by Zelda French
At first I think he’s talking to Michael. Or even to Tony. But to my surprise, he’s talking to me.
“Hum. Sure. You?”
He glances up at the ceiling, as though I asked something stupid. “I went to Florence, so, yes.”
“My family’s from Florence,” Michael says.
“Oh, really? François says, arching an eyebrow.
“Really?” I repeat, my voice squeaky.
We both glance at Michael with newfound interest, and then at each other, realising what we just did. My cheeks heat at the same time a deep flush betrays François’s own thoughts.
Michael, still nose deep into his bag, doesn’t notice us. “Yes, on my mother’s side.”
“Well,” François says, still deeply red. “I think it’s a wonderful city, and the people! Oh. The people.”
Oh, François. I wish you’d stayed there and broken your neck. Would have done us all a favour. But Michael looks up from his bag and gives François the sweetest smile.
Unprompted, François launches himself into a tirade of what he visited, the restaurants he dined at, and the beauty of Italian men. Naturally, I completely tune him out. Michael’s familiar scent of fresh apples fills the air between us and makes my head swim.
“What about you?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “How was your holiday?”
He glances up from his bag. “Can’t complain.”
I can’t believe I have spent two weeks without hearing his voice. Gosh, British accents should be banned. If Michael had an American accent, I would have never spiralled out of control and questioned my very normal sexuality. I would have felt nothing at all.
Sacha’s twittering is over, and she leads the way into the classroom, all the while boring Lucie with details about a concert she went to.
Michael, end up behind me and that’s enough to send my hair stand up on their end. Before I can control it, my heart resumes once more its mad hammering. Perhaps it’s the accent combined with the smell. Perhaps it reminds me of something. I once saw a documentary about how people are attracted to people who are connected to good memories. Nothing to worry about.
“See you later, maybe?” I feel the ghost of his breath on my neck.
Everything is fucked. Abort—Abort! Must get as far away from him as possible, before I melt into a puddle at his feet. Damn you Eugénie, prepare the gin, this was not a fling, I repeat, this was not a fling!
I take my seat at the back, he remains standing at the front, turns around, meets my eyes, frowns a little, probably because I look like I’ve just swallowed a shovel and it’s stuck in my throat. He then takes his seat next to François, who I swear, is still droning on about Florence, unaware nobody’s listening to him at all.
OK. Calm down. One breath at a time.
A fling, Miss Eugénie said. It’s just a fling. It’s just a fling. It’s just a fling.
It’s nothing like a fling, it’s an earthquake. Whoever survives the aftershock will never be the same.
When Paquin enters the classroom, I’m that close spring forward, my hand shot up. Come on Paquin, do your best. Look at me, challenge me, interrogate me. Keep my mind busy.
It takes a few minutes for her to set up, and meanwhile, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off Michael, especially when he did his thing, stretching his long legs and his arms above his head while cracking his neck. François is showing him something. It looks like pictures of his holiday. Poor Michael. No one deserves this.
Pull yourself together, Louis. Michael should be sitting with François. It’s all for the best.
Yes.
Because I’m with Lucie. And I’m straight.
“So, Wuthering Heights, yes?” Paquin sits on the edge of her desk and looks around the room. “First impressions?”
Eyes straight and chin up, I dare Mrs Paquin to interrogate me, dare her to add to my misery. The book is fresh in my mind. I know all about it. But guess what. She must feel the confidence emanating from me, because she barely even glances at me.
Tell me again who she’s not some sort of witch.
Lucie is interrogated this time. She puts her hair up with a hairpin before she answers. Her delicate neck is a thing of beauty. More beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, probably. The moment she speaks, every head turns to her. Every head, but Michaels.
Lucie does well during her interrogation, to no-one surprise. Paquin then stands up and begins to analyse the book. I keep my head down and spend the hour sketching in the margins of my notes, distracted, worried, eager for the lesson to end, so I can run away and hide in a bathroom stall to recompose myself. I make it to the end, almost.
Paquin’s voice rises above the ringing bell. “Now, you all know what I’m going to say. You will write an essay about Wuthering Heights and hand it over in a month. Pair up with another person just like last time.”
My heart stops. Michael immediately looks over his shoulder at me. I pretend to read my notes, but when I look up again, it’s to find him standing over my desk, pulling at the straps of his backpack.
“Do you want to do the essay together?” His face looks tense.
My heart says YES!
My brain says NO.
My lips go: “Why?”
Michael expected a different reaction, I can see, from the way he brow furrows.
“We did well, last time.”
We didn’t, though. We went from straight guys with girlfriends to running around like headless chickens. I know I did. The essay itself went well, granted.
“No, I…” I swallow a lump. “I’m going to do it with Lucie.”
His chest heaves, his lips tighten into a thin line. “I’ll do it with François then.”
I meet his gaze, and hold it. “François? Hm. Excellent choice.”
Dear God, I hope none of this is subtext.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ONE THAT SAYS M&M
“WHAT IS THIS even about?” Tony says, whining.
Two weeks after Paquin gave us the assignment, Tony and I are spread over two tables at Colette’s small library. Turns out Lucie ditched me to do the essay with her Spanish buddy Chloé, and I’m stuck to Tony to write about the most difficult book I’ve ever read. At least Tony agreed we would get more work done if we weren’t at his house, where —almost— every distraction in the world could have tempted us.
I glance up at Tony. “What did you say?”
“What’s the book about?”
“I thought you read it.”
“And I thought you were smart.”
“I’m not.” I say, shrugging. “I’m not smart.”
I’m definitely, definitely the worst idiot that’s ever lived. I know it. Otherwise, I would be doing the essay with Michael, and I wouldn’t be so miserable all the time. Miss Eugénie is right. Guess that makes sense since she’s probably older than the Titanic. That’s one consolation. If I get as old as Eugénie, I’ll be a very miserable, but very wise schmuck.
“Don’t I know it.” Tony empties a whole bag of gummy bears into his monstrosity of a mouth.
It’s difficult to do any work around Tony, but even more difficult today. My head is in shambles, after another series of restless nights, filled with chaotic dreams. It’s not enough that I see Michael every day again. He won’t leave my nights alone either.
The next person who utters the word fling, I will murder with my bare hands.
Tony chews for a long time then swallow noisily, earning himself a glare from one of the librarians.
“Oh.” He slaps his tummy. “Oh fuck. This one won’t go down easy. I shouldn’t have had the extra big mac for lunch. Should we text Lucie?”
“Why?”
My bad mood is swelling by the second. I wish he’d just shut up, I can’t think with all his chatter.
“Because this is boring, Lou, this is shit, and I’m bored, and you look dead inside. So, we could text Lucie and ask her what she’s doing.”
“She’s at Chl
oé’s and they’re probably halfway through the essay already.”
“Oh, and where are we?”
“You only wrote the title, Tony. And you wrote it wrong, too.”
He looks down at the copy. “Shit. Sorry.”
While Tony scratches off the title Wurstering Highs, humming to himself Everything is Average Nowadays, and I smile despite myself. No matter how annoying he is, I love him, and I’d do anything for him. And I did.
I did. I know it because I’ll never be happy again.
The price to pay for the alternative was too high. Nothing is worse that watching your people leave you behind without a look back. I know I was right to cut any ties with Michael. And even more right NOT to do the essay with him, and his curls, his blue underwear and his British accent.
Tony elbows me, his nose once again buried in his blackberry. “Lucie’s done in about half an hour.”
“What? God damn it, Tony, we’ll never be done in half an hour.”
Tony’s brown eyes look at me from behind his phone. “A lot of things can happen in half an hour, you know.”
“Tony, don’t overestimate yourself. You’ve spelt the title wrong again.”
Tony grimaces as he strokes his tummy, then takes a large swig of Coke and fights down a burp while I stare, horrified.
“If you know it will make you sick, then why do you do it?”
“Rockstars live dangerously, Lou. Or have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
That settles it. I never had what it takes to be a rockstar, then. Or perhaps Tony’s a fucking idiot and I shouldn’t listen to a word he’s saying.
“Let’s focus on the essay, shall we?” I say in a low voice, quickly flicking through Wuthering Heights, a faint headache growing behind my eyelids.
I glance at one of Paquin’s question: Explain the theme of nature versus culture, and slam my head against the table.
Tony yawns next to me. “What do you think about the shark?”
“What shark?” I begin turning the pages of the book again, bewildered. “There is no shark. I don’t see a fucking shark!”
Tony leans forward so his long face appears in my field of vision. “The Shark, Lou. The bar. For your birthday. Lucie’s asking.”
Defeated, I slam the book shut and toss it over my shoulder. A yelp of pain follows and Tony starts laughing. I turn around to apologise to whomever I’ve hit, but my throat grows dry. It’s François and Michael, the new BFFs. Oh, great. That’s all I needed.
“Why would you do that?” François shrieks, rubbing his arm.
Michael picks up the book and hands it over to me. Tony’s still laughing. François takes one cold look at our messy table, Tony’s snacks, our stupid faces, and lets out a judgmental sigh.
“You know you’re not supposed to eat in here, don’t you?”
Tony stops laughing, but still smiling, puts another handful of gummy bears into his mouth. Michael watches him, a blank look on his face.
“What are you doing in here anyway?” François asks. “I never expected to find you in a library.”
“Why is that?” Tony says. “Do you think we’re idiots?”
“At least one of you is.” His voice laced with contempt.
“We’re doing our essay,” I say, annoyed, knowing exactly who this last retort was meant for. I almost add something else, but mercifully keep my trap shut.
Michael leans over our table. “You spelt the title wrong.”
With a heartfelt groan, I put my head in my hands.
“Let’s go,” Michael says. “They’re trying to work.”
Like an obedient puppy, François obeys Michael, and they sit at a table further. But from my position, not only can I see Michael, but from the look he gives me, he can see me too. We lock eyes. A deep sense of frustration rakes through me. I wonder what he feels about all this.
Tony pats my hand. “Don’t worry about him, Lou.”
Startling, I tear my eyes away from Michael.
“What?”
Tony puts a hand on my shoulder. “I said don’t worry. I know Lucie likes to say that he’s hot, but I know she’s not going to dump you for him.”
Confused, I shake my head manically. “Wh— Why are you telling me this now? And who said he would be interested, anyway?”
“Lou, my man, I don’t understand you. Why are you looking at him like he burned your farm and stole your chickens, then?”
Is that what I look like? Taking a deep breath, I rub my face with my hands to pull myself together. Tony’s expecting an answer. It will be hard to give him one without lying, or…
“He gets on my nerves, sometimes. He’s too… perfect, you know. Pisses me right off.”
Tony stares at me a moment, then shrugs and opens another bag of gummy bears.
“I get it. He annoys me too. Plus he’s too good looking. I’ve got enough of you getting all the attention. Imagine being his friend.”
His words make me laugh. “What, like François?”
“No, not like François, Lou!” Tony gives me the look he reserves for dumb people. “What the hell is wrong with you? Michael won’t be a problem for François, he’s gay.”
“Hang on. You knew that, too? That François’s gay?”
Tony sighs. “Lou, everyone knows François is gay. He told the whole school a million years ago.” He chokes on a gummy bear and hits his chest a couple of times.
“Michael could be gay too, you know, and then—”
“Then they would be together, wouldn’t they?”
Tony offers me candy. I refuse, feeling nauseated enough already.
“Why would they be together? Just because two people are gay doesn’t mean that they have to be together.”
“You’re right, but… They’re both rich, and smart, and boring. They make more sense together than, I don’t know…” Tony tosses me an odd look. “Like you and him, for example. You have nothing in common.”
“I guess you’re right.” Feeling quite defeated, I open the book again.
“So, the Shark? Lucie can book it for us.”
“Sure,” I reply, but my appetite for fun, just like for snacks, has vanished forever.
For a few minutes, I attempt, as diligently as I can, to answer Paquin’s questions and get a headstart on what promises to be a difficult essay. Oh, how I miss Dorian Gray, his funny dialogue and his lengthy descriptions of gardens and, flowers. The truth is, I miss Dorian very much. I wish I could turn time and be with Dorian again.
I can’t help myself, can’t help throwing furtive looks at François and Michael. They’re both working, head bents over the same volume, Michael’s curls almost touching the page. He smiles. Looks up.
Sees me.
My cheeks warming up faster than a Chernobyl reactor, I hide my face behind my book. Beside me, Tony is still texting and laughing at whatever Lucie is saying. But of course, he feels me watching him and puts the phone down.
“Lou, you look like shit, are you okay?”
“I agree. We shouldn’t had McDo for lunch.”
Tony pushes his bottle of Coke toward me. “Have a drink.”
“No, thanks. I think I need to go to the toilet.”
Getting up so fast that my chair falls over, I don’t bother to put it back and I storm out, head down and close to a nervous breakdown, in direction of the toilet. Mercifully, since almost everyone else is in class, I find it empty. I rest my hands on each side of the sink in an attempt to catch my breath.
One day, I’ll laugh about it. I’ll tell my kids or my grandkids about that time I was obsessed about a boy and made up stories in my mind that I liked him, like I make stories in my head that I’m, like Tony, a proper rockstar. My own image in the mirror doesn’t reflect that of a rockstar. It shows nothing but fear.
That’s funny. I’m standing at the exact same spot where I met Michael, all these weeks ago.
On the other side of the room, the door clicks opens and Michael enters, taller th
an I’d remembered, almost surreal, even under the neons lights overhead.
He stops where I stood when we met.
“Are you all right?” He asks.
I keep my eyes on my own reflection. “I’m great, thanks.”
“You don’t look very good.”
“Thanks. I’m working on a new look. The “sick” rockstar.”
Michael’s mouth twists into a grimace. “You’ll never be a rockstar, Louis.”
I huff at my reflexion in the mirror. “Are you trying to insult me or something?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Do you want to know why you’re not a rockstar?”
“Sure, why not.” I step away from the sink and back toward the wall. “Tell me.”
“Rockstars are true to themselves. Even at their worst. But you, you always act like you’re afraid of the truth.”
I can’t help laughing. “Excuse-me, I didn’t know you were offering free consultations in the toilets, and I’m grateful, but I’m not interested, so…”
Michael moves away from the sink.
“Why are you angry at me exactly? What have I done that was so wrong? Did I do something to you at Sacha’s party? I can’t exactly remember, and that’s not an excuse, I know, but if I said or done something, I’m sorry, okay?”
I hang my head, unsure what to say. “You haven’t done anything, okay. I just…”
He approached me. “I thought we were friends.”
I don’t want him to be any closer. His perfume alone is already filling my nostrils and sending sharp shots of electricity through my nerves. I could make a run for it. And then what?
Glancing up, I meet his eyes. “We are friends.”
“Really?” Michael scrunches up his face. “Way to treat your friends.”
To my horror, someone cracks the door open, and Tony’s voice fills the room.
“Lou? Are you in there?”
Terrified at the thought of Tony finding me in here with Michael, I start moving without thinking. Yanking a confused Michael by the arm, I pull us both into the nearest stall.
“Lou? Is that you?”
Putting a finger to my lips, I beg Michael to keep silent while I look the door to the stall.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
Michael watches me, his expression torn between apprehension and amusement.