouring him. There’s nothing special about Lucie and I.
“We met at orientation. She said I was hot. I thought she was beautiful. We talked about music, the next day we were dating.”
Michael makes a face. “How romantic.”
Dear Michael, let me tell you something. Romance is overrated. This great outpouring of mushy emotions, private informations recklessly undisclosed in an attempt to manipulate and seduce the other, the hushed concealing of the worst things about yourself to highlight the best, all of these efforts, these battles against oneself to grow and share and for what?
To end up just like the others, eventually dumped, and feeling smaller for having revealed too much for too little reward.
Well, no thanks.
But I stare in my cup of coffee and I say nothing. The waitress comes to our table, asks if we want anything else. Eager to put an end to this mascarade, I ask for the check.
“The truth is, Lucie doesn’t even know who I am. Does that tell you how close we are?”
Michael’s eyes widen. “What do you mean, she doesn’t know who you are?”
I shrug. “I’ve never actually told this to anyone.”
Michael’s face takes this very solemn expression, as though whatever I’m about to reveal is a top secret of the upmost importance, and will determine the future of our species. I appreciate him. I really do.
“So, long story short: I slept with someone last summer.”
Michael’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I wasn’t even aware of Lucie’s existence then. So it shouldn’t be that big a deal, right? But it is. Everything always is. I’m a private person. I like to be able to keep some things to myself. But I slept with this girl and never told anyone. But now, Lucie, she thinks I’m like her, and she wants us to, you know…”
“Oh,” Michael says leaning back in his chair.
“And Tony—”
Michael folds his arms over his chest. “Wait. How is that Tony’s business who you sleep with?”
“It’s not, not really, but you know how it is.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“He’s my best friend. We’re supposed to tell each other everything. I know he’s telling me everything… I mean. He used to. Now he has secrets of his own. And I— I try really hard not to mind. But this information, it has so much power over things, and I hate it. I just slept with someone, and I feel like a criminal now. I’m stuck. I waited too long to tell them and they’ll think I have something to hide, and… And every time she wants to touch me I freeze, and I deflect, and I hide from her. She’s probably growing suspicious by now.”
Michael starts chewing on hip bottom lip. Then Vivaldi starts blasting out of his pocket. Michael digs up his phone, checks the screen, doesn’t answer.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “And let me tell you this. If they love you, they should understand. They should try to put themselves in your shoes, and they will understand why you decided not to tell them.”
“You’re right. I guess the hardest part is to start the conversation, am I right?”
He didn’t flinch when he found out Lucie and I had not had sex yet. Gave nothing. But now, his whole face flushes, and he lets out a laugh that sounds a little insincere. For an instant I even think he’s about to clap me on the shoulder and call me mate. But we’re saved by his phone, which vibrates loudly under the table.
Michael, again, doesn’t pick up, but sticks the phone back into his pocket with a strained smile
“Sorry.”
It’s a good opportunity to fish for answers.
“What about you, then?”
“What about me, what?”
“Are you close to your girlfriend?”
Once again, his phone turns to life. Michael retrieves it from his pocket and shows it to me.
“She’s still calling.”
The screen says ‘Abby’. My stomach drops. It’s one thing to hear about a distant girlfriend stranded on an English moor or something, it’s something else to have her invade our little conversation.
“You should pick up.” My voice comes out a little strangled.
Michael shakes his head. “I don’t like talking on the phone while I’m sitting with somebody. I find it rude when others do it.”
You’re so nice. I wonder what you taste like.
Michael watches me with a little smile. I decide to put my hands on my lap under the table, should I get too tempted to do something stupid.
“You know,” he says, “now that you’ve told me your secret…”
“Did I?”
If only he knew. I have more.
He puts his chin in his hand. “It’s only fair if I tell you one too.”
I agree! And show it with vehemence by nodding enthusiastically. Perhaps he’ll tell me Abby is not real. That she was a device to make me jealous.
I am losing my mind, aren’t I?
Before Michael can speak, another woman, our waitress, interrupts. She hands me the check without a glance, too busy admiring Michael.
“What an adorable accent,” she says, when he thanks her in French. “Where are you from?”
They start talking. Suddenly, she wants to know all about him. She even leans on the table, putting herself between us.
There are too many women in our lives. It’s maddening. She doesn’t turn when I put the money on the table, or tell her she can keep the change, but she takes my receipt and writes her name and number on it, saying she’d be happy to help, if he ever needs a tour guide.
I am NEVER coming back here again.
When she finally gets back to work, skirts swinging, Michael is looking down at his empty cup and is not smiling anymore. And I’ll never know what he had meant to say.
We leave the coffee place and make our way back home in silence. The streets are quieter outside Mouffetard, at this hour of night. It should be relaxing, but I’m way past hoping for relief tonight.
When we enter Rue Pestalozzi, I feel a sharp pang of disappointment. Soon Michael will be out of reach, and I’m nowhere nearer understanding what is happening to us, or at least, to me.
“You know…” Michael says.
“Yeah?”
“My girlfriend…”
Michael’s phone goes off again. For the first time since I’ve met him, he blurts out a curse.
“This is mad,” he says, squinting at the screen. “I never get any calls. I hate being on the phone, I hate it so much.”
“Please, please answer.” I can see Abby’s name on the screen. “If only for a minute.”
He answers, listens for a moment. Then he says he’ll call her back in a minute, yes, an actual minute, don’t worry, before hanging up.
“Sorry, Louis. It’s gonna take more than a minute.”
I can’t show him I’m sad or disappointed. He doesn’t need any of my shit.
“That’s fine. I have to go anyway.”
Then I remember the receipt in my pocket. I fish it out and hand it over to him.
“You want it?”
He takes it with a blank expression and crumples it. “You know I don’t.”
“You’re not asking me if I want it?” I playfully dig my finger into his shoulder.
“Why? You have a girlfriend.”