I Want to Kiss You in Public

by Zelda French

  Ouch. The tone of his voice. I really don’t know what I was expecting.

  “Oh, right, of course.”

  Poor Lucie. She deserves better, too. I haven’t been thinking much of her lately, all because I’m losing myself to some kind of weird fantasy. I don’t know who I am anymore.

  Michael and I part ways with a few generic words, and I walk home, alone.

  He did not kiss me, in the end. Didn’t act like he wanted to, not really.

  And that’s fine.

  Enough of this, already.

  We’re good friends. Am I so screwed up that I start floundering at the first sign of affection?

  Perhaps a kiss would have been too much.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t have been enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I'VE GOT THIS

  WE’VE ALL BEEN there.

  It’s what I think, on my way to school the next morning, watching people as they walk to work, their face unreadable for some, their secrets safe, for most.

  We’ve all had that mild crush that turned out to be a better friend. Once, while drunk or high, you might say “Hey, did you know that when we first met, I had a crush on you?” The other person might say: “How, that’s funny!” and all is well in the world, or they may say “Well, you know what? I had a crush on you too!” and then your friendship will or will not be altered forever.

  To make up for the cold temperatures, the sun is making an apparition. And it’s not just the sky that has cleared. I’ve gotten my shit together, I can feel it.

  In my case, my “crush” on Michael was a little unusual. Him being a Michael, and not a Michaela, that’s why. But now that every thing is clear between us, he has a girlfriend, she’s real, and I have a girlfriend, to whom I’ll soon tell the truth about me, so, all in all, everything’s peachy.

  My mild little crush was never really a crush, to be honest. I must have been bored. Consumed by my secrets. Too anxious, as usual, to understand the difference between what’s real and what’s not. I’ve confessed to Michael last night, and the burden on my shoulders feel considerably lighter.

  Let’s see it that way: If I’m so worried about my girlfriend breaking up with me, then it’s obvious that I’m not seriously considering kissing someone else.

  Especially not a GUY.

  You know when I said I wanted to be different, it’s not what I had in mind. I meant becoming a charismatic leader, perhaps a CEO, hopefully an artist. I didn’t mean run around in circles pulling my hair wondering if my great specialty was being attracted to men. That’s not it. That’s not who I am.

  Crazy what a flash of underwear can do to a boy my age. I must be particularly healthy. Now that I think about it, imagine all the stuff that must be going down in boarding schools and university campuses.

  In Military bases.

  Especially in military bases…

  But perhaps I should stop thinking about what goes down in military bases. If people knew, they might get the wrong idea.

  Anyway, it’s all good. Everything’s great. Just like every other Friday, I take my seat next to Michael in English Literature, amidst the bustle of students debating their plans for the weekend, and drop my shades on the table.

  Michael asks about my morning. Michael has a girlfriend named Abby. He’s not gay.

  Nothing weird has ever happened between us. We’re just two friends who like talking to each other and sometimes want to touch each other’s hair.

  “I was hoping to see you on my way here,” I say. As a friend, of course. “But I was running late.”

  “You’re always late,” Michael doesn’t look mad. He looks, as always, elated to see me. “I met with Yasmine, we walked together.”

  We’re such good friends. If I couldn’t see Tony from the corner of my eye, I would call us the best of friends.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” I say, opening my binder. “Look what I did last night.”

  I have spent hours painstakingly copying and organising my notes since the beginning of the year, and it shows. My handwriting has never been so neat, or my notes actually inserted into the binder.

  “They’re perfect.” His enthusiastic reaction sends a pleasant chill through my spine. “It must have taken you all night.”

  That’s irrelevant.

  “And what did you do last night?” I ask, keeping my tone polite and detached.

  Michael worries his bottom lip as he recollect his thoughts.

  “I had a late snack with my mum, then I went to bed with a book.”

  I see he’ll give me nothing unless I directly ask for it. I close the binder with a snap.

  “How did it go with Abby?”

  I dislike the resentful look on his face, as though he doesn’t particularly appreciate when people pry into his private business. But he recollects himself quickly, leans in, the air between us charging up with some invisible current, and whispers:

  “Abby really is—”

  “Silence, please!”

  My fist slams on the table. I’ll never get to hear that one either. That’s just grand.

  Paquin has entered the classroom, her arms charged with papers, and everyone grows quiet. Michael offers me an apologetic smile and leans away from me. The air is now nothing but air, with the faint lingering scent of apples.

  It just so happens that the papers Paquin is holding are, in fact, our Dorian Gray essays. My heart leaps hopefully. I watch with growing trepidation as she distributes them.

  She deposits one between Tony and Lucie with a disapproving look. “You could have tried harder. Especially you, Lucie.”

  Lucie not giving her best on a Literature essay is odd. I guess I’m not the only one who has been distracted, lately. I would know what she has on her mind if I’d paid more attention to her. And I will, of course, on the advice of my very good friend Michael.

  Paquin turns her back on Lucie and Tony, who don’t look at all disappointed, but instead are laughing as they fight over the copy. From here I can’t read their grade.

  When Paquin stops in front of our table, my pulse is racing. She won’t be able to resist making a snarky comment. She never has. Quite my fault, yes, since I started off the year writing something idiotic on her whiteboard, never to be allowed to use of a magic marker again.

  Beside me, Michael is waiting patiently, showing perfect confidence in the work he provided, and perhaps, I dare to think with a jolt of the heart, in me.

  “It seems I’ve found the best partner for you, Monsieur Mésange.”

  There you go. The snark. Laughter in the classroom.

  I extend my hand to accept the copy she’s handing me, but she resists, and I have to pull harder. When she lets go of the copy, she’s laughing.

  I stare down at the piece of paper, my heart racing. Red ink usually so angry this time spells a proud 19/20.

  I’ve never, never had such a mark. Which is why I react like an idiot.

  “19? Why not 20?”

  Paquin turns around, her plucked eyebrow arched. “Because, Monsieur Mésange, perfection doesn’t exist.”

  Michael takes the paper from my hand. Our fingers brush together.

  “Like hell, it doesn’t.”

  “I’m not gonna say I told you,” Michael says, mischievous.

  “You just did.”

  He’s right. We did good. We did great, actually, almost perfect. 19/20. We are undeniably a good match. By that, I mean team. We’re a good team. Work team.

  Michael drops the essay in my open backpack. “Show it to your father. He’ll be pleased. Do you think he’ll let you come tonight?”

  “Tonight? What’s going on tonight?”

  “Sacha’s party.”

  My smile falters. “Sacha’s throwing a party? That’s news to me.”

  “You didn’t know?” Michael’s face blanches as we both realise I was not invited.

  What’s going on? Sacha’s throwing a party and I’m not invited? That has to be a fir
st.

  Sacha likes me, she always had a weakness for dorky little me, and now more so since I’ve grown into something more presentable. She likes me so much that she even puts up with Tony, whom she thoroughly dislikes, and always invites us all to her parties. In the words of a great saint:

  What the fuck?

  “I probably misunderstood,” Michael says, embarrassed. “It’s probably not even a party. I always misunderstand everything.”

  Do he, now? His top grades, social skills and acute understanding of how to style his hair beg to differ, but okay.

  “Since when have you known about it?” I try to control my voice to sound less dejected that I actually am.

  “Only yesterday. It’s probably nothing.”

  At the front of the class, Paquin has the name of the next book we are to read during the fast approaching holidays. Wuthering Heights. I absently make note of it, too distracted by my disturbing news.

  As soon as the bell rings, I breathlessly leave Michael behind to pounce on Tony and Lucie.

  “Have you heard about Sacha’s party?” Tony and Lucie exchange looks. “Sacha’s throwing a party, and she didn’t invite us.”

  “Whatever,” Tony says, jamming his notebook in his backpack. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But—”

  “Honestly, I always wondered why she invited us in the first place. We’ve got nothing in common.”

  I can always rely on Tony to be unhelpful, at least.

  Lucie sighs and takes my hand. “It’s not the end of the world. You can come to my place instead.”

  “What, and leave me alone?” Tony says, scowling.

  Don’t worry Tony. If I go to Lucie’s place, I’m going to find myself in a very complicated situation and I’ll have to confess to being a liar, or worse, lie some more to cover my first lie, and I don’t think I can do that, to her, and to myself.

  “Come on,” Lucie insists. Her tone is strangely pleading. “Come to my place.”

  The polar bear backpack is back. I better choose my words carefully. She didn’t use to be so like that. Whatever happened to us? I was perfectly fine holding hands and making out on public benches for the rest of eternity. Eventually, sex gets us all.

  “I think I’ll just stay home.” I let go of Lucie’s hand. “Do some homework.”

  “You what?” Her eyes narrow. “You? Doing homework on a Friday night?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then why are you whining about Sacha’s party?”

  “I’m not.” Even I know that this lie is pretty obvious. “I’ve got to keep my grades up, you know, to go to London.”

  They exchange another glance they think I didn’t catch.

  “This book isn’t going to read itself” I say, pointing at the whiteboard as we exit the classroom.

  “We have four weeks to read it.”

  “Yeah, and remember what happened to me last time when I didn’t finish it. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” Tony says, laughing. “You got paired up with Mister Clean.”

  “Don’t call him that,” I say harshly.

  Tony says nothing while we’re walking the corridors. But once outside, he lights up a smoke and turns to me, his lips pursed. “Fine. Stay home if you’re in this shitty mood. I’ve got enough of you lately.”

  Lucie fumbles with her own cigarette, looking anxious.

  “Sorry,” I say, quite low.

  But inside, I don’t mean it, and I wish he’d apologise, for once.

  Hours later, at home, all I can think of is this party to which I’m not invited, where Michael will probably be. Tortured by ideas of how loose Michael might be after a few shots, I’m that close to start banging my head against the walls.

  Even more so when my father, upon seeing the copy of the essay I left on the kitchen table, knock on my door to congratulate me.

  “Continue like this and I’ll speak to Tony’s father myself about getting you that flat.”

  “You would?” I ask, surprised.

  He nods. “I would.”

  He looks around my bedroom and his mouth drops open. I may have cleaned it from top to bottom last night, before deciding to compile my English Lit notes.

  “Are you not going out tonight? To celebrate? You can stay as late as you want.”

  My father has never encouraged me to celebrate anything, ever. It had to happen the night of the only party in the world to which I’m not invited.

  Groaning under my breath, I retrieve my phone from my pocket to text Lucie.

  LOU:

  How come Sacha is throwing a party anyway? What’s the occas’?

  LUCIE:

  Why do you care? It’s gonna be boring. Filled with her snob friends and the Golden Forks. You don’t even like them.

  I do like one of them. My friend, Michael.

  LOU:

  I don’t care. I’m just curious.

  Lucie types for a long time while I wait, chewing on my cuticles.

  LUCIE:

  Sacha wants to get with Michael tonight.

  My breath catches. I start pounding on the keys.

  LOU:

  Thought he had a gifrlfired?

  LUCIE:

  A girlfriend? Yeah, but she lives in London and Sacha doesn’t care.

  Sacha, you witch.

  So, this party is an entrapment, isn’t it? Luring poor innocent Michael to your den, and fill him up with disgusting Malibu-based cocktails until he miraculously develops feelings for you!

  I can’t let you do this. It’s immoral. I’ve got to get in there first.

  I mean, to protect him.

  LOU:

  Why didn’t she invite us? She always does.

  Lucie takes forever to reply, which is frankly maddening.

  LOU:

  Hello?

  LUCIE:

  I didn’t see your last message. I don’t know. Probably because of François. Apparently he doesn’t like you.

  François? François again? What did I possibly do to this guy? I fall back onto my bed, my head reeling. Then my phone beeps again.

  LUCIE:

  Are you sure you want to stay home tonight? I told you my parents weren’t here.

  My Lucie is becoming really obsessed. I mean, what does a guy have to do not to sleep with his girlfriend, these days?

  LOU:

  I’m sorry, not feeling like going out tonight. Good night.

  Poor Lucie. I should tell her the truth. I should tell her now. It’s not too late. She might not be that angry about that girl I step with last summer. I can tell her I don’t even remember doing it. It’s the absolute truth. It only happened once we were very drunk. She said she had a great time, and I believed her, but Lucie doesn’t have to know that. If she forgives me, I can walk over to her place. We could have sushis, share a bottle of wine, watch a movie. I could finally spend the night…

  But why am I not invited to this party? Why does François hate me? I can’t get it out of my head, it’s so infuriating!

  Damn them all. The Golden Fork is the worst. Only Yasmine is worth saving. And I’m not only saying this because I’m terrified of her.

  What if it was all related to Michael? After all, what do Sacha and François have in common? They both want Michael for themselves.

  And why would they get rid of me… if I wasn’t, in fact, their competition?

  It’s official. I must crash this party.

  At the very least, to warn Michael, or he’ll find himself pulled in both directions. He’s my friend, that’s the least I can do.

  But what about Lucie? I just made a promise to be a better boyfriend and tell her the truth.

  I can always be a better boyfriend tomorrow. When I have time to think about what I’m going to say. So many things can happen between tonight and tomorrow… I’m sure by then I’ll find the words.

  But right now, I must get to Michael before he does something he might regret. My spirits soar once again.

  Of cou
rse, I must find something to wear first, and it would probably do me some good to clean up a little. After all, Sacha and François might be less inclined to toss me out if I look like one of them.

  What does Michael wear at parties? He will probably show up in one of his father’s suits, outshining everyone in there and causing François to pass out in the kitchen. How does one have this sort of power on people? If I had nice clothes, I could show François who’s boss, too. He may have an expensive hairdresser and a range of skincare, but he’s freckled and insufferable.

  For the first time in years, I use my voice to call my father in the other room. He trips over something on the way and the sound of a pile of magazines toppling over reaches me. Two seconds later, he’s in my room again, looking frightened.

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  I pretend to wipe a speck of dirt of the surface of my desk. “Do you have a nice shirt I could borrow?

  Despite his initial surprise, my dad does his best to pretend my request isn’t unusual. We walk over to his bedroom. He explores the depths of his wardrobe, while I pretend not to notice my parents’s wedding picture is still on his nightstand. Is he hurting about it, or has he simply forgotten to remove it? Eventually he pulls out a carefully wrapped navy shirt, with a little smile.

  “What do you think?”

  I’m actually astonished at how nice it looks, for something belonging to my old man.

  “It’s great, thank you.”

  “It was your mom’s favourite.”

  Why does he always have to ruin everything? With a sigh, I take the shirt from his hand and retreats to my bedroom. We are not going to talk about this now. For years we have not brought it up, establishing this perfect silent relationship between us, should the subject arise. Not about to break it now.