I Want to Kiss You in Public

by Zelda French

  “It’s your birthday soon.” My father stick his head into my room as I put on the shirt. “Do you know what you’d like?”

  I had completely forgotten about this. Who has time for eighteen’s birthdays when Michael is in danger?

  “Oh, you know, doesn’t really matter.” My trembling fingers fumble with the buttons.

  Granted, I’ll have to think of something before he panics and gets me something stupid. But not now. Now, I’ve got to rescue my pretty friend.

  Dad’s shirt fits me well. Paired with black jeans and my leather jacket, I look perfectly respectable. I only need my sunglasses.

  Where are my sunglasses?

  My heart racing, I turn my neat bedroom into a battlefield. I overturn my backpack, flip over my mattress, open every drawer, check every pocket. My shades are nowhere to be found.

  What can be worse? Tony’s gift to me hasn’t left me in more than two years. I never go anywhere with them, and I would never envision crashing a party without them. But the clock is ticking. With every minute Michael is getting drunker and looser. Who knows where he might be in an hour. Whether he ends up in Sacha’s arms or François’s, one thing is clear: I can’t let that happen.

  Downcast but determined, I make my way downstairs. Old Lady is there, picking up her mail. She gives me a once over, a pile of letters clenched in her hand.

  “Don’t you look nice!” She says, looking at my outfit. Then her gaze reaches my face and she grimaces. “Except your face. Your face looks miserable.”

  “And you’re old.”

  She scoffs. “Perceptive, for a little shit.”

  I point at her pile of mail. “Who picks up their mail at eight o’clock on a Friday evening anyway?

  “I do! To avoid little shits like you.”

  All right, fine! She can be funny. I concede a smile.

  She ambles toward the staircase. “Why are you so miserable tonight?”

  My long harrowing smile makes her laugh some more.

  “For your information, that’s why I always wear my sunglasses. It hides a part of my face, you know?”

  “The most miserable looking.”

  “Whatever. Anyway… I’ve lost them.”

  “And?” She puts her hand on the handrail.

  “I never leave without them. They’re a part of me.”

  “So why don’t you get a new pair?”

  I hesitate. “It’s not the same. They are a party of my identity. Can I get a new identity?”

  It’s her turn to sigh, as if my despair is just boring to her. But then she gestures for me to follow her upstairs.

  “Come with me. I’ve seen you wear these blasted things even during the darkest of nights. Tripping over these very stairs.”

  “They make me look good.”

  “For whom do you want to look good, the stairs?”

  I follow her up the staircase, my arms spread out, worried she might slip and break her neck at every step. But she seems to know what she’s doing.

  A minute later, I’m back into her flat. This time, we enter her living room. I recognise the comfy-looking sofa and the handsome coffee table. It’s littered with trash, but looking lonely in the corner, there’s a bottle of gin and a small glass. I give Old Lady a pointed look.

  “What?” She says. “At least I’m not miserable like you.”

  “Can I?” I point at the bottle.

  “Help yourself.”

  I pour myself a shot while she rummages through the large drawer of an antic dresser. Why does she have so much shit on her coffee table? The rest of her flat is pretty neat. Then it hits me. It’s not trash… it’s…

  “Is this?”

  Yes, it is. Unmistakable pieces of paper, stickers, ribbons and washi tapes. The whole armada.

  “What?” She doesn’t look up from her drawer. “I’m trying scrapbooking.”

  Clutching a hand to my chest, I toss the shot back, and immediately pours another.

  “Scrapbooking is for losers, Miss. You should know that.”

  “And you would know about losers,” she replies.

  Jesus. She doesn’t skip a beat, this old lady.

  “There.” She hands me a fine leather box. “Don’t break them or I’ll have you drawn and quartered.”

  I pop the box open and find a pair of black vintage acetate aviators that would make any of my rockstar idols blush with envy. I turn and turn them around in my hand, speechless. “Where did you get them?”

  She slams the drawer of her dresser shut. “I’ve had a life, you know! And better friends than yours.”

  Yeah, probably. I mean, I don’t mean that. I don’t know.

  “They’re perfect. Thank you.” I put them on with twitchy fingers. “How do I look?”

  “You’ll have more success than you can handle with these. Proceed with caution.”

  Best news I’ve heard today. I put the shot glass, now empty, back on the table.

  “Joke aside.” Old Lady drops heavily into an armchair. “You do look very nice. Ready for battle.”

  I slide the glasses down my nose. “For battle?”

  “For chasing after your girl.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not chasing after anybody.”

  She points her finger at me. “Then why are you dressed so well? And the hair… So clean!”

  I plant both feet in front of her and bend down to reach eye-level with her.

  “Were you already that curious during World War One or is it recent?”

  She snorts and waves me off. “Go on then, don’t chase after your girl.”

  I trot toward the front door, hesitate, swirl around.

  “Hey, you know… You’re quite cool, for an old lady.”

  She twists around in her chair to give me a better look. “My name’s Eugénie,” she says, “And I’m cooler than you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THIS IS WHERE IT GETS EVEN WEIRDER

  WHILE RIDING ON the bus toward Sacha’s, I realise I’m nervous. I’m feeling rattled, paranoid like the first time I smoked a joint and felt everyone’s eyes on me on the metro ride home.

  Miss Eugénie’s right. Am I, or am I not, crashing a party to make sure my friend doesn’t get cosy with any of my friends? Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter, if he should kiss anybody, like anybody, need anybody, then this person should to be me.

  I’ve never crashed a party before, but I’ve seen spy movies, so as I climb the steps of Sacha’s building’s grand staircase two-by-two —it’s better to avoid running into people in the lift— I think I’ll be all right. To be honest, Sacha’s flat is probably the easiest place to get into. Before I get lost in fantasies to climb up the wall — she lives on the top floor— it makes sense to start with the front door.

  Excellent idea, if I could pat myself on the back, literally, I would. Things couldn’t get any easier: Sacha’s door is wide open, Sean Paul’s last hit blasting loud enough from her expensive speakers to shake even the building’s walls to their core.

  My mouth falls open when I sneak inside. Small gathering, my ass. Everyone from class seems to be here, spread out across the flat, sipping booze from plastic cups and smiling beatifically at each other. Even Lars is here, unmissable by his monstrous size. He flashes me a smile as I attempt to slink undetected toward the living room, so we’re cool.

  Short-lived, my good luck is aborted when I straight out knock François over in my haste to reach the dance floor. His initial shock at being shoved into a wall over, he recognises me and his face flushes even in the dark. He clamps his hand around my wrist, his pale eyes threatening to pop out of their socket.

  “You’re here!”

  “Not thanks to you.”

  I try to break free from his grasp but he digs his nails into my skin. Is he seriously considering wrestling me out of Sacha’s flat?

  “Why did you have to come?” The tone of his voice, overtly whiny, makes my lip curl.

  “What? Is it invitation only?” />
  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  He lets my arm go, at least. I won’t get anywhere by antagonising François tonight. I’m going to have to do better, if only for Michael. Pushing my borrowed sunglasses up my nose, I decide to appeal to his kinder nature. It worked for me during our last party together.

  “Sacha has only forgotten to invite me.”

  “I doubt that.” His fingers fly to Eugénie’s sunglasses. I slap his hand off.

  “Hands off.”

  Come on, François. I don’t have time for you. I need to say hello to a guy.

  Lunging forward, I make a run for it, François hot on my heels. Sacha chooses this moment to come out of the kitchen and stumbles, already drunk, right into my arms.

  “Hey Lou!” She lets out a small burp. “Oops. Sorry.”

  François catches up to us and pushes me against the wall.

  “Oh!” Sacha says.

  François makes another go at my sunglasses. “Where did you get that?”

  I shrug. “I’ve got better friends than yours.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” He looks almost angry.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and flash a smile at Sacha, who grins and literally melts into my arms. To my surprise, François help me get her to her feet.

  “Lou! I’m so glad you made it!” Sacha throws her white arms around my neck and plops a very, very wet kiss onto my cheek. “Nice glasses.”

  “Thanks. They’re vintage.”

  “And extremely expensive,” François gives me a once-over. “You really cleaned up. What’s going on? Have you discovered the existence of outlets?”

  Sacha bursts out laughing. “Come on boys, be nice.”

  This is so painful. But on the other hand, as long as they’re with me, they’re not pestering Michael.

  “You always have the best stuff, Lou.” Sacha attempts to caress my cheek but scratches me instead.

  “I seriously doubt that,” I say. “Can I have a drink, Sacha? It seems you forgot to invite me.”

  “I would never!” She glues herself to me. “Come on, let’s go see Michael, he’s completely miserable.”

  “Sacha!” François looks completely defeated, but there’s not stopping Hurricane Sacha.

  We stumble arm-in-arm upon the make-shift a dance floor in the middle of the living room. Sacha scans the room for Michael, using her hand as visor, undoubtedly seeing double. I’m taller, and sober-ish , better fitted at sniffing out Michael in a crowd. It doesn’t take too long for me to spot him.

  Alone in the farthest corner of the room, by the plant, he dives nose first into his cup, throws the whole thing back. His eyes screw tightly shut as the liquid burn down his throat. The tip of his tongue darts out and take a swipe at any stray drop. When he reopens his eyes, the mere sight of their intoxicated glint swathes my skin in goosebumps. My arms fall limply to my sides.

  Congratulations. Michael can even make drinking out of plastic cup look hot.

  Without me to support her, Sacha trips and falls over. Called by an invisible force I keep moving, slowing closing the distance between Michael and I. At last, he looks up. A slight frown mars his face when his gaze falls upon me. I remove the sunglasses; he knows me.

  Do you like me? My expression says. What are you doing here? His own answer. When his smile reaches his eyes, something powerful, bright and hot swells in my chest.

  I know I have to get closer. I start forcing my way through the crowd of classmates. Move, move aside. On the other side of the room, Michael is picking up, and begins to wade his own way toward me. Soon, we’ll be together. Then—

  Then, I come face to face with the last two people I ever expected to be here.

  My best friend and my girlfriend, Tony and Lucie.

  Everything stops. I even forget all about Michael.

  I don’t know who’s more shocked. Well, actually, I do, it’s me. I’m shocked and I show it, slacked jaw and wobbling knees, cheeks already burning. Not only caught in a lie, but catching them at it too.

  Tony looks almost afraid, but Lucie, my Lucie dares me to say a word, looking at me as though I’m a volleyball she needs to punch as hard as possible. We wait in a supercharged silence, like strange statues among the carefree people laughing and dancing around us.

  Lucie’s nostrils starts flaring. I’m honestly too shocked to find them both here for anger to be my first reaction.

  “What are you doing here?” We say at the same time.

  I’m first amused at our synchronicity. Her murderous eyes swiftly wipe my smile from my face.

  “Answer me,” she says. She crosses her arms firmly over her chest.

  My throat squeezes tightly shut. “I changed my mind. Didn’t want to stay home.”

  Tony looks down at my shirt in disbelief. “What are you wearing?”

  “You changed your mind but you didn’t tell us?” Lucie’s anger gives her face a frightening tinge.

  Am I going to be found out? How can I find a good reason to be here without being found out? Technically, I haven’t done anything that bad, yet. But a minute ago, I was contemplating it.

  To make matters worst, the object of my obsession crosses the sea of people to meet me, smelling of divine after-shave and cheap liquor, puts his hand on my arm, and doesn’t notice Tony’s eye-roll.

  “Hey, Louis, look what I’ve got?” Michael’s words come out a little slurred. In his open hand lay my sunglasses.

  “Did you lend them to him?” Tony asks, his face white.

  “No, I didn’t.” I’m not lying but my voice comes out as squeaky as some Disney mouse.

  “No,” Michael says. “He forgot them in class.”

  “You forgot them.” Tony shakes his head. “Great.”

  “Shit happens, Tony.”

  My reaction takes him aback. His face takes on a hurt look.

  “Here,” Michael says, putting them in my shirt pocket. “You wouldn’t be the same without them.”

  Tony slips him a glare. “Okay, Dorian Gay, settle down.”

  Michael stares at Tony in disbelief, Tony stares back, unperturbed.

  “Boys! Boys, look at me.” Sacha stumbles into our little circle of friendship, pushing Lucie out of the way, determined to be the centre of attention. François is right behind her. This is getting better by the minute. “Did you know… LouLou and I used to be together?”

  Groaning, I slap a hand against my forehead.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lucie says, her lip curling.

  Michael looks in disbelief. “You two used to date?”

  This sudden interest is either for my benefit, or Sacha’s. We both know it. Which one of us shall it be? I’m better than Sacha at pretending I haven’t noticed. Next to the sparkling Sacha, François looks like a shadow.

  “No.” I say, a little too loud perhaps. “We held hands in kindergarten.”

  “We graduated from that,” she says, her voice charged with lust. She tries to hug me but ends up slipping into Michael’s arms instead.

  What’s going on? I promise I’ve never done anything more than French-kissing her at Deborah’s party. We were twelve. I’m innocent!

  Lucie pulls me aside, still glaring at me.

  “You’re a liar, Louis.”

  Well. This is true. I can’t deny it. I wish I was the sort of guy who gets on his knees and begs for forgiveness. But I’m not, and I feel it’s unfair to be put on trial here.

  “I’m sorry I lied, but—”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “You’re a liar!”

  “But you lied to me too.”

  Her face turns white. “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming here. With Tony.” I pause, for emphasis. “My best friend Tony.”

  Sacha, François, Tony and Michael aren’t missing a single beat of this conversation. I came here in the foolish hope to save Michael, and now I could definitely use his help. But from the way he and Sacha are clinging to each other, he’s
nearly as drunk as she is and can’t even save himself, let alone me.

  Lucie digs a small finger into my chest. “I offered you to spend the night with me, and you, you only thought about this stupid party.”

  “You are at this stupid party.”

  She drops her arms to her side. “I was invited, okay!”

  “Wait a minute.” I look at her in disbelief. “You were?”

  “We were,” she says bitterly, pointing at Tony. “We didn’t want to tell you because we didn’t want to hurt your feelings. François didn’t want you to come, okay? Everyone was invited, but you.”

  My surprise quickly makes way to bitterness. “That’s cool. Yo you decided to come here without me, the both of you. Nice.”

  “Only after you refused to come to mine, again.” She rubs her eyes, looks at me, lets out a long sigh. “Fuck this, have fun at your stupid party. I’m leaving.”

  She shoves François aside, who stares after her in outrage, and forces her way toward the exit without a look back.

  Tony first hesitates, and looks like he wants to say something to me. But after a last glance at Michael, he clicks his tongue frustratedly and mutters a “see you around” that doesn’t bode well at all, and goes after Lucie.

  My mouth fills with a bitter taste. I shouldn’t let them leave together, and leave so angry at me. I shouldn’t. Something is telling me I’ll pay dearly for it, one way or another.

  Sacha, on the other hand, waits no time and hops over to me, clutching me and prodding me like a long-awaited new born baby.

  “Don’t be sad, LouLou.”

  “We kissed once, get over it,” I say, annoyed.

  “Let’s kiss again!”

  Sacha attempts to grab my face. I try to keep her at a distance with both hands. Michael takes her cocktail and chugs half its contents down his throat.

  “Great party,” he says, choking on an ice cube.

  Sacha tosses her hair back, confused. Her hazel eyes and little freckles around her nose are very cute. I can still remember her face when we were babies.

  “You should take it easy, Sacha. Where’s Yas’?”

  “Couldn’t make it tonight. Family thing.”

  That explains it. Yasmine wouldn’t let her best friend get completely hammered over some guy.