by Zelda French
“Put on some music,” Michael says. “And let’s dance.”
“Dance?” I glance at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
His green gaze darkens. “You know what I mean.”
My phone sets off again, sending my pens rattling on the surface of my desk. I have no intention of answering. My finger flies to the CD player and presses a few buttons. Is this what you wanted? No, this is what I want. Our lips meet. My mind turns perfectly blank. I can ever hear a gentle breeze, instead of the usual thumping of my heart. It’s nice, it’s lovely in here. Wish I could stay forever.
When I open my eyes, we’re are lying on my bed. How did we get there? Not that it matters. The song is far from over. Michael is leaving a trail of burning kisses along my jawline, his curls are tickling my nose. my soul heaves a little sigh. More kisses follow. Along my cheek, my nose, my temples. I am torn between a feeling of bliss and the need to beg him to stop. I do not such things. My fears, my doubts, my common sense even, anything unrelated to Michael’s mouth opening against mine just fades away. I open my own mouth when I’m asked to, and am rewarded by the caress of his tongue.
Somewhere, far away, in the confines of what used to be my bedroom, but will forever be known at “the place where it happened”, my phone rings again, evil in its shrill. I don’t leave my spot, but smother its ugly cries with my breathless sighs as Michael’s hands set to explore my body.
Afterwards, as we lay on our back atop my small bed, all content as one can feel after the discovery of a new star, my thoughts return to myself as does the hammering in my chest.
Will this ever be enough?
I already know the answer but I won’t say it to myself, nor to him.
Michael, his nose nuzzled in the crook of my neck, glances up. “Louis?”
“Hm?”
“Your heart is beating so fast.”
“You said it,” I lie, “I’m always so anxious.”
Eventually, we all must leave the safety of the nest. It takes us longer than I planned, because upon opening the door, we come face to face with my father, standing awkwardly in the corridor between the living room and the kitchen, a beer in one hand, a magazine in the other, and a look of total stupor on his face.
“Oh.” My father scratches the stubble on his jaw. “I didn’t... I thought…”
“What?”
He hasn’t heard anything. I haven’t heard him coming home, so there is no way he heard anything. No way.
“I thought you were with Lucie.”
My stomach sinks. He’s heard something, hasn’t he?
Michaels chortles. “You and everyone else,” he says in English.
He’s more cunning than I thought him capable of. But I won’t let them affect me. Mercifully, all the tension I had in me was released in a most fortunate turn of events not one hour ago.
“Michael is my English Literature friend, dad.”
My father offers an uneasy, possible frightened smile. I will have to tell Michael not to take it personally. Dad always looks uneasy, and is quite possibly always frightened.
“Michael. Nice to meet you.” My father’s English doesn’t allow him to go any further. He switches to French. “Louis told me about you. You really know your classics, apparently.”
“I love classics,” Michael says, approaching my father. “I’ve read so many of them.”
“Dorian Gray especially,” Dad says, moving aside so Michael can access the front door.
“Yes. Dorian is a particular favourite of mine.”
My father nods. “That’s great.” His fingers tighten around his bottle of beer. “Thank you for… helping him.”
I have the distinctive feeling something’s going on here, that they’re talking in code or some other esoteric language I can’t quite understand. I can only stand a few meters away, my eyebrows so knitted together than my forehead hurts.
“I hope I was able to help him,” Michael says, turning to me. “I hope to help him again very soon.”
It’s code, isn’t it? Like the Enigma Machine, right? What’s the combination? Oh great, now I can remember my stupid History lesson. Meanwhile Michael has opened the door, and with a last wave goodbye, and a smile in my direction, he’s off.
When he’s gone, my father stands awkwardly in the doorway, his beer, probably warm now, still clutched tightly in his hand.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Blinking fast, I ransack my brain for a subject of conversation I know will allow us to move on.
“Has mum called?”
Dad shakes his head.
“Thanks.”
His hand moves, but he thinks better of pestering me. I turn on my heel and retreat into my bedroom.
The funny things is, it could have gotten so much worse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RUNNING AROUND IN CIRCLES IS NOT GOOD FOR THE SOUL
ON THURSDAY MORNING, the whole class must gather under an irritating drizzle to run laps around the Luxembourg Gardens. I miss Volleyball before we have even started.
A cluster of people catches my attention as I arrive, late, clutching a stitch to my side. The Golden Fork, Michael, Lars and others are assembled around Granger, the P.E. teacher, making weird noises.
Forgetting he’s been mad at me since Monday morning, I instinctively turn to Tony: “What’s going on?”
Proving one’s again that the Lord works in mysterious ways, Tony’s wearing an outfit straight from the eighties, long skinny legs sticking out of mini shorts, a tennis headband around his head. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and I miss him.
To my surprise, he gets closer, even cracks up a smile.
“Sacha’s got the iPhone and she’s showing it around.”
I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “Remind me. Do we care about iPhones?”
“No.” I catch him slipping me a sad glance. “We don’t give a shit.”
He’s all recovered when I straighten up. “Excellent.”
Tony draws nearer still. “You know you’re gonna have to run mindless laps like a caged rat in about two minutes. Why are you always late?”
I don’t have an answer for him. It took me a tad too long to get out of bed because I was reminiscing what happened on top of it just days ago. I spent extra time grooming myself in the hope of getting Michael’s attention.
Either of these answers, I decide, as I tie my hair back in a ponytail, couldn’t possibly make Tony happy.
Another awed gasp comes from the iPhone group ahead. Lucie isn’t far behind, looking tired, unnerved. Her sharp blue eyes are surveying the Golden Fork like they’re the envoys of Satan.
“Is she still mad at me?” I ask Tony.
“Better leave her alone for a while. She’ll come around, you know.”
No, she won’t. We’re over. If I doubted it before Michael slipped his hand under my shirt, I don’t doubt it now.
A sharp pang of guilt assails me. A pissed off Lucie might very well break up with me and then, I wouldn’t have to confess a thing. How convenient would that be? Breaking up with Lucie one day, coming to school with Michael at my arm another?
I don’t think so. Even I wouldn’t stoop so low.
Michael looks up from the group and around, searching for something, someone. I’m hoping it’s me. Is it me? He hasn’t texted me or talked to me since he left my place on Monday. Perhaps, just like my mother, he has an allergic reaction to my father. Or to me.
Like my mother.
Perhaps he’s just trying to give me some space. Or perhaps I was terrible. I was so bad he’s not interested in me anymore.
Come on. How hard can it be? Just like a popsicle, right. But I haven’t had a popsicle in a while. Perhaps I really was terrible.
The good thing about being hammered the first and only time I had sex is that I can’t recall whether I was good at it any more than I can remember if I actually enjoyed it.
Eventually, even Granger
gets enough of Sacha’s new phone, and after a enervating blow of his whistle, Granger sits his ass on a bench and we are off, shivering under the mild droplets, for an hour and a half of running around in circles.
Tony and I are already last, magnificent in our lack of efforts, Tony already coughing up his lungs, muttering about rockstars not being fit for running. Ahead of us, Lucie runs with Chloe, blonde ponytail slashing the air. Michael, not far ahead of her, runs with François. I wonder if Michael paid attention to what I said, and will finally notice how obsessed François is with him. Even now he’s happily chatting, no doubt elated to run near his precious Brit.
But hear this, François, two nights ago it was I who tasted his c—
“Any plans this weekend?”
Tony’s voice sounds a death rattle fifteen minutes into the first lap. If he truly has a wish to join a band, he’s gonna have to do it quick, just saying.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Michael’s father arrives tomorrow, cancelling all of my plans to get more kisses, and for a whole week. So much can happen in a week! I’m already worried I wasn’t good enough last time, and now what will happen after a whole week apart? Michael might very well lose interest, just at the time I’m getting about as ready as possible to accept the fact that I’m hopelessly head over heels for him.
“You should probably talk to Lucie.”
My shoulders slump. “I don’t know what to say.”
More precisely, I don’t know how to say it. I’ve cheated. I’ve lied. I’ve… stood and watched as our relationship turned into something that looked too much like a formal agreement. But what if I could tell her that I care? That I still care so much, that I don’t want to lose her friendship, and that I never asked for any of this? Could she hear me then? Or will she only hear the gravity of my sins?
What a drag. I’ll never get out of this unscathed. I feel like I have to surrender before even going to battle.
“Say you’re sorry, for a start,” Tony says, clutching his chest. “She really wanted to throw you a nice birthday.”
I’m sure she did. As I’m sure she had a special idea in mind as to who would have burst out of the cake to bury a knife in my back.
I know, I’m being awfully sarcastic for a cheat. But they don’t know what I know.
“You know her when she’s angry.” I swipe a strand of hair off my face. “She’s not easy to talk to.”
“Like you’re easy to talk to.”
“You’ve never had to face Angry Lucie.”
“Yes I did.” Tony gives an unnerved laugh. “Of course I did. You’re not the only one she terrifies at times.”
At this moment, as though she head us, Lucie turns around and throws us a look so hostile I hesitate to bolt in the opposite direction.
“What were you saying, Tony?” I ask, amused. “I should talk to her this weekend?”
“Maybe you should wait a little, you’re right.”
Michael and François slow down, probably because François looks as destroyed as I feel. Lucie overtakes them, Chloé huffing after her. François sinks to his knees, whining about his laces.
Tony and I soon reach the Medici Fountain and its surrounding trees, which allow us to hide and enjoy a well-deserved micro-break. Lucie has had the same idea, but when she sees us hot on her heels, she gives a grunt of frustration and takes off to rejoin the fray. Tony stares after her, looking anguished.
“Just go, Tony.” I exhale a breath.
“Really?”
“Sure.”
Tony doesn’t ask twice and darts after her. Silence envelops me, soothes my burgeoning headache. From here, the Granger can’t see me. For a moment, everything is peaceful. It’s me, the trees, the still water and the statues watching over it.
I don’t love Lucy. Why is so hard to let her go? I wish I was braver. Even if I don’t have any guarantee that Michael will pick me… I have to let her go. To let her choose… to let her be truly happy.
My selfishness twists my stomachs, and my guilt is like salt being sprinkled on the wound. I guess I’m reaching Guinness records levels of self-loathing these days.
Michael appears on the main path, his handsome face flushed with effort. My dark thoughts make way like clouds parting to let the sun through. François must still be lagging behind, trying to decipher the wonders of shoe-lace tying.
If I wave at Michael, will he stop? Please let him stop.
I wave. He trots up to me.
“Done running already?”
Linking my arms behind my head, I lay down on one of the benches by the water. If I bare my throat to him like this, perhaps he’ll kiss me.
“It should be outlawed to be outside in the rain.”
“We wouldn’t get much done in Britain. Come on.” He holds out his hand. “It’s not even rain at this level.”
Trying really hard not to show my disappointment, I accept his hand and pull myself up. “When does your father arrive?”
“Tomorrow.”
Part of me wants to whine. To tell him I can’t be a whole week without having him to myself. Another doesn’t want to embarrass myself by acting lovestruck and pathetic. So I just stand there, doing nothing.
“You look upset.”
“Me? No.” I shrug. “Lucie’s really mad at me.”
Michael’s expression turns surprised. “Did you break up?”
“No! No. She’s just mad at me. About the other day. Now’s not a good time to break up, not when she’s so mad at me.”
“You prefer to wait until she’s happy?”
I stare down at my shoes. “Now that you say it like that…”
Was it always so difficult to talk to him or did this begin when we started kissing and hiding in corners and doing secret stuff in my bed. Was he always so unobtainable?
If I speak up, I’ll do more damage. If only I knew of another way to communicate…
Michael is worrying his lip, looking tense. He jerks his thumb toward the main path.
“François’s not far behind, I should...”
He turns on his heel. My fear makes way to something else. A mad fever possesses me.
I grab his hand and yank him bodily behind a tree, hidden from view. Then I slam him against the trunk, stand on my toes to steal a kiss.
For a second, fear that he might reject me presses on my chest, until I feel his fingers dig into my flesh and he nearly plucks me off the ground.
Michael spins me around, breathless, until my own back collides with the tree. His hand reaches into my hair, tilts my head back. My hair slips free of its tie. Our kiss grows messier, hungrier. But the moment our bodies meet, and my hips quiver and buck, he pulls away with a curse.
Someone runs by, the sound of their carefree laughter reaching us. We stand still on the other side of the tree, frozen in alarm and in my part, excitement as the group of girls comes giggling by.
“Damn, Louis.” Michael runs his hand through his hair, his eyes wide. “Damn.”
Reluctantly, I move my gaze away from his crotch. “What? Don’t you like me anymore?”
Michael’s cheeks darken, and he opens his mouth to reply, but instead, horror dawns on his face and he glues his hands to his sides.
I turn around, my pulse racing. Tony and François are stomping toward us, annoyance plain on Tony’s face.
“There you are,” Tony says. “I was starting to consider you lose to an alien abduction.”
“I fixed my laces.” François runs toward us. He takes one good look at our faces and stops. “They keep getting loose…” His voice trails off. “It’s annoying.”
Tony too, looks from Michael and his red face to me, my messy hair and my glistening cheeks.
“Were you fighting?” He says, lifting a hand to his mouth. “Please tell me you were fighting? I always wanted to be in a fight.”
With a bored eye roll, Michael quickly motions François to follow him and they set off back toward the main path.
&
nbsp; Tony urges to do the same. “You won’t be able to hide for another lap. Granger knows you.”
We run in silence for a moment. As some point we pass François on his knees, fixing his laces again. Michael watches us run by, an odd look on his face.
Tony sucks his teeth and nudges me in the rib. “What did he want, seriously?”
“Nothing.”
“You weren’t really fighting, were you?”
“No. We were just talking.”
Tony snorts. “Why could he have to say? He has as much conversation as a toaster. Except the toaster is less boring.”
Anger rises within me, fast. But understanding it’s sometimes wiser to be silent, I keep running, my eyes focused on the path ahead.
“You’re not saying anything,” Tony says, his voice low. “Perhaps he’s managed to make you as boring as him after all.”
I skid to a halt, the gravel crunching under my foot. “You know what, Tony? Perhaps he did. And would that be so bad? He’s nice, at least. You, on the other hand, always have to shit on other people.”
Tony stops too, red in the ears. “I have to shit on other people? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I am, actually.” My heart’s thumping, and for once, not out of fear. “No one’s good enough for you. This one’s too stupid and this one’s too snobbish and this one’s too boring… No one can compare to Your Highness. Have you ever stopped to wonder what people think of you, for instance?”
“I’m wondering now, actually,” Tony says, his mouth slack. “Nice to know what you really think, for once.”
“What I really think?” I give a crazed laugh. “I think it would be nice, for once, to get along with people, instead of always being the sad, edgy ones.”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from you, don’t you think?”
I scoff, annoyed. “What are you saying?”
“You’re the one who can’t get along with people. You’re the selfish one, who treats his friends like garbage, who takes what he wants and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.”
His outburst, spoken with a voice laced with bitterness, freezes me on the spot. We stare at each other, full of resentment.
Tony advances on me, snarling.“And you were wondering why François hates you, for example, so much that we can’t even go to Sacha’s parties together.”